A Story From the Not So Distant Past...
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Alicia Keyes
One night, my girlfriend Dawn and I were headed out on a Saturday eve for a much needed ‘girl’s night’. We had decided to go see my fav, the Chuck Hall Band, at some local bar we had never heard of before.

We are in the car, ABBA cranked (nothing gets you amped up for an evening out like ABBA—it’s the silliness of it I’m certain or maybe that you get to sing in falsetto at the top of your lungs ‘cuz you know, that’s always fun), windows down, when we pull into the bar.

As I got out of the car, I noticed there were a lot of motorcycles out front but I gave it no thought really as I was still singing “Dancing Queen”. I simply opened the door and we walked in. The place was pretty much pitch black inside although this could have been due to the fact that I was still wearing my sunglasses. Suddenly, Dawn stops short and I, still humming and dancing (yeah, I know I’m a dork) just shove her on forward as Dawn is not always known for being plucky in situations that might at first appear daunting.

Quickly, I phased back to reality from my Red Bull, ABBA-induced hyper land and took stock of the bar. This is when I realize that the place is full of bikers. As in we are the only people in there who aren’t bikers. And folks, when I say bikers, I mean bikers. I do not mean weekend warriors or RUBbies (Rich Urban Bikers) I mean 100% genuine scooter trash. It was rather apparent after scanning the crowd, that by no means, were we going to ‘blend’. Oops.

Me being me, I flashed Dawn my best ‘Come on, I dare you’, flipped my hair back over my shoulder and strutted right over to a table in the middle of the bar, right across the dance floor from the bandstand and hopped onto a bar stool to settle in for the duration.

Next order of business was definitely beverages. Beer alone was just not going to cut it. What I yearned for was the cheery warmth and liquid courage contained in a hi ball glass of a good, smokey single malt Scotch, but I figured that would have been akin to shouting “Bikers suck” in the trying to lay low department. So beers and tequila shots it was. Speaking of which, have you ever heard of Montezuma brand tequila? Yeah, me either before that. To put it mildly, it’s got nothing on Padron. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.

So anywho, Dawn is slowly relaxing under my relentless cheeriness and incessant chattering when I spot a hottie. A hottie in a biker bar, go figure but as my friends will tell you, trust me to find the one hot guy anywhere I am. After some furtive eye contact and big toothy smiles, hottie makes his way over to our table.

So I’m making time with hottie. He’s cute and funny. Bonus! Love funny! Then hottie says he’s going to grab another beer and asks if we need another drink. Nice! He’s considerate of our current beverage status. Things are looking good. As he walks up to the bar, I flip around to catch the rear view. What can I say? I am an ass girl. Ass is checking in nicely as well. All is right with the world and the band hasn’t even started playing.

As hottie leans over the bar, I notice something on his elbows. Yes, plural. My first thought was grease or something then I realize it’s not grease, they’re tattoos. Not only are they tattoos, they say something. I squinch up my eyes and I read them. And I read them again. And again. OH HOLY SHIT! I whip around to Dawn and I say “Read his elbows!” And Dawn is like “What?” and a little more urgently now, I hiss “Read his elbows!” And Dawn says “What are you talking about Meg?” and I almost scream at her through clenched teeth “Read his fricking elbows!” So Dawn turns around and says out loud “Power…White. I don’t get it” I say “Dawn, read the left one first.” and she says “White...Power…oh my Gawd!”

Mind racing, I am trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. I can deal with a lot of negative habits and behaviors in others. Racism and rampant halitosis are the two that are complete deal breakers with me.

Just then, my ex husband walks in with a bunch of his buddies. Can I tell you that I have never been so happy to see him? You know it’s pretty bad when that happens—one would expect flying pigs and the Horsemen of the Apocalypse among other harbingers of doom to appear. I launched myself across the room and into his surprised arms with a squeal and a giant hug. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. As soon as I had safely rebuffed Captain Xenophobic, I thanked my surprised ex and went back to my table where I proceeded to ignore him and no longer hottie for the remainder of the evening.

I guess my friends will have to amend their statement. Leave it to me to find the only hottie racist anywhere I am…

I Can't Come in to Work 'Cuz...
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Cowboy Junkies
I think we all tend to view sick days as extra vacation days. There are just some days when you don’t want to come to work. I refer to these as ‘mental health’ days.

Yesterday, my co-workers and I were discussing creative excuses for calling in to work. I find that the best ones adhere to the K.I.S.S. concept—Keep It Simple Stupid. However, we’ve had some true classics come out of our office. Some of them, scarily enough, were actually true.

Here are some of the ones that came out of our office:
•I was sprayed by a skunk
•I tripped over my dog and dislocated my shoulder (true, it happened to me)
•Constipation has made me a walking time bomb
•I'm still drunk from last night
•I hurt myself gardening
•My dog is having puppies and I need to help her
•I dropped a fire extinguisher on my foot and broke 2 toes (again, it happened to me)
•The springs on the garage door broke and I can't get the car out because the door won't open
•I had an asthma attack at my husband’s softball game
•My fish is sick and I need to take it to the vet
•The city is paving my street and I can’t get out! (Yes, once again, this actually did happen to me)

Recently MSN posted an article that had some classic ones:
•My bus broke down and was held up by robbers (Pretty desperate robbers)
•I was arrested as a result of mistaken identity (You must look a lot like your brother…)
•I was spit on by a venomous snake (Ewww! Snake spit!)
•A hit man was looking for me (Apparently, not a very proficient one)
•My cat unplugged my alarm clock (Those opposable thumbs make for serious kitty tom foolery!)
•I had to be there for my husband's grand jury trial (Are you nuts?! Head to Belize with the cash while you still can)
•I had to ship my grandmother's bones to India (Let me guess, she’d always wanted to go there?)
•Someone slipped drugs in my drink last night (Yeah, and we know who that someone was wink, wink, nudge, nudge…)
•My monkey died (Yeah, I only wish!Look a few posts down for why...)

While creative, if you are going to go with unbelievable, just take the plunge and go with something totally outrageous. Here are some excuses that I have come up with that I would love to hear someone use…

•I was hauled off by white slavers… I narrowly escaped the life of a sex slave in Japan
•Martians landed in my yard and I got radiation poisoning
•I was posing for a nude portrait for my grandparents and lost track of time
•I was mugged by the Easter Bunny
•I am converting to Krishnaism and since it is the Maharishi Guru's birthday, I can't come in because I have to go to the temple to worship
•The whore I picked up kept me up all night and my knees hurt
•I got lost in Super Wal-Mart
•My horse was mauled by a mountain lion
•I tried to sneeze with my eyes open and my eyeballs fell out

And my personal favorite…The voices in my head told me to clean all the guns today.

A Day in the Life...
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: ABBA
It seems to me that Sam's Club has become the new singles pick up/meat market place (which deeply saddens me as I much prefer Home Depot).

So I was in Sam's Club today and I was perusing the healthcare aisles. I was stopped, reading the content of some soy meal replacement powder stuff when I spot this older guy checking me out. When I say older, I mean like 60s. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice looking guy, kind of reminiscent of Blake Carrington in the early Dynasty years, but by nature, I am a cougar-I don’t do older. I especially don’t do older in a turtleneck and blazer…but I digress. Back to Blake. So he wanders up, flashes me a perfect veneered smile and says with one eyebrow raised “So, do you enjoy that stuff?” I bit my tongue as any normal answer I would have made, would have been misconstrued as flirting or a demented version thereof. “Err, not really.”

So I flash my best “later!” smile and continue down the aisle eyes wondering the shelves, looking for replacement heads for my Sonicare toothbrush. ‘Blake’ once again appears at my elbow (like a fricking smoke ninja) startling me and says “I have that same toothbrush!” Uh, yeah buddy. You, me and half the planet. What’s his point? That I can borrow his charger when I spend the night at his place? I am a very patient person, but I am starting to lose my patience...

To me there is nothing worse (ok, there are things that are worse, but not many) than someone desperately trying to come up with small talk for someone he/she don’t know. Especially when that someone is clearly giving off the ‘go away old guy I’m soooooooooo not interested’ vibe. If I didn’t want him commenting on everything I looked at (condoms, mouthwash, etc. yeah, I was hoping for a stellar weekend-right!) it was time to take drastic action.

As I am not good about being rude or mean, I thought long and hard (about 3.5 seconds) and decided that either I needed to start picking my nose, really digging in to the third knuckle or something else equally as drastic. That was when I spotted the magic box. I grabbed the 120 pack of Dulcolax Stool Softener (I don’t even want to know the wretched soul who buys these in bulk) and say “Have you ever used these?” Blake’s eyes got kind of big and he stammered “Uh, no, I haven’t.” and I replied “They work like a charm, especially after a couple days of binge drinking.”

And boy, did they ever work like a charm! Blake stuttered “Well, that’s good.” and made once again like a smoke ninja and quickly disappeared from view.

Where was Steven Daniel Carrington when I needed him?

Unreal Evil
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Hawthorne Heights
In light of the re-emergence of the Mahna, Mahna song, my entire office is now singing it as, much like “The Happy Wanderer...Napsack on my Back” (you know, the Valerie, Valera, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha song) it’s one of those catchy little tunes that sticks in your brain and serves to irritate you later when you cannot get to sleep because your brain is still singing along. That is, my entire office, save one person.

A co-worker asked what I was singing and I said “You know, the Mahna, Mahna song from Sesame Street. She said, “No, I wasn’t allowed to watch Sesame Street--my grandparents said Sesame Street was evil.” Hold the phone! WHAT!?! Now let’s not forget the important lesson we learned in Footloose that sometimes what parents and other uninformed old folks think is evil really isn’t and we can overcome it by holding our prom in an old mill. But I digress…

Stunned, or at least a little off kilter, I say “Sesame Street? Evil?” and she says “Yep, ‘cuz it isn’t real.” WOAH! If the standard for being evil is not being real, than that puts the majority of television, movies, books, acrylic nails, the Tooth Fairy, 99.8% of blondes, Santa Clause, sunless tanner, 99.9% of letters to the Penthouse editor (like the one about the busload of cheerleaders) and imaginary childhood friends into the ‘evil’ category.

That must mean that Pam Anderson’s breasts are hell-a evil!

Mahna Mahna
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Mahna Mahna
Sometimes, when I am having a super crappy day, I like to imagine that I live on the Muppet Show. Oh to have every day start out with strange and wonderful things like the Mahna Mahna song. Makes me laugh everytime I see it. There's just no way to remain crabby when you watch it...Enjoy!
http://www.milkandcookies.com/links/7452/

Celebrity Funeral
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Patsy Cline
So many of you know that I semi-religiously read Jason Mulgrew (HTTP://WWW.JASONMULGREW.COM), the self-proclaimed quasi-Internet celebrity’s website.

The other day he had a bit in there that I liked and wanted to put my own Meg-O-Rama flavorful spin to. He stole the idea from a comedian named Nick Swardson, so I am stealing it from him--kind of like a game of literary rugby. This comedian, Nick Swardson, poses a great question in one of his bits. Nick said that before he dies, he thinks it would be funny to send a random-ass celebrity a chunk of money and ask them to just make an appearance at his funeral...just to mess with people so they would say stuff like, "Is that John Stamos?! Nick knew John Stamos? How the hell did he know John Stamos?!"

So it invoked the question, if you could send $5,000 to any celebrity and have them make a tearful appearance at your funeral, who would it be?

Jason Mulgrew had some great ones. His first choice was Thomas Dolby, the guy who sang "She Blinded Me With Science’. He figured Dolby would come pretty cheap and with the leftover money, he'd love to get any one of the following to make an appearance:
- the one-armed drummer from Def Leppard
- Buddy from "Charles In Charge"
- R2D2
- Andrew Ridgely (the other guy from Wham!)
- one of the crappy Baldwins (preferably Daniel)
- Vicki, the robot from "Small Wonder"
- DJ Jazzy Jeff
- 1988 Nobel Prize Winner Maurice Allais (Economics)
- the lead singer of the Fine Young Cannibals
- crappy quarterback Vinny Testaverde
- any major star's brother ("Is that Eric Clapton's brother?")
- Chris de Burgh, the guy who sang "Lady In Red"
- all three members of Bell Biv Devoe
- one of the Jackson 5 (Steve?)
- one of the New Kids on the Block (Danny?)
- one of the Pointer Sisters (the green one?)

While I think Jason has named some true classics (and one too many robots--got something you want to tell us big boy?), I would dig deeper into the celebrity has been/“Where are they now” file. I would want people taking second and third looks thinking “Hmmmmm…he/she looks familiar.” Besides, I could probably get them dirt cheap and in package deals.

Here are my choices:
-Larry, Darrell, and Darrell from the Newhart show
-Lorena Bobbit
-Jack LaLanne (fitness guru and juicemiester)
-Gary Hart (failed Presidential candidate)
-Pam Dawber (Mork & Mindy)
-Jack Wild (Jack from H.R. Pufnstuf)
-David Soul (The original Hutch -- As long as he didn’t sing)
-Alison Arngrim (Nellie Olsen on Little House on the Prairie)
-Robert Conrad "I dare you to knock it off" (former actor and battery spokesperson)
-Yvonne DiCarlo (Lily Munster)
-Rip Torn
-Polly Holiday (Flo from Alice--"Kiss my grits!")
-Bowzer (ShaNaNa)
-Jessica Hann (PTL Sex Scandal)
-Wesley Eure (Will Marshall in the Land of the Lost series—if not him then a Sleestak)
-Kristy McNicols
-Maxwell Gail (Sergeant Wojohowicz on Barney Miller)
-Russel Johnson (the Professor from Gilligan's Island)
-David Leisure (Joe Isuzu)
-Larry Wilcox (Jon on CHiPs)
-Björk (but only if she wears the swan, dyed black of course)
-Peter Hinwood (the blond hunky 'creation'on Rocky Horror Picture Show)
-Scott Kolden (Scott from Sigmund and the Sea Monsters)
-Cindy Jackson (the human "Barbie" after tons of plastic surgery)
-Jerry Reed (Cledus Snow from the three Smokey and the Bandit movies)

and last, but never least:
-The Muppets in the Balcony of the Muppet Show - Statler& Waldorf (but they would have to do a running commentary)

Take a minute and think about it. Which celebrity would you want weeping like a little bitch (for cold hard cash) at your funeral? It kind of makes for a good drinking game...kind of...

Post a comment and share your celebrity or celebrities of choice (anyone can post comments).

POST SCRIPT: I considered Orville Redenbacher's grandsons (because he is already dead and that doesn't fit my criteria) but they just look too much like something out of Children of the Corn...

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 12:01 AM PST | post your comment (4) | link to this post
Updated: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 10:28 AM PDT

When Monkeys Go Bad
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Slipknot
So I read an article about that guy who was attacked by Chimpanzees at that chimp refuge in California. As I read about them ripping out his eye and biting his genitals, (as he tried to reason with them, according to his wife by saying “You don’t want to do this…” H-E-L-L-O! They are not punks holding you up at knifepoint outside a Harkins Theater—they’re animals.) I flashed back to my own almost forgotten nightmare encounter with a monkey. Otherwise known as “When Monkeys Go Bad”.

As I flashed back on the episode today at the office (I would have preferred a video montage, but I wasn’t trying to move the story along), I mentioned the incident to a co-worker in passing. She replied “I know! Those monkeys at the zoo are insane!” I looked at her and said “Ah, this was in someone’s home…and the monkey was in a stinky diaper…holding a butcher knife.” Boy, that shut her up. (Actually, she started cracking up and said “Oh man, I gotta’ hear this one!”)

Travel back with me. Back several years. Back to one of the countless miserable days of my married life. My now ex played local ‘old guy’ hockey. One of the guys on his team was an avid Red Wings fan and had the NHL package on satellite with a big screen tv (a very good trait in someone to hang out with) The down side of the situation was his weird shit wife.

Guys, I have to admit that I have the man gene and let me tell you, I am with you on the things I don’t even want to talk about. I don’t want to have some woman drone on and on like a broken record about the state of her fricking uterus. Now if she was a dear friend, I would sit and listen with glazed eyes whilst gripping a monster glass of chardonnay. Talk to me about sex, religion, politics, monster trucks, even taxidermy and I’m good. Just don’t casually chat with me about the state of things in your nether regions. UGH! It reminds me too much of my first gynecologist in Los Angeles who had pictures of Tom Cruise on the ceiling of the examination room (like that is supposed to make me feel better? That Tom Cruise is giving me a pap smear?) –it’s so not right. But as usual, I digress.

This chick relished telling me in excruciating and nauseating detail the minute-by-minute, blow-by-blow status of her uterus. It was like watching a hostage standoff on live television—horrific and yet, you cannot seem to tear yourself away. Riveting in a morbid accident scene kind of way. It was all just too much information. Information I never needed to know about her girly junk issues. Stuff like, apparently, much like that old broad on the medic alert ad—her uterus had fallen and it couldn’t get up. Did I say UGH yet? And apparently it was negatively impacting their sex life (that and the fact that she had lock jaw—enough said).

So to make an agonizingly long and gruesome story as short as possible, I will leave out all of the non-pertinent details or at least I will try to the best of my abilities. Here goes:

We arrive at their trailer at 5:30pm (hey now, there’s a clue). Soon after, Uterus Chick comes home and immediately starts ranting about how she had no idea we were coming over and how dirty her house is. A half an hour later, Uterus Chick is STILL bitching and is now vacuuming her house. In fact, she bitched and cleaned the entire evening. Boy, it was fun. So needless to say, things are ever so slightly tense and I just keep saying ‘yes’ to another beer and concentrating on the hockey game while ever repeating my internal dialogue of “la,la,la,la,la…I can’t hear you.”

So Uterus Chick asks me if I would like to see all of their animals. I, loving furry babies, am all shades of excited. They had everything: hamsters, cats, birds, goats, dogs, mini burros, ring tailed monkeys…Ah, monkeys.

The entrance of the simian was the start of a speedy descent into Hell. And nothing is worse than monkey Hell (just ask the guy with the gnawed junk in California) unless it is an unexpected encounter with your mother-in-law at a Thunder From Down Under male dance review but again, I digress.

So she introduces us to Mr. Jinx, the ring tailed monkey. The ring tailed monkey wearing a diaper. She brings him out on a leash and at first, it’s all good. I’m excited as I’ve never been around a monkey up close and personal. That soon changed. Uterus Chick hands me the leash and says “Mr. Jinx loves marshmallows” and gives me a handful and tells me to sit on the floor with him. Apparently ‘marshmallow’ is the word that makes ring tail monkeys psychotic. The next thing I know, Mr. Jinx has become a little simian Mr. Hyde and is swinging around on the leash like Tarzan while trying to alternately bite or claw my hand open for the coveted marshmallows. I dump them all and he scarfs them down in seconds. Call me crazy, but somehow artificial sugary fluff and monkeys just shouldn’t mix. It’s kind of like feeding a small child hummingbird food.

The next thing I know, Mr. Jinx is soaring high on his sugar rush—saying he was hyperactive would be an understatement. He is hopping all over, flying around like he should have been an extra in the Wizard of Oz. That’s when the gawd-awful stench assails me. Phew! What the…! I look down and realize that Mr. Jinx has taken care of some personal hygiene matters and his diaper is bulging with a massive dump. I stand up and try to lead Mr. Hyde/Captain Dump into the kitchen in the attempt to hand him off to Uterus Chick (I am a super guest, but I am SO not taking a stab at changing the full diaper on a sugar-frenzied animal). As I am standing there, trying to interrupt the bickering Uterus Chick and her husband are still fricking engaging in about uninvited guests, Mr. Hyde/Captain Dump jumps from the floor to the chair and onto my head. Yes. Onto my head with a beyond full diaper. My mouth went dry and my eyes about exploded out of my head as I stuttered “…monkey…uh…monkey…uh…please…monkey.” Uterus Chick turns around and says “Oh, isn’t that cute! Mr. Jinx likes you!” The words weren’t even out of her mouth when the ‘cute’ monkey jumped off of my head and onto the kitchen counter where he proceeded to pick up a butcher knife. No shit. He turns around with his abnormally bright and feverish looking monkey eyes, chattering incessantly, swinging the knife back and forth.

I am serious when I say that in that moment, I saw my entire life flash before my eyes. To boot, I saw the headlines in the paper. “Woman Loses Life in Bizarre Monkey Attack”; “Stay Puff to Blame for Woman’s Death”; “Sugar-Induced Fury Fuels Mr. Jinx’s Rage”. God, I didn’t want to die that way at the hand of a frenzied, knife wielding monkey on the rampage.

I was standing shock still--terrified to move in case the monkey interpreted the move as hostile or perhaps thought I was holding out on him when it came to the Jet Puffs. I had been reduced to muttering “mmmmmonkey…mmmmmonkey…mmmmonkey” when Mr. Jinx finally dropped his weapon.

The rest of the evening is a blur. All I really remember was urging my now ex to leave (he was all for it having witnessed the monkey madness) and when we were safely in the car, I looked at him and said “Drive dammit! Drive!” ‘cuz I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Folks, aren’t you glad I told you the abbreviated version?

Tonight on FOX—When Monkeys Go Bad….

Steroidal Immunity
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Pink Floyd - A Momentary Lapse of Reason
I guess I must be stupid. Really, really dumb.

As you know the feds have stepped in to investigate Major League Baseball as it apparently wasn't policing itself to their satisfaction.

Enter the cheese weasel of all time: Jose Canseco--the man who put Velveeta in cheese. The has been who is still harboring illusions of grandeur.

This man stands to make a fortune from the claims he makes of his own, and others', rampant steroid use in his best selling book, further fueling the wildfire sale of the book and lining his pockets with profit.

How then, when he asks for immunity for his testimony on steroid use and is turned down, does he then state that he will claim his Fifth Amendment rights and not answer any questions so that he doesn't incriminate himself? H-E-L-L-O! If you have published a book detailing the purported abuse, you have already incriminated yourself in public record. As Bugs would say "What a maroon!"

**On a side note, I will never forget the 1989 World Series when the Oakland As played the San Francisco Giants in the Battle of the Bay series. For those of you who don’t remember, there was an earthquake during Game 3. I will NEVER forget the vision of Jose Canseco’s wife Esther (as opposed to his second wife Jessica, the Hooter’s girl) running in a panic across the infield in her screaming red slinky evening dress and fur (at a day game mind you). When a reporter grabbed her and asked her where she was going she replied “I’m going back to Florida”. I laughed so hard I cried. She was the epitome of the caricature of the 1940s gangster ‘moll’ down to her horrible high pitched, squeeky Jersey accent. “I’m going back to Florida” was pronounced “I yam goin’ beck to Fla-ri-da”. It was hilarious. Another testament to his utter cheesiness…

I was wrong...
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: Eminem - Encore
Almost everyone you will ever encounter in this life has issues with admitting he/she is wrong. Personally, I don’t have that problem, ‘cuz I’m a fricking rockstar….But seriously, I am usually the first one to admit that I screwed up and apologize if only because I can’t stand conflict. Sometimes that fact makes it hard for me to understand why others have such a hard time with saying “I was wrong” or “I’m sorry”. It’s like they are trying to swallow a watermelon or have an enema and they are either unable or completely unwilling to do so.

Saying I was wrong or I’m sorry isn’t like you are a bad person on par with a child molester (Can I get a witness for Michael?) it’s actually confessing that you are an honest person. Trust me, people will appreciate it.

Admitting you were wrong and apologizing goes a long way in making things right.

Now don’t get me 'wrong', some things just can’t be wiped away with a heartfelt apology. Things like:

“I ran over your cat…Sorry!”
“I slept with your grandmother...Sorry!”
“The condom broke…Sorry!”
“That wasn’t chocolate--it was ExLax--but have a nice flight to London…Sorry!”
“I was sure that you wanted to donate those shoes to Good Will…Sorry!”

However, in my personal experience, or maybe just because I am a pretty tolerant person, forgiving for most anything is easy when accompanied by 3 little words…and no, I am not referring to ‘I am horny’ although those three words after the first three (with the right person) can REALLY make everything better!

Angel Jobs
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: X
I have decided that if we can really become angels, that I want to be the angel who gets to make the clouds look like things. You know--when you are laying on your back in the grass and the clouds in the sky seem to take the form of bunnies, space aliens, penises (wasn’t that an Elton John song? Lucy in the sky with dildos…)

Failing that, I want to be the angel responsible for putting the faces of Jesus and Mary on random things like tortillas and doggy doors…I’d be sooooo good at that!

When is a Mint Not Just a Mint...
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Jack Johnson
This just in from the field...

I'm sure you have heard that using an Altoid (or other peppermint breath mint) during oral sex increases the sensation and pleasure. I'm told that substituting a Listerine Strip causes a far different reaction. One where the man starts off all "Hmmmmm...hmmmm...nice...that's right baby" which soons changes to "Err...uh, hey...ow! Ow! Agh!" and then proceeds to run out of the room screaming "It burns! It burns!"

Please use this information responsibly...

I Did It All For The Nookie...At Least On Tape
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Anything but Limp Biskit
So I thought seeing Chyna the ex pro-wrestler’s steroided micro-dick thingy was the nastiest thing I had seen recently…then someone sent me a link to the Fred Durst sex video (if 3 minutes of him heaving his fat belly over his 4 inch (while hard) penis can be called a ‘sex’ video)…

I watched the video of Fred’s tiny penis and gruesome facial expressions (for God’s sake, he’s banging some chick and he looks like he is about to take a dump for cripes sake!) I actually think I went into shock as soon after I wept copiously, found God (yes, he was lost), took a hot bath, and destroyed any Limp Biskit tracks I had in my possession…otherwise known as “things that make you go ‘WTF’!”

At least now I know the inspiration behind the band's name...

Hello? Paris?
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Nine Inch Nails
Did you hear that Paris Hilton's cell phone got hacked? Now, all of her personal information
has leaked out.

I'm sure that's a whole lot less disturbing than what normally leaks out of her...

Ode to Brazillian Nuts...
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: Nina Simone
With the spring mating season quickly approaching, hair-free hide is all the rage.

While some insane boyums indulge in the all-over hair removal treatment that intrudes into dark crevasses in a ritual of pain so spectacular there are few words to describe it, most of those less inclined to ritual torture opt for a lesser agony--the trim. Otherwise known as: Is this about the hedge?

I never understand why men expect us to suffer the excruciating trauma of a Brazilian wax because they don't want to deal with shrubbery, but then when turn about is fair play, we find ourselves bobbing and slobbing through a less than enchanted forest. I know that a wild and untamable creature lives in the woods, but when I have to mount an expedition a la Lewis & Clark and arm myself with a machete in order to make my way through, I will opt not to go.

So guys, be brave. Do not fear the nether region spruce up--embrace the grooming of the junk that is otherwise known as 'manscaping'. Your gal (or significant other to be PC) will appreciate it-BIG TIME! It only takes a few minutes to tidy up that yard and make it manageable for those who want to visit.

But remember--take your time! The advice here is better safety than sorry. Rush the job and you'll regret it instantly as an ex of mine did. He hurried through a last minute trimming of the hedge (in the hope that he would get lucky at his mom's wedding). In his haste, he seriously nicked the 'twins'. And NOTHING, short of a traumatic head wound, bleeds like the nads! You are SO not going to get any action when your scroat is bleeding and your boxer briefs are glued to you with your own blood. Can you say crime scene?

Chicken?
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Sam Cooke - Live at Harlem Square
You have to know you are a demented puppy when you read a headline that says: "New Study Shows the Pill Changes Women's Taste in Men" and your first thought is "What? They don't taste like chicken anymore?"

Does that make me bad?

Happy VD!
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Barry White (How fricking fitting)
Valentine's Day is much like herpes: just when you think it's gone for good, it rears its ugly head once more. No wonder some people refer to it as VD.

Yes, it's that special time of year when chocolate manufacturers and greetings card companies encourage you to demonstrate the extent of your fondness for someone in cold, hard, cash (or the satin-covered equivalent) on February 14th.

Fuck that.

This year, celebrate or commiserate Valentine's Day by telling the truth! Here are some greeting card ideas that they should make for anti-valentines...

* Happy unimaginative, consumerist-oriented, and entirely arbitrary, manipulative, shallow interpretation of romance day.

* You say Valentine's Day is stupid, commercial, meaningless, and overrated but then you bitch and sulk when you don't get a card.

* OK. I bought you flowers, chocolate and a card-Do I get laid now?

* Sorry, I won't be giving you my heart this year, but I do have another throbbing organ you might be interested in.

* Boiled rabbit anyone?

* VD-Give your loved one something they'll never forget...or get rid of.

* This is just to let you know that although I always say that Valentine's Day is stupid and commercial, if you don't get me something really nice, I'm going to go into a massive, pissy fit for days. Yes, I'm a fucking hypocrite. What's your point?

* I know everything about you. I know where you live. I know what you like to do before bed. I know where your spare key is....I love you.

And my personal favorite:

* You'll do.

Exactly!!!
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: Danzig-Mother
So I get this email from my boss's executive assistant who seems to think she is the Office Manager. In it, she says that we need to start emailing everyone when we "go to lunch, leave our offices or leave the premises" so that phone calls can be better directed. In my mind--WHATEVER CONTROL FREAK. Should I also send an email saying "I really need to take care of some serious personal hygiene--be back after I finish my newspaper"? I mean really! WHATEVER! We are professionals. We have a fricking board we can sign in and out on--chill already. If I go to Safeway for 15 minutes to pick up a salad for lunch--deal with it! I told you where I was going.

After this notification, I start receiving emails from all sorts of folks around the office--people I don't even work with...as in EVER! "I'm away from my desk meeting with Doug." Then, twenty minutes later, "I'm back from my meeting with Doug." Like SPAM isn't a big enough problem without having to get emails from random coworkers that you exist in office space with about the minutia of where they are at any given moment during the day!

One of my co-workers, Saffron (see earlier post), starts bitching to me about it and I say "Send her an email bitching about it-I did. Maybe if enough of us complain about it, something will get done."

So Saffron sends an email, blind copying me on it, saying "As I don't work with Carol or Jennifer I don't need to know where they are at any given time."

Jennifer I think? Who the Hell is Jennifer?! We don't have a Jennifer. So I point this out to Saffron, who immediately is all "DAMN! Why do I always call her that?!"

To which I responded "If you don't even know her fricking name, you definitely don't need to know where the Hell she is!"

The point exactly!

Do I Look Like a Terrorist?!
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Butthole Surfers
I was just in DC for a conference right before President Bush's second inaugurational festivities (if they can be called that)... I was staying at the Capitol Hyatt which is right across the street from the Capitol building. In fact, my room had a ROCKING view of the Capitol...well, from about ¿ of the way up to the top, but still...it counts.

Anywho, the weather in DC was amazing. I go to DC a lot on business and usually it is miserable and when I say miserable, I mean truly crappy. The average is low 20s and blustery. Give me snow. Give me minus 10. Just don't give me cold combined with a bone chilling wind that cuts right through you. It makes a cold day in San Francisco feel like a summer day in Havana without the cigars...you get my point. But as usual, I digress.

So the weather is unseasonably gorgeous in the high 60s, sunny and clear. I am across the street from our nation's Capitol so I decide to take my Starbuck's Venti black iced coffee (I am just SO not the frappaccino, mochachino, latte, frothy coffee beverage kind of girl) and my Washington Post across the street to camp out on the Capitol lawn. Think about it. It's a beautiful day in our nation's capitol. I wanted to just chill and watch DC life traverse by me as I enjoyed the day.

I forgot one thing in my simple plan for the morning: DC was gearing up for an inauguration. As in security galore. As in a chick with long blonde streaked hair, wearing red, velour hip hugger sweatpants and a black Thunder Cats t-shirt wearing 4" flip flops crashed out on the Capitol lawn with a huge coffee and a paper observing the day apparently is considered a possible security concern. Maybe it was the Atomic Snowboard sweatshirt with the skulls that made them wonder if I was a terrorist (all the Shiite Methodists wear them you know). All I do know for certain was that in the 3 hours I camped out, I had numerous members of the Capitol Police come by and ask me various renditions of the same questions about how I was and what I was doing. I came close to indulging in my normal smart ass self with responses like "Just trying to figure out the best angle to fire my shoulder-launched missile from officer"...but came up short prior to doing so when, as happenstance would have it, I glimpsed sharp shooters moving about the tops of the surrounding buildings--and when I mean the surrounding buildings, I mean fricking ALL of them. Even I, the smart ass that I am, realized that an off the cuff joke might mean detention or worse, a full body cavity search, so for once I shut the hell up.

Hey dad--yes, I can stop talking...thank you very little...

What He Said - What He Meant
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Gypsy Kings
Out of curiosity, a girlfriend of mine, who we'll call Nancy (cuz' if I used her real name in this, she'd take a contract out on me), placed an Internet singles ad. After reading the quality, or complete lack there of, of the majority of the responses she has received I think the old song fits "My momma told me, you'd better shop around."

What I have figured out from reading Nancy's wanna' be Romeo's responses is how to read between the lines.

Based on some of her replies, here is my translation of What He Said - What He Meant:

RESPONSE: "I am in good shape and have practiced meditation as well as Tantric exercises for many years, so I have excellent control over my body."

TRANSLATION: I take forever to climax during sex and when I am ignoring you I will claim I am meditating.

RESPONSE: "My female and gay friends all describe me as Chandler on Friends."

TRANSLATION: I am letting you know that I am totally comfortable around gay men. In fact, I used to be one.

RESPONSE: "I speak and spell good."

TRANSLATION: I am making a feeble attempt to be humorous by pretending to be self-deprecating. (Ask former VP Dan Quayle what this means since he interchanges it with self-defecating)

RESPONSE: "I am 5'11", and always look people in the eye. I have a very dominating aura."

TRANSLATION: By mentioning my aura I mean to imply that I am a new-agey type of guy but I am actually a total weenie who will annoy you to no end.

RESPONSE: "I am extremely intelligent, which is probably one of my downsides. I try to turn my brain off when around most people, I am sure that you have to do the same thing."

TRANSLATION: Oh Shit! I must have forgotten to turn my brain back on.

RESPONSE: "My wit is extremely dry, with a little happy sarcasm thrown in. Think the end of Monty Python's Life of Brian, where they are being crucified and singing "Always look on the bright side of life"."

TRANSLATION: I mentioned Monty Python so you will think I am culturally affluent. In reality, I can't stand Monty Python and don't know how to watch a show unless it has a laugh track to clue me in.

RESPONSE:"I am not opinionated. I am just smart."

TRANSLATION: I think I am WAY smarter than anyone else who knows me does

RESPONSE: "I am a 5'11", brown haired, blue eyed man who can converse intelligently on just about any topic that you are interested in. Who is confident with himself and does what he wants to do."

TRANSLATION: I will bore you to death and then attempt to have sex with you while you are asleep.

These are just some of the truly `classic' (loose interpretation) responses she has received to her questions. I told Nancy that she needs to change the description of what kind of man she is looking for to: Someone who knows who he is, could care less what others think, and is willing to make a total ass out of himself from time to time. I think she'd get MUCH better responses.

'Moantones'
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Jeff Beck
Good news! Jenna Jameson has `climbed in bed' with Wicked Wireless to create a new brand for mobile phone services. The company will start offering content from Jenna's Web Girls featuring, among other things, "moantones".

I don't know about you, but I'm going to download a `moantone' to my phone. I want to be sitting in a restaurant when my phone starts ringing and everyone hears Jenna screaming "Oh, yes...oh, yes! Oh Baby! Harder! That's it! Yes! Yes!"

Gives a whole new meaning to 'Guess who's `coming' to dinner'...hee, hee!