Tag Archives: decline of Western culture

Oh, it’s ON

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David blighted my inbox with a summons to Content Challenge. He actually blighted it last night, but I didn’t notice the oozing trail of poison until this morning. So I am already a day behind. Maybe that means I have to post until October 6 instead of October 5. I barely manage a shower most days, so this ought to be interesting. Or…not!

Other participants include: JWER
Moose and Squirrel
ETA: Biscuit Report

Now I’m going to get back to entertaining a peckish wolverine. Go look at my auctions. Why do I have any of this stuff?

What we did on Bastille Day

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In this frame, a baby was amused by Anderson Cooper’s hair.

Last night, the baby went to a wedding. She wore a fetching outfit and slept in a sling all night, meaning I got to eat with both hands. Other babies in attendance loudly disgraced themselves during the toast, and Mr. H leaned over and whispered “not mine!” A baby only become upset when she was getting her diaper changed in the bathroom of one of the guest suites in the sprawling home where the wedding took place. We realized she was crying because we don’t have heated towel racks at home. It’s OK, that makes me cry too.

She spreads for bread

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Sure, it’s been a dirt dog of a week, but did I mention what a good sandwich I had? I had the good sandwich on Wednesday, Thursday, and again today. I tried to make Mr. H have a sandwich with me for dinner last night, so I could get in two good sandwiches in one day, but he didn’t go for it. He looked at me as if I were insane when I described the sandwich. “It doesn’t sound great to me, but I can tell YOU like it.” What’s not to like about 7-grain bread with flax, shmeared lovingly with mayonaise, topped with alfalfa sprouts*, an entire tomato, and all the different end pieces of cheese left in the fridge?

I saw a literal sign of the apocalypse yesterday. Forget invading Iran. Forget Mission Impossible: III. A strip mall outboard motor business with a pointless letter board saw fit to proclaim “I take my wife everywhere, but she keep’s [sic] finding her way back.” Keep’s. Yes, there was an actual plastic apostrophe used. I backed up to be sure. That officially makes it not a typo, which seems to be the excuse of most idiots and people caught making that mistake on the internet. No, the sign wrangler stood at the base of the pole, inhaled traffic fumes deeply, and opted to use one of those long handled tools to carefully insert that apostrophe into that verb. The surgical precision required to be so wrong is delightful.

*A potential listeria risk, according to books like OMG Your Baby Will Totally Die, but who’s counting! I eat sushi too**. Apostrophes are pretty risky, but you don’t hear enough about those, unless you live with me.

**It’s fucking flash frozen, ask your chef. I’d worry more about mercury exposure than foodborne illness unless you are eating it out of a grocery store dumpster.

I’m into something good (leftover spaghetti)

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Madge, I’m soaking in it. It’s March now? Why and how do these things keep happening? I can’t keep up. March always makes me think of back when companies were coming up with really stupid names, like marchFIRST. Whatever happened to them? Oh, bankruptcy, apparently.

And remember when PwC changed their name to Monday? Sadly, that also didn’t last.

I’m so glad I can remember dotcom era ephemera. Yet I keep forgetting to turn off the bathroom faucet, and I try to put the milk away in the cupboard on a fairly regular basis. Oh, right. It’s March. Double digits until the parasite hatches, and I get dumber by the minute.

I got nothing, but that never stopped me before.

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I think I’ll make January into another Content Challenge. Way to start a week into the month! I’m an army of one, unless someone else wants to get in on this. I remain mildly disturbed yet titillated by all the ads for that new faux snuff film, Hostel. (Nasty stills, if you are so inclined – sort of Abu Ghraib meets Motel Hell). I read that there’s a joke about the political situation in Slovakia in the set up for luring the hapless college slobs to slaughter, but the hapless college slobs seeing the movie are like to miss it. But then I know people who staunchly believe that Czechoslovakia became Chechnya. The US government is probably avidly screening this film now that they don’t torture anyone, no how, no way, no sirree. Pissa!!!!! Just having to think of the government reminds me that the only way I got out of 2005 without a recurrence of major depression was by watching no news but The Daily Show. I like my ridiculous world affairs with built-in eyerolling so I don’t have to strain myself.

Back at my own personal chamber of horrors, Saab conceded that I could install a Subaru part, but they cannot tell me exactly which model would be appropriate. I also received another customer satisfaction survey in the mail. I am torn between peeing on it myself, or mailing them something from the litterbox. I think I’ll keep the logo blanket they sent. I can stretch it over the car to keep the snow out when the glass finally caves. cf. what Laura Ingalls Wilder Would Do.

I also had blood drawn, which I totally love. Wish they’d let me do it myself. The purpose is to see if the parasite has all appropriate chromosomes. Apparently one is supposed to assume one is at the brink of peril throughout one’s parasite hosting career. I noticed later that the receptionist seems to have put the wrong dates on the lab orders, which will likely skew the results. “Hello? You’re having a Johhny Knoxville. Your baby is also unable to locate Chechnya on a map.” Can’t wait for that call.

Area idiots meet, spontaneously form condo association

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Dear, sweet, internets. Last night I met many of the people with whom I will share a haunted mill starting in October. At last I understand how the federal government could have abandoned all those people in the Gulf states. People are just plain stupid! They walk among us, holding down jobs and passing driver’s license tests and going to the grocery store, where they will most certainly crash the express lane with a full cart. Later they will back their SUV into you in the parking lot.

They say things like “You’ll have to check with the sales team on that one,” or “I don’t know what to do with these truckloads of bottled water.” And people say things like “I did, and they told me the opposite of what you just told me” or “How about you park them and hand out the water.” And then they say things like “My hands are tied, you’re really going to have to check with the sales team/Condoleeza Rice.” They also say “The documents have changed since you last saw them when you signed your purchase and sale agreements months ago, but you don’t get to see them until your closing day, but at that time it won’t matter because they will already be recorded with the state.” And they want us to confirm John Roberts without a fight.

So some people stay behind to eat frosted brownies and look at the discounted window treatments being pimped, and others form an angry mob and stand outside, muttering “Oh God, what have we done? Can you believe these people?” But secretly we, the angry people, want discount window treatments too. Then we hate ourselves so much that we go have mojitos. And we all drive our own cars to get those mojitos. And we hate ourselves more, so we come home and lie on the floor. We feel better when we wake up the next day, but not much.

Same time tomorrow

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This crappy website simply could not exist without our vast network of spies, also known as Revenue-Optmized Partner Affiliates. We learned today that someone in an office somewhere is handing out candy bars doctored to read “HERESHEIS” to announce the birth of a female child. What does one hand out for a male child? NUTRAGEOUS? I thought the birth of a child was celebrated by tying the child up in a burlap sack and heaving it off a pier, but I learn something new each dew-freshened day. My friend suffers from new child ownership, and it seems all children want to do is eat and sleep. What spite! Enjoy it while you can, li’l buddy. Here sheis indeed. Alles was ich zu meinem Geburtstag bekommen habe war dieses scheiss T-Shirt.

We at Vomitola have recently realized the need to breed a team of strapping farm hands to see us through the coming apocalypse. Ideally they will also shoot lasers from their eyes. We have our Zellwegers, but they are not keen on heavy lifting. They prefer to eat ice cream and run up the phone bill. The trouble is that I am not keen to birth a child myself. It seems so last century. Mr. H did find a promising development: New Harvest – Advancing Meat Substitutes. Surely this can be adapted to humans. It’s about time, Science. I’ve been waiting for you.

Today in cats: there is just no pleasing them.

And in this panel, Super Toad goes kerplooie

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Tuesday in cats: The Flaming Lips sure can clear a room (of cats).

Tuesday in Zellweger: Alert readers pointed me to this. So this is where Zellwegers come from! I am not sure what happened to my Zellweger. I sent her out to return my empties two days ago. She seems distracted lately.

Tuesday in my head: The front part hurts, sort of above my eyes. I think this is called a headache.

Tuesday should be Saturday: because then I’d be done with the worst of my work, and I’d be riding a bike around an island. Maybe this bike would have a sports bottle filled with margaritas. I had better get used to riding a bike for when we run out of oil. And I’ll get a chance to learn to be handy with a u-lock for beating zombies. Come on, apocalypse. My dad has been waiting for you for seventy years. Don’t keep an old man in suspense.

Oh, and another thing about that commute…

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I queued up for the train as always, healing like a concession of defeat. The colder it gets, physician the larger and more desperate this mob becomes. This morning I was part of a faceless torrent of blighted souls, like a yuppie death march toward Dunkin Donuts, hunched over and lurching forward. I dropped a glove and thought I might be trampled if I bent to retrieve it.

While release from the train may be ecstasy, we are swallowed instantly by the cavern.

This is what I feel like:

OOH, congratulations to Licketysplit for achieving, uhhh, something.

-xo

Bullseye

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Sadly, going to Target is not as high-spirited and monochromatic an experience as the TV ads would have one believe. There are no rockettes or dancing christmas trees, and Mark Mothersbaugh is not hovering up in the front office personally DJing over the PA system. I did not see Isaac Mizrahi either. I believe he is in his lair in Trenton, busy laughing, absolutely splitting a side over all the girls who are hoping “you can have high fashion at Target, really.” You can’t. Please do not embarass either one of us further by pretending it’s true. What are you, a communist? I love a bargain as much as the next gal, but crap is crap. It’s Mom Jeans.

But we still managed to make impulse purchases. How do they do it? I came for packing tape and cat litter, I departed with a fleece throw. I didn’t need a giant Toblerone bar, yet I left with one anyway.

It’s just as well, because I ate a few segments of that for dinner: a new level in culinary incompetence even for us. I thought butter noodles a few weeks ago was the absolute nadir, but I was wrong. We’re moving one week from today, and we’ve gone from eating off paper plates to just not bothering with actual food. Well, we did have some apple pie. That’s half a Cider Jack and half a Harpoon Winter Warmer. Spicy. The traces of apple in the cider will prevent scurvy.

Then I capped off the weekend by working on a particularly wretched DHTML-laden freelance project. It seemed like a great idea back in September, but of course the other parties involved assed around until November, and then the client demanded it be live on the 26th. Because the day before Thanksgiving is such a crucial time for web browsing. Why am I not better at saying no? Oh, right, I’m a whore.

-xxoo