I’m Holding Out For A Hero

I recently woke up on the couch at 3 am. Everyone else was asleep, so to entertain myself, I bought a filmstrip projector from the 60's for $20. At that price, it was a bargain. It came in a Samsonite suitcase, complete with turntable, microphone, and the little clicker you use to advance the filmstrip. The movie projects onto the lid of the suitcase.

I don't have to explain myself to you. Trust me, it was a badass investment for $20.

The next order of business was to buy myself some filmstrips. After some serious ebay trolling, I found a lady that was willing to sell me 250 filmstrips from the 40's to the 60's for $15. That's right, 250 filmstrips for $15. I got them in the mail yesterday, and I dumped them all in the floor so to better glory in the awesomeness of my purchase. And let me tell you, there are some doozies, like "Meet Your Mailman", "Mexican Children", "How Clothes Affect Your Good Health" (starring a creepy doll with a massive wardrobe), and a couple of those Disney safety films that star Jiminy Crickett as your helpful narrator.

I set up my projector, selected "Meet Your Mailman" (1949) for my viewing pleasure, and sat down to watch. That's when I realized that I didn't not have a fucking clue as to how to load the filmstrips into the projector.

"No problem," I think. "I don't need to know how to do it, the internet knows."

Well, friends and neighbors, the internet thinks it is WAY too cool to play with ancient technology like an ELBA filmstrip projector. Not a single mention of it.

"Fuck it," I thought. "Who needs the internet when you surely know someone that was in the A/V club in school?"

I'm holding out for a hero to help me redeem my $35 impulse purchase. Are you the A/V nerd of my dreams? I fucking hope so. I've got 250 filmstrips to learn from, and time is ticking.

All up in my brain

I spent five minutes wondering if I could elbow that preacher in the head and make it look like an accident. He's a timid little bitch that likes to wave our pistols around and puff out his chest. It's only natural that I would want to elbow him in the head.

Sometimes, I hear this particular synthesizer sound in shitty R&B songs from the 80's and shittier Yes songs from the same era. That synthesizer sound makes me want to scream and punch holes in the atmosphere.

While I was on vacation, I ran across a taxidermied tableau of badgers fighting to the death. It was only $75 and I didn't buy it. I'm so disappointed with myself. The museum really needs a taxidermy collection.

My mom sleeps on a cardboard box behind a dumpster on Harry-Hines in Dallas, and has conversations with people that died a long time ago. I'm not sure if I think she's on the threshold of death, or that crack cooks your brain while it gets you really high. Regardless, she will not be stifled. She told us so.

As I reached to stub out my cigarette, I caught a moth in mid-flight, and he caught fire. It smelled like burning hair, but was pretty majestic to watch. Sorry little moth, it was an accident.

They tell me that Brother Otis got hooked on the dope and tried to carjack an old lady. He's in jail, probably headed to a state prison for the rest of his life. I can't say I'm surprised. That motherfucker is crazy. It's just too bad he'll be trading his costumes for an orange jumpsuit.

Slovenly Whore...Feel-good Poem of the Yea

I can see that you dyed your hair at home

your roots are starting to show.

Your nails could use the attention of a professional.

Cracked cuticles, chipped polish

and what looks like gunpowder under your thumbnail…



Your t-zone is shiny…

have you thought about oil control?

And I'm not sure that your bra is providing

the proper separation and lift.

It doesn't appear

that you've availed yourself

of the many at home teeth whitening kits

available at your local grocer



And did I mention that your curls

are lacking definition

and so are your eyelashes

I mean, you could really plump those things up

With the help of maximizing mascara.

I was wondering if you had lost your tweezers

because your brows are in need of grooming

And is that chili on your shirt?

Are you sure you want to wear that?



In this day and age there's no point

to those panty lines

I didn't want to mention it,

but your elbows look a little dry

and your face would benefit

from a touch of bronzer.

Your legs are so white that they blinded me.

You've heard of spray tan, right?



Also, you might want to monitor your

fat intake...your ass is starting to spread.

Maybe do some crunches in the morning

and a few more at night.

That spare tire isn't doing you any favors.



I don’t mean to be cruel.

Call it constructive criticism.

You want to look your best don’t you?

Everyone knows how important first impressions are

And yours is practically screaming

“SLOVENLY WHORE”

I'll beat up a scientist. I am NOT scared.

Dear Scientists of the World,

I really think you're going about this the wrong way. By this, I mean science. I see that you are making advancements in wireless technology, sand paper production, digitally altering photographs, DNA testing, and the quality of our televisions. Heck, I even saw that one of you has developed a technique to wash the cells out of a pig heart, and use the empty heart-sac to build a new human heart from cloned stem-cells. (I must say that I am a little confused by this process. I was under the impression that cells were the building blocks of our bodies, and if they were washed away, how could the heart-sac still exist? Or perhaps the cells are like packing bubbles, just the hulls, waiting to be filled with atoms and other bullshit I don't understand? That is crazy non-sense. But I digress...). What I don't understand is…why are we still using gasoline? I still get a head cold twice a year, and papercuts haven’t been eradicated. Why can’t I jump like the bionic man, why do I have to worry about cancer, why can’t I teleport to where I want to go? I NEVER, even ONCE, asked for the technology to download the hottest new ringtones, botox injections to the face, or HD DVD. You’re all so much smarter than I am, and you’re wasting it. Frankly, I’m a little bitter that none of you contacted me to discuss my idea of erasing Brangelina knowledge from my brain and replacing it with a greater understanding of math. What are you doing to improve MY life you selfish bastards? I believe an ass-whoopin’ is in order if you don’t get down to business. I mean that shit.

I seriously mean that shit,
Rebel

Attention OCD sufferers...I'm a freak

I've always been what I would describe as mildly obsessive-compulsive.

I have to check the alarm four times before I go to sleep. Once to make sure that I set it for the correct time. Once to make sure I set it for AM, not PM. Twice to jiggle the switch to make sure I have pushed it all the way up. Then Eric has to check it once to make sure I'm not completely retarded.

I change my sheets twice a week. If I don't, I lie awake all night, fretting about whether or not my sheets feel sticky, and was that cat hair that just touched my lips?

Before departing for work every morning, I take my store keys from the front pouch of my purse, and move them to the left front pocket of my pants. I have to touch them every three minutes to make sure that I haven't lost them in the car. Sometimes, it makes me feel better to just clench them in my fist during the commute to ensure that I haven't lost them.

In the grand scheme of things, these tics are minor. They don't negatively affect my everyday life. I don't wash my hands hundreds of times a day. I seem relatively normal to most people.

But then I watched A & E's "Obsessed". It follows two obsessive compulsives through their daily routines, and their subsequent therapy to overcome the horrors of their OCD.

I have to confess, this show has fucked me up in all sorts of ways.

For example, I can no longer distinguish if I actually need to pee, or if my OCD is making me go every 5 minutes.

After I make 10 visits to the bathroom with no outcome to speak of, I sit and worry that OCD is going to take over, and I'll just sit on the toilet for the rest of my life, chugging gallons of water and scrubbing myself with anti-bacterial cleanser.

Do you understand what I'm saying? "Obsessed" made me develop OCD that causes me to obsess over whether I have OCD. My brain has become a shitty hall of mirrors that only reflects OCD. And that shit ain't right.

Avoid "Obsessed" at all costs. I think I might need to pee.

Sweet potato pie and shut my mouth

I have met some charming motherfuckin' yankees, I'll allow. Perfectly lovely people that I'd be glad to drink a cold beer with. But some of you bastards are sorry, and I intend to tell you about...

I was raised a polite southern girl. I ain't always practicin', but you can be damned sure that I know when to use those manners. For example, when I'm talkin' to my elders, or a stranger I'm forced to deal with in a business situation. I always say "sir" or "ma'am" because that is what I was taught to do, and it makes good sense to me. Yankees seem to find my conversational courtesies an indication of my feeble-mindedness. I once talked to a yankee on the telephone that seemed offended by the way I answered his questions.

"You keep saying sir. Were you in the military or somethin'?"

"No sir, I'm just southern. That's what we do."

"Well, you can stop sayin' it now."

"No sir, I don't believe I will."

Fuck that guy.

And ya'll talk too fast. Like ya'll can't appreciate the time it takes to get to the end of a really masterfully told story. It's hot and humid down here, why would you hurry anything? Timing is everything friends, and time equals money is a lie.

And everytime ya'll get mad at a southerner, ya'll wanna bring up slavery. That's gonna hafta stop. People have been killing and enslaving people since the dawn of man, and they continue to do so, and nothing is ever gonna change that because we are big dumb human animals. The English were (and in some cases still are) responsible for the torment and torture of people on multiple continents, and no one ever brings it up to them. And, I would like to add, I have never owned one slave in my entire life, but have worked as a minimum-wage slave for rich men more than once. And I'll allow, it was by-gawd terrible, but I don't bring it up to every rich person I meet. That would be stupid.

And why is it always with the in-breeding jokes? I'm not sure what's going on in my momma's side of the family tree, and I very well may be inbred. Don't count for much though, because I am a genius. And if you don't believe me, you must be stupid. And if you call me inbred, cracker, or redneck, I am likely to shoot you. Because you know us inbred, redneck crackers, we're crazy about our guns.

Encumbered by bacon, our heroine presses on

I hate that fat little bastard that lives next door, the loud-mouthed one that's made of Velveeta, Cool-Whip, Coca Cola, and gasoline. I hate lookin' at his t-shirt, stretched tightly across his boy teats, stained with Nestle Quik powder, and the way he's hollering every time I come out of the house, disturbing the quiet in my forest. And that little bastard has a mouth on him too. One time I walked outside to enjoy a smoke, and heard him tell that Mexican boy from down the street, "Give it back to me you fucking faggot!" I wanted to punch him in his Kool-Aid mustache. I thought about shooting him, not mortally, just a .22 in his cushiony ass when I caught him on his four-wheeler, chasing rabbits around the brush pile in my backyard, but worried about lawsuits and medical bills.


Last week, I was sitting on the front steps watching blue jays fight squirrels, soaking up twilight, when I saw the little shit coming down his long driveway on a pocket motorcycle. A fat man ran behind him, shouting instructions about the bike controls. As the brat turned onto the county road, he picked up speed. He turned back, red-faced, hollering, "I don't know how to stop this thing! Please help me!" No one gave chase, and he kept accelerating, until the climbing sound of the engine drowned out his screams, and he disappeared into the dark evening forest. Eventually, even the whine of the cycle disappeared, and peace was restored. I sat outside for another thirty minutes, waiting to see if his parents would rush to his aid, but no one did. I haven't seen the boy since. I like to think that he is still accelerating through the forests, never to return.

i just want to thank you

Dear Crazy Lady,

When I first saw your hot pink cheeks, I naturally assumed that you were suffering from eczema, or possibly even the heartbreak of psoriasis. "That's unfortunate," I thought, "but good for her, venturing out in the world instead of hiding inside." Then I got a better look at you, and I realized that you had painted your normally brown skin a nice shade of white. But you didn't stop there. Oh no. You followed that light application of grease paint with a thorough coating of pink lipstick (what was that shade? Blink Pink? Cherries in the Snow?) to your forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, AND lips. Naturally, I assumed that you must be out of your fucking mind, because most people don't greet the world with hot pink faces. But your behavior seemed normal enough. When you took the guitar from the rack, you didn't bang it on the ground, or attempt to assault your husband with it. You used our rest room, and you did not smear shit on the walls. You didn't even shout or twitch, or cuss at me.

I just want to thank you for showing me the softer side of crazy. It was a nice change of pace.

That? Don't worry, it's just the evil leaving your body

Dream #1

I am eating lunch in a plank wood restaurant that seems to float in the tree tops. Dot and Papa are there, and I know lunch must be on Papa, because I have an enormous lobster on my plate and a plastic bib on my chest. So do Dot and neither one of us like lobster. This restaurant has a lot of neon beer signs. I touch them as we walk down the hallway, our lobsters untouched on the table, out to the floating stairs that take us down to the forest floor.


"Don't worry about taking us home Papa. We could use some exercise after that lunch, and Dot said she's never been this deep in the forest before. We'd like to see some deer, and maybe some bunnies."


We take our leave, and I seem to know where I'm going. We talk about things that don't make sense, and a man steps out from the trees. He is over 7 feet tall, a handsome, coffee colored man, a stretched Denzel Washington. He asks to join us, and I see that his arms are too long, and so are his fingers. We walk silently until he grabs Dot by the throat and throws her to the ground. I grab a log the size of my forearm and go upside his head with it. He flies 25 feet, like he is made of paper maiche, hits a huge pine. I run forward and bludgeon his face with the log, screaming like an Amazon while his brains splatter my face. I hand the log to Dot so she can get in on the action when the alarm goes off.


Dream #2



I step outside the front door, and immediately realize that the house is being surrounded by a large group of unknown ne'er-do-wells. I am certain it doesn't matter who they are, they are a threat. "Fuck yeah bitches," I say without moving my lips, "it's motherfucking go time!" I spin back in the house, grab my Glock and her 30 round clip.


"Guys, we are being surrounded. Get your weapons, this is not a joke." I slam the magazine home, and pull back the slide to put one in the pipe. Very smooth, except when I drop the slide, the pistol mis-feeds and the shell jams the action. "What the FUCK?" I drop my mag, clear the shell and lock back the slide. I replace my magazine and hit the slide release. And it jams again. "What the FUCK? You are a Glock! You are never supposed to malfunction! Eric, I need the 50 round drum, I've got a mag problem over here, and this is not a good time!" I am crushed to find that we never loaded the drum, and can’t find the directions and I realize that it's too late because the ninja/S.W.A.T./zombies are certain to kill us any second when the alarm goes off.


Dream #3


I'm trying to watch TV, but someone is raising a ruckus in my front yard. Probably all the assholes I find parked there, crammed in all directions. I go inside to write angry notes to tape to their windshields, but I can't find the correct tone so they understand that I hate them and would be glad to shoot them if they park in my flowers again. I wad up the fifteenth ball of paper and throw it in the floor, and my bedroom windows start rattling thanks to one of my guest's boomin' system. I grab the shotgun by the door and hurry around the side of the house to confront them.


"Hey! Is there a good reason you parked in my gawd-damn yard?"


"We needed to go to the football game," said stretched out Denzel. I notice that he has a gold tooth now.


"I don't really care what you thought you needed to do, I am telling you right now, if you park your heap in my yard again, I will happily fill your ass full of buckshot, and I will be completely within in the law. Do you understand me?" He nods. "I'm glad you hear me. Now, would you like a bottle of water?"


He follows me to the front steps, where a tiny Mexican in alligator boots and a ten-gallon hat stops us. ""Scuse me mees? Choo know whose car that ess? I heet it wit' my truck, and it 'splode." I look behind him and see the burning shell of a compact car, and I am thrilled.

The pharmacist accidentally gave me an extra Percocet

And I spent the first two hours of Saturday wearing an eye patch and watching Braveheart.

I don't have to explain myself to you.

It's tiny story time!

Bobby the ugly, bare-footed guitar player has been unemployed for a while. He's a fabricator/welder, and a damn good one if you listen to him, but he's says he "cain't even get a job overta chicken shack." To keep him in cigarettes, he's taken to rounding up metal from around his place and fabricating plant stands and decorative wall hangings and peddling them to housewives flush with cash.

The other day, we were sitting on the bench, swinging our feet and smoking. "Now," Bobby said, "something good has come out of my unemployment. Since I been building these plant stands and shit, I found out I gotta artist hiding inside me. Let me show you." He skipped to his truck and pulled his newest stand from the bed. "Now, see here, see how I painted that fuckin' rose red, then I mirrored it by puttin' some red in the fuckin' leaves? That's where my artist come out at."

I love that crazy coon-ass.

*********************************************

I dreamed that I was delivering a present to my friend Megan, who had moved to Dallas (not really...just in the dream...and I have since forgotten what the present was, but it doesn't matter because the part I DO remember is so retarded.) For some reason, the only way to deliver the present was by donkey-powered wagon, and the wagon had wheels that were 80 feet tall, and the donkey-driver wore a straw hat and chewed a hay straw. Because donkey carts are a really sloooow form of transportation, we caused a traffic jam that really seemed to enrage the citizens of Dallas. I was thrilled, so I jumped off the wagon bed and performed a dance routine between the wagon wheels that started with high kicks and ended with fireworks. I got banned from Dallas, and I was okay with that since J.R. moved out.

**********************************************

Mexicans really know how to party. I knew this firsthand, thanks to the street parties I used to attend in high school with my friend Jessica, but I had forgotten. Until this weekend, when the Mescans down the street had a what sounded like an amazing Quinceanera. And I'm sad that I wasn't invited, especially since I always wave when they ride their horses through my neighbor's yard.

you stupid bastard

I moved you in because you were all slat-sided thin, trying to eat a tree branch in the front yard, and I couldn't abide that. And how do you repay me? By shredding every paper plate in the trash, and sometimes books too. Like "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix", and I wasn't even finished with it yet. But the last straw was when you stole the chicken from my dinner plate when my back was turned, and I had to put you in a headlock and wrestle you to the ground to get it back. I didn't plan on eating it anymore, mostly because I see you poking around the cat box all the time, but it was the principle of the thing.

What I'm trying to say to you, Melt the half-tard dog, is that you better straighten up your act, or I'll send your ass to live with the family down the street. You know the one I'm talking about...the ones with the dejected, busted down horse stored in a tiny side yard. See if those folks will remember to give you your vitamin in the morning, you little pissant.

Nuge, i haiku for you

Ted Fuckin' Nugent

The Motor City madman

He shoots his own food

Do you know about

Ted Nugent & his mustache?

Goddamn I heart Nuge

Great White Buffalo

He shot with bow & arrow

That fuckin' madman.

Has Cat Scratch Fever

& a big hunting compound

Where is my crossbow?

Wang Dang Sweet Poontang

An awesome song by the Nuge

Who doesn't like poon?

The Nuge has spoken

Got you in a stranglehold

Take that left-wingers!

a bonus for Karen Carpenter:

Anorexia

did a real number on you

Karen Carpenter

Someone has got to put a stop to this

I have reached my limit. I am going to tell you right now, I can not be responsible for my actions if you people insist on continuing these behaviors.

1. I will no longer participate in discussions about the weather, nor will I tolerate listening to the Weather Channel for 8 hours a day. Oh, storms are headed this way? I don't care. I can't stop them. I also prefer to view my weather the old fashioned way, by observing it in real-life. Stop talking to me about the weather.

2. I do not want to hear about the high cost of gasoline anymore, especially if you have chosen a vehicle that gets 5 miles per gallon. I don't feel sorry for you, & most likely hate you. I don't need to hear your hot tip about where you got gasoline this morning, saving a whole 2 cents per gallon. If you saved $2 a gallon, then you can fill me in. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.

3. Do not ask me what I am thinking about, or use the repugnant phrase "penny for your thoughts". I am probably thinking about something wildly inappropriate, strange or personal. If I wanted you to know, believe me, I'd let you know. I blurt random things out all day long & am given strange looks in return. You do not want to know about the things I keep to myself.

4.Do not use lol in any correspondence we might have. It infuriates me. I really just hate all computer slang & text message speak. BTW & WTF are included. I enjoy words, please use them. I don't enjoy emoticons very much either, but if I like you, I will overlook them. This is NOT the case with lol.

5.Do not stand behind me, mouth-breathing & trying to read over my shoulder. When I was a child, I was guilty of this practice. My dad cured me by elbowing me in the nose. Don't make me elbow your face. I'll do as hard as I can, because you are acting like a douche-bag.

6.Do not look at me with sad eyes while I am eating my lunch. If I like you, I will offer you some. If I don't like you, I will not. Your puppy eyes will not influence me, unless of course, you are a puppy. Then I will give you a little bite.

7.Do not put your arm around me if you have not been invited to do so. I am not a fan of inappropriate touching. If you think an elbow to the nose hurts, wait until you feel what I have in store for your groin if you insist on touching me.

Lest I sound like a hateful, mean spirited person, let me add that I am easy to get along with & most people find me pleasant to deal with. I will genuinely make an attempt to enjoy your company. It's just that some of you asses make it so hard.

Random detritus, continued

Sometimes, when I least expect it, I am overwhelmed with the compulsion to do something evil. I'll be in the car, and see an old person on the side of the road and think "I want to throw a bottle at his head" or "what if I flicked this lit cigarette at that guy?". I never act on these desires, but I find it strange, as I go out of my way to be nice to everyone.

I am convinced of my ability to make anything. I once spent 15 minutes trying to tell Eric that it was possible for me to make my own Scrabble board. I really wanted to play Scrabble.

This morning, I heard about a man who woke from a 40 year coma. He was surprised that stores were open on Sundays. When he saw cellphones, he was amazed. When asked what he thought about 2007, he said he couldn't understand why everyone walked around complaining all the time. Wait until someone shows him internet porn.

Sometimes, if someone is talking to me about something very boring, I have to restrain my self from screaming in their face and possibly punching them in the throat. I sing Fleetwood Mac songs in my head until the feeling passes.

If I owned a monkey and a motorcycle, I would have the grandest sort of adventures. My monkey would be called Louise, regardless of it's gender.

I have only taken my daughter to the circus once. I cried the whole time. I was so sad for the elephants and the tigers. I kept hoping that the elephants would trample their trainers. You shouldn't make an elephant wear a tutu, that's just wrong.

I have conversations with my cats, and I have assigned them imaginary voices. Sophie, who is a boy, speaks in a female voice with a french accent. Chaplin has the gruff voice of a hobo.

I have injured myself attempting a pirouette on more than one occasion.

Tyler, you better stay where you are. I'll shoot.

Hey Tyler, Texas

I wanted to let you know that I hate everything about you. You are the most disgusting town I have ever seen, which is saying a lot. I lived in Ferris, Texas, so I know from nasty towns. You, however, are an utterly new sort of nasty. You are nothing but trademarks, strip centers, and yuppies in SUV's on cell phones. If Mattel made Barbie, the town, it would be you. In other words, I find you to be plastic and disgusting in every way. You remind me of the mid-cities that I just moved to escape, but you are worse. You are completely lacking in culture (unless consumption counts as culture) and it makes me want to sick up.

You have been on my mind since the last time I had the misfortune to be within your city limits. See, I know how these things work. You're going to start creeping. People moved to you because you were small and pretty and quaint. Then you started slinging your ass to every corporation that looked at you. Now you're congested and people are going to start populating the towns on your outskirts. It's only a matter of time before you try to move into my territory, and bring Starbucks with you. Well, I'm not going to stand for it. I like the fact that the only things in my town are Dairy Queen, gas stations, and a Subway. Sure, I'd like to have a decent grocery store within 10 miles, but I'm not gonna put on a mini-skirt and a push-up bra to get it. So be forewarned you dirty tramp, this town's not big enough for the both of us.

Apocalypse? Bring It On.

Throughout history, people have worried about the end of the world. That comet means the end of times! SARS is gonna get ya! We are on the brink of total nuclear devastation!

The only worry I have regarding the apocalypse is that I won't be alive when it happens. I see at it as the ultimate adventure. Can I survive the initial devastation? Can I live with only the bare essentials? Will I fight to the death to ensure my family's safety? I think the answer is a resounding YES! I'm looking forward to the challenge.

Some people are of the opinion that the end of society as we know it will mean endless time to do what you wish. I am more practical. I see an apocalypse that leaves little time to think of matters other than basic survival. In fact, I eagerly anticipate the lack of culture. How much longer is my life going to be filled with Paris Hilton, McDonalds, and Prada? What grand ideas can I dream about in a world without celebrity culture?

The anthropological effects will also be fascinating to watch. In a world with small pockets of people scattered loosely across the globe, language will die. With no art, people will lose the ability to communicate in sophisticated ways. In a few generations, we would be reduced to grunting. The world I envision is really not unlike that depicted in the major motion picture, Mad Max-Beyond Thunderdome. Except there is no Tina Turner, and I have lots of guns and bandoleros full of ammo strapped across my chest.

If I am not lucky enough to survive the initial ice age, flood, flu, volcanic eruption or zombie uprising, I'll feel proud knowing I was alive long enough to witness the beginning of the end.

Regardless, there are too many of us, doing too many dangerous things. It's our time to die out, like the dinosaurs. Or I could be wrong and we are on the verge of entering future world, where cars hover, information flows seamlessly into our brains, and everyone owns a house-cleaning robot. Doesn't matter either way, because I do enjoy a clean house I don't have to clean myself.

Things I Believe Are True, No Matter How Irrational

I believe...

... that I am smarter than Lindsey Lohan AND Marilyn Vos Savant.

... that it is sometimes necessary to eat ice cream or pudding for breakfast.

...that a pygmy elephant would make a great addition to my family.

...that if I try hard enough, I can be completely self-sufficient, making it possible to quit my job & live off the land.

...that buying an Air Stream trailer and driving it cross-country to meet all my myspace friends is a super vacation idea.

...that Giant Brian & I may share the same father, in different bodies. Perhaps this is possible through some sort of science I am not currently aware of.

...that flying cars & housekeeping robots are far overdue.

...that I levitate while I am sleeping. Not always, but sometimes.

...in the power of positive thinking.

...the apocalypse is around the corner.

...math was made up to disguise the existence of magic.

...that my dreams are prophetic, but only about stupid & inconsequential things.

...in ninjas.

...Melissa-Mindy should run for president. And she should choose me as her running mate.

...Dot will find that lost tomb.

...coffee & cigarettes are a taste sensation that's sweeping the nation.

...that men that say sonuva buck or sonuva gun are sexier.

...my singing voice is better in the shower.

...shaving your legs and laying on clean sheets can cure any minor illness.

...my cat is the manifestation of Satan on Earth.

My Death and Subsequent Arrangements

I have been thinking about my death lately. I think it's because I recently bought a pair of skull sneakers. Every time I look at my feet I think "I bet my skull looks really rad. Too bad I'll be dead before you can see it"

Thoughts of death inevitably lead to thoughts of my funeral. I do not want one of those dry, stuffy funerals where everyone sits around weeping. I do not want my family to spend thousands of dollars on a fancy box to bury me in. I don't want someone deciding what songs best represent my life. I certainly don't want someone that is not a good writer in charge of my obituary. With these things in mind,I have decided to post my funeral demands here...

THE OBITUARY

Rebel Star Hobson (formerly Buchanan) died today. She will be sorely missed for her cooking, her friendliness, her jokes, and her amazing retention of useless facts. We will, however, finally have a chance to win trivia games, Boggle and Scrabble now that she is gone. The family would like to ask that you join us in the backyard of our home for the celebration of her life. She asked that all mourners wear costumes, with bunny outfits being particularly appreciated. She also asked that everyone bring gasoline and a twelve pack of beer, for reasons that will be explained when you arrive.

THE ARRANGEMENTS

I would like my hair to be teased into the full afro that I never quite achieved in life. Stud the afro with rhinestones and flowers, maybe a tiara. Make-up...I don't care, do something funny. I am not really concerned with what I am wearing other than striped knee-socks. I am inflexible on this point. I would like to be laid in an open top wooden box, decorated with pictures of Wonder Woman, ancient artifacts, ninjas, banjos, and other things that I enjoyed in life. Put the box in the back yard on sawhorses.

THE SERVICE

I would like the following songs to be played...
"Darling Nikki" Prince
"Rock Your Body" Justin Timberlake (I just think that's really funny)
"Wolf Like Me" TV On The Radio
"Concrete And Barb-Wire" Lucinda Williams
"Kung-Fu Fighting" Carl Weathers (is that the right name? Regardless, it can be found on Have A Nice Day V.14)
Track 5 from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Fever To Tell"
"Don't Stop Til Ya Get Enough" Michael Jackson
"Tusk" Fleetwood Mac
"I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive" Hank Williams
"Goin' Straight To Hell" Hank III
"I Musta Been Stoned" Old 97's
That Handsome Family song about the lady that starves herself to death...can't remember the name.
I reserve the right to update and amend this list should I live a long life.

At the service, I'd like people to mill about the backyard, drinking beer and swapping Rebel stories. Have break-dancing contests, or see who can head-butt the hardest. Eat delicious food. Sing along loudly to songs that are played. When the beer runs out, pour the gas on me and light me on fire. If someone wants to keep my skeleton, feel free. I guess family members should get the first dibs, but if they have boring plans for it, I insist my skeleton be given to someone that will do something interesting with it.

If these plans are ignored, I will find a way to haunt or otherwise irritate everyone involved in the ruin of my funeral. I am serious about this.

As The Full Moon Is To Werewolves, Wal-Mart Is To Fancy Pants

My good friend, Scott, recently sent me the documentary, "Wal-Mart, The High Cost Of Low Price". I already knew that Wal-Mart was evil, ruined communities, and that I hated them. Unfortunately, my laziness always won out. Where else are you going to go to buy a pontoon, a christening gown, Kraft Mac n' Cheeze, and ammo? Well, after viewing the documentary, I vowed to never return.

Yesterday, I was forced to break that promise. We needed an oil change, and they are the only place that will do them after 5:30 (Eric gets off work at 5:30). I also needed sugar, school supplies, and a USB cable. I was tired from a 10 hour day at work, and didn't want to visit multiple stores. I can tell you that it was the single worst shopping experience of my life.

Fancy Pants, my bitchy alter-ego, has some notes to share about the experience. Be warned, she has a foul mouth and inner-rage. Fancy Pants?

FUCK WAL-MART! Don't you ever make me go there again, or I fucking swear I will jab one of our eyes out. I am not fucking around. That being said, I wrote letters to the ass-clowns I had to rub elbows with in that stinking shit-hole.

Dear morbidly obese man on the limited mobility scooter,
Hey fat-ass, how is it possible for you to shove french fries in your mouth, shout into your cell phone, and try to run me over on your Rascal? If you're such a multi-tasker, why don't you get your big ass to a gym? You could run and lift weights while doing jumping jacks. Also, I would like to mention that it is very rude to make me look at your ginormous fucking belly. You're in Wal-mart, and they sell sizes up to XXXXL. You could probably get yourself a Big Dawgs t-shirt that would cover that shit for $.97. I hate you, Jabba the Hut.

Dear giggling teenage sluts,
Is Wal-Mart the hot new playground for elite hookers in training? I do not need to see your ass-cheeks. It is not attractive, and Jabba the Hut was probably staring. Does it make you feel good to know that he will be thinking of you tonight when he jerks it? I didn't think so. Cover yourself, you dirty fucking tramps.

Dear family with 6 children,
I realize that you have a large family, but is it necessary for you to fan out across an aisle, making it impossible for me to access a pair of scissors? What the fuck is so confusing about single subject spirals that the 8 of you had to confer on them for FIVE minutes? Did you know I hit you with my buggy all those times on purpose? Well I did. Fuck you. And especially fuck your youngest child that attempted to hang off the shelves like a monkey. I hoped he would fall, and was disappointed when he didn't.

Dear conversation shouter,
I would like to thank you for shouting the following thing..."So's then I tole that bitch, bitch you ain't movin' in ta ma trailer. There ain't enough room, an' yer nasty an' shit"...it was the highlight of my trip

Dear idiot working the automotive department,
If I run into you in the tiny town we share, I hope I'm wearing my combat boots. I am going to kick you in the vagina as hard as I possibly can, and I want it to hurt.
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Thanks Fancy Pants. I feel so much better now that you got that poison out for us.