You’re having breakfast with “Father” tomorrow? Um… really? How fascinating. You do know that HE’S NOT MY FATHER, right? [ADDENDUM: And WHY are you using the word “FATHER” (raw), you pretentious fuck? (It’s probably a little too formal for Denny’s, don’t you think? Unless, of course, you and “Father” are also planning to attend a polo match.)]

And let me get this straight… you’re on with “mom”? MOM? She’s not MY MOTHER, dimwit! She did not give birth to me. YOU, my [ex]friend, are on the phone with YOUR MOTHER and as such, you should say, “Hi. I’m on with MY mom, can I call you right back?” [NOTE: I am never calling you again.]

I don’t want (or care) to look for your husband, “Frank the Tank at the Super Bowl!” (I don’t care much for sports [or for Frank, quite frankly]). I couldn’t care less that you just got back from the gym but ’splurged’ on a doughnut or that you drank three martinis, but it’s “OK” because you went for a run earlier. Do you really need to tell me [on Facebook] that you just had two moles removed by your dermatologist and subsequently need to play the waiting game while they are biopsied? Or about your son’s ear infection and how you “hope he (he=your 1 year old son WHO CANNOT READ!) feels better soon!”? And thanks for sharing that you “talked” your husband into taking the kids to school so you could “finally” sleep in. (Fool, get a divorce!)

Seriously?
Tell.
Someone.
Who.
Cares.
Because, I sure as hell do not give a rats ass that you’re “excited about your new haircut”, or that you’re “at El Pollo Loco for dinner” or that you’re driving to “Wisconsin!!!! for the weekend.”
If you must post a status update–give me a scandal. Tell me who you’re banging. Pose an interesting question. Quote something brilliant. (Like Fletch or Lucille Bluth.) But please (please) don’t tell me you just “dropped a deuce at a Holiday Inn in Flagstaff.”

I also loathe passive aggressive status updaters. (I want to put all of them on a ship and set them loose somewhere near the Bermuda Triangle. [Or set them on fire.]) But the mother of all P.A.P.’s (Passive Aggressive Poster’s) is a lady I went to high school with who recently got her tits done. She’s been posting (passive aggressively) about it all over her FB page so the entire world (or world wide web, rather) would know. Let’s just say that I’m a genius person, put the pieces together and figured it out because she never came out and directly said, “Hey, I just got a boobie job” [because she’s a P.A.P.]. But instead said, “They are in pain.” “The surgery went well.” And “I hope they heal soon.”

And months later, there’s a new chapter to this riveting story…. And I only know this because of her continual [YAWN] status updates which have been pretty leading the last few days:

Boobie Job is not feeling well, Blah.
Boobie Job has pretty much had it, the only thing I am full of is cuss words right now.
Boobie Job is shocked and totally not amused.
Boobie Job is ready to get back in the game after learning some valuable lessons.
Boobie Job is almost back to normal, game on! just happy to soon be out of the house.

[NOTE: I’ve conveniently changed the P.A.P.’s name to “Boobie Job” in order to protect her identity AND because I’m fucking thoughtful, people.]

All of this was very confusing to me… I wanted to know what was happening with Boobie Job and I wanted to know now. So, after a little Facebook detective work, I noticed that one of her cousins had posted THIS:

“Hey, what happened? Grandma told me one fell out? She’s confused these days, so I wasn’t sure. Are you okay? Is that normal?”–Cousin

Err…
I take back EVERYTHING I previously stated because this little gem is worth every passive aggressive update I’ve had to endure. I mean, where on earth do you possibly start with something like this?
Maybe the fact that I’m most definitely going to hell because I think it’s one of THE funniest things I’ve ever (ever) read. Not too mention, BJ’s cousin is obviously a retard person. Um… no, cousin, it’s not “normal” for boobs (fake or otherwise) to “fall out.” [Note: Cousin probably wears a helmet.]

Then I think about Boobie Job and her slew of (shameless) status updates and the fact that she so desperately wanted the world to know her boobie fell out. (Grandma might be confused, but sadly, not in this particular instance.) For the life of me, I cannot fathom what would motivate someone to post such personal information about themselves (or their rack). Apparently, nothing is sacred [in this economy].

I checked in on Boobie Job today (don’t get excited–it’s not like I called her or anything, I just looked at her page) and found out she is “officially” on the mend.
Game.
On.

(Who is responsible for this nonsense? [I want to beat them senseless.])

NOTE: I also hate that bitch for being so skinny.

And this may be slightly inappropriate slash cruel considering… [and I’m OK with that], but SOMEONE please tell me how this lady was a “model”?
Um… a hand model, MAYBE. (MAYBE.) Kind of reminds me of that lady on Big Brother who claimed to be a model. [See below] The only kind of modeling she probably ever did was at a boat show. And everybody knows that a “model” at boat shows is just a fancier way of saying prostitute. Kind of like when men say they’re “bisexual”. Um… yeah, sure you are, ballet-dancer Billy. “Bi” or “curiosity” is man-code for homo.

And not to toot my own horn, but I think my creation is pretty exquisite. And by exquisite, I mean mellow. Seriously. Please don’t have any sharp objects laying about…
http://lazystripper.muxtape.com

I don’t blame you!
It’s exhausting.
And you already have enough on your plate what with the “who gets the house, the Huey Lewis record collection and the season tickets for the Ice Capades.”

Well, I’m here to help…

I’ll customize a press release specifically for your current (or not so current) situation. That way, in just one fell swoop, you can let everyone in your life know that for whatever reason [you couldn’t keep it in your pants, you let that phone sex addiction spiral out of control or you put on an unattractive amount of weight] you failed miserably at yet another attempt at love.

[Please see example below]

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Tuesday, November 20th–After nearly two years of being together, Leslie Lezstein and Jane Janeberg have called it quits. No specific reason was given, but a spoke person for the couple said, “Remember–they are lesbians, so of course they’ll remain great friends. There’s even talk of them spending Thanksgiving together!”

Audrey [the cat] will remain with Leslie (her mother) although Jane will have weekly (unsupervised) visitation rights and they’ll alternate every other “Secretary’s Day.” (Audrey’s favorite holiday).

As of 9am (PST) this morning, their respective Myspace pages still displayed “relationship” status. Rumors as to when the change to “single” (or “swinger”) will take place are circulating. Our experts say, “they’ll likely ease into the break-up by selecting “swinger”–especially since the break-up was amicable. It’s just Myspace politics.”
#####

I shut my bathrobe, managed to rip myself away from my box of Bugles
and went to see if it was that fox, Ty, from Extreme Home Makeover
there to tear my house down.

Instead, there were three Jehovah’s Witnesses standing before me
(but I only had two photos in my hand. [America’s Top Jehovah.])
They were an ambitious bunch (it was 9:12am), although they did look
a little worse for wear—as if they had just walked all the way from Rancho Cucamonga.

Naturally, I invited them in because I’m a sucker for free literature.

It was over our second Mike’s Hard Lemonades that things got a little strange… I was like “Jesus? Jesus? Where are you boy?” when all three of the JWits became semi-excitable. (I think they thought I had seen the proverbial light, until my Cocker Spaniel appeared. [Um…AWKWARD])

I found myself fumbling and making excuses…
“Err… it’s not you– it’s me!
Walking just isn’t my thing!
Jesus even has a dog walker!
I thought about converting–but I don’t like to get my hair wet!”

And then I felt a little pang of Jewish guilt so I brought out some leftover
birthday cake and suggested we roleplay. I put some candle stumps into
the cake-carcass and instructed the JWits to sing “Happy Birthday” to me.

As I blew out the stumps, I wished for a car for my new friends.
(That way, I wouldn’t have to use an entire GLADE Plug-In the next time
they came over for a visit… [Seriously.])

AND THEN IT HIT ME LIKE I HAD JUST BEEN SAVED.

Sandwich.
Boards.

I’m going to put sandwich boards on these people and send them off on their merry ways…

People will pay to advertise on the JWits!
(And clearly, I would take “street marketing” to a whole new level.)

Pizza delivery on one side; vaginal rejuvenation on the other…
The possibilities are endless!

I mean, they’re already going door-to-door– may as well kill two birds with one witness.

I sat them down and tried to tell them about my exciting new business, but they were chanting: “DONNA MARTIN GRADUATES!” at the top of their lungs.

Knowing they were a fan of games and a competitive people by
nature (apparently, they have a long-running feud with the
Christian Scientists [true story]), I declared: “QUIET CONTEST” at the top
of my lungs and proceeded, “Listen… You guys are a hard-working bunch.
Of course, the Mexicans have you beat. But with your English skills
and availability to work on holidays, you can really take the lead here.

More to the point, none of you are driving. It’s obvious you’re desperate for an automobile. There’s what–like eight of you in this entire city? What if I told you we’d be able to raise enough cash to get you guys into a mini-van by Christmas? Um… how do you feel about advertising?”

Like who’s the glorified meteorologist that decides it’s time
to put the “P” back into “hurricane-naming” rotation and that
the next one will be called, “Pam?”
Pam. Like who in the hell is going to be threatened by a storm
called “Hurricane Pam?” There’s no urgency to Pam.
No panic. Hurricane Pam sounds more like a
neighbor who binge eats.

And then of course, there’s all these ‘new’ hipster names
like “Apple,” “Jermajesty” and “Radio Transmitter.” When do we
get to weave these tiny treasures into the mix with
the “Allison’s” and “Larry’s?”

Honestly, I think it would be a lot more effective if we could
do for the hurricanes what the world wide web did for the
stars some years back. Not to brag, but I currently hold the
world record for the “most stars purchased” through
the Adopt-A-Star.com website. I own half the galaxy!
Well, own-ish. (There still may be a few lingering debt
collectors because of this [spring of 2001] addiction, but I digress…)

I can see the infomercial now–

BUY SOMEONE YOU LOVE A HURRICANE!

“For only 3 easy installments of $19.95, you, too, can show someone you
care by naming a natural disaster after them!”

CUT TO:
Re-enactment of an emotional woman opening her front door only to find
a remorseful, man standing with a large bouquet of carnations.
[She slams the door.]
We see her immediately answer the door again and he’s now holding a box of chocolates.
[The door slams again.]
Finally, on the third try our humbled man is standing with an enormous
certificate that reads, “Blah Blah Blah… this certificate certifies that the
next hurricane (or Tropical storm) will hereby be
declared, “Hurricane Sally.”
[The couple embrace passionately.]

This could be a world-wide phenomenon, people!
I MEAN WHO WOULDN’T LOVE THIS?
Lie to me.
Cheat on me.
It seriously doesn’t matter ANYMORE.
Just buy me a hurricane afterwards and I’ll totally forget you slept
with that twenty-year old Filipino bank teller from Washington Mutual.

What kind of Jew celebrates Easter anyway?
(Certainly NOT this one.)

But speaking of Easter and all of its acroutroments…
Imagine my shock when I learned that “hot cross buns”
actually exist! (For years, I’ve been under the impression that
it was just a song to play on my recorder.)

The photo above is a REAL LIVE picture of hot cross bun.
A hot cross bun in the flesh, if you will…
(Given to me by an honest to goodness [British] Christian.)

And sweet Jesus… Do they know how to party or what?
(And how to trump our bagel! Not that it’s a contest.
Although, I will point out that we get EIGHT [count them 8]
days of Hannukah to their one lone Christmas day.)

In any case, the bun in question has been sitting on my
counter in a Ziplock bag for nearly 24 hours.

I’m just a little confused by the whole sticky bun meets the holy
trinity thing. Isn’t it a little strange to be eating a piece of bread
with a cross on it? One would think that consuming a Saltine
regularly at church would be enough, but no.

I’m not sure why no one else has stepped forward, but I’m not
afraid to say it: The Christians Are Obsessed With Carbs!

I mean, come on people—Triscuits in church, cross-covered rolls for Easter! It’s pandemonium out there!

But, really… what can we deduce from all of this Christianity stuff?
Well, for one, Christians can’t be vegetarians.
(EATING the body of Christ?)

And second, Christ looks quite delicious in his various forms.
(Look at that roll… [Almost as good as Cinnabon.])

Although, why limit it to just crackers and bread?
Personally, I think they should branch out…
It could be more lucrative for them.
(Think South Beach, but with more religious undertones.)
What about a bacon, egg and Christ for breakfast?
A Christ-za for lunch? Or Kung Pao Christ for dinner?
Speaking of Kung Pao, Twinkles just loves her some
Chinese take-out. Although, it doesn’t agree with her.
(Too spicy. [Not that I would know. I don’t even like cats.])

Seriously? They don’t even strip anymore… It’s like ‘now’ it’s a choice or something–”Maybe, just maybe I’ll take my top off. Maybe.”
I mean if I wanted to see some girl walk around with no shirt on, I’d just assume stay at home. (There’s no cover charge, no drink minimum and I know the girl’s going to be clean.)

The whole point of going to a strip club is to see them hang upside down (naked) from that center stage pole by their stiletto heels. It’s like, “Come on, work for it, honey…”
And if you’re fortunate enough to witness pole tricks, god bless you because for the most part, the pole seems to go untouched these days. I mean, sure–they’ll grab the pole with their arms and push off of it to get some sort movement (or a little spin) going, but that’s hardly impressive. It’s just lazy. It’s like using the railing to pull yourself up the stairs when you’re too tired (or drunk) to make it on your own. I mean, if I had a dime for every time I’ve yelled out, “The pole, Cinnamon! The pole!” I’d be a rich woman.

Strippers and apathy do not a healthy combination make. (Am I right?) I think we should organize. You know, get a movement going. Lazy strippers no mas. Not on my watch.

Someone has been suffering through a cold all week
(and subsequently, lots of little pants) as they’ve been
coughing and sneezing every sixty seconds.
Obviously, said cold has gone to my brain as I’m
talking about myself in the third person.
And to think… I wouldn’t speak to
anyone who did such a thing! Hell, I can’t even stand it
when people use the “z” arbitrarily. (See [non] words
such as: cuZ, becauZe and pleaZe.
[Ew. I HATE these people.])
So, yeah… I’m pretty difficult to be in any type of
relationship with… I mean what with the constant
pant-wetting and my high expectations for spelling,
grammar and all things having to do with the English
language.

Between sleeping and contemplating various strategies
for unassumingly procuring ‘Depends’ from the local
Rite-Aid, I’ve had some time to catch up on my Tivo.
I say “Tivo” like I can actually afford the real thing…
(Settled for “DVR” through the cable company.)
This is a drag because I love the “boop bip” sound
of the Tivo remote. It’s the best sound ever.
In fact, I love it so much that I recorded my favorite
sound [boop bip] on a hand held voice recorder.
(And I trigger it every time I use my [boring] cable remote.)

All of this Tivo-ing has led me to two realizations.
First, I have terrific hand-eye coordination.
Second, if I had my way, I’d be big and black.
Not like bouncer big or Biggie (Smalls) big, but like
big enough (and woman enough) to sing.
I mean, why is it that all (bigger) black women can sing?
Remember Nell Carter?
(I immediately get a visual of her vacuuming a
fish tank upon the mere mention of her name.)
[Cue Song] “…Gimme a break…Gimme a break…”

And let’s not overlook the obvious, people.
American Idol this season?
Exactly.
Yeah, sure… there’s a chance that the Indian kid with the
moustache could go all the way (um…and something tells
me it might just be his first time), but the only two
people who can actually sing are the two black women—
both of whom could stand a little stomach virus if you
know what I mean.

Initially, I loved Melinda’s innocence (even though she
doesn’t have a neck). She reminded me of a young
(angelic) me. But Lakisha’s, “I’m a single mom” routine
started to win me over… So, now I’m torn (and while I still
have faith, I am on my bathroom floor).

Melinda or Lakisha?
(Tom-ay-to or Tom-aaah-to?)
I’d say let’s take a poll, but I guess that’s happening already.

I definitely have commitment issues…
I can’t even decide if I prefer spelling gre/ay with an “e” or an “a!”
GrEy or GrAy?
And all of this vowel-choosing is such a time waster and exhausting.
(I could be watching TV instead.)

I mean… 24 just might be the worst show on television.
(And believe you me— next to “Doogie Howser, MD has
just been canceled” that is truly one of the most painful sentences
I have ever written.)

I’ve been a faithful Jack Bauer enthusiast for nearly five seasons
now (which in 24 jargon= 5 days), but just can’t seem to wrap my
stiletto around the latest one.

It just makes no sense and takes the term “jumping the shark” to a
whole new plateau.
Hhhmm… “*Plateau.” Not to pop my own corn, but how smart do I sound?
(*Source=Pat Sajak [and the Wheel of Fortune staff])

In any case, I’m just not buying what they are selling.
(They= Fox.)
Like for example, those Crest Whitening Strips which they advertise
during every commercial break… I’m telling you– they don’t work.
(Although between all of the coffee drinking and cigarette smoking,
who really has the time to wear them?)

Back to Jack.

Grey “Graham” Bauer (that monster!) is REALLY Jack’s brother?
Horseshit.
That’s what I call “grasping at straws,” people.
And who decided to cast the creepy old guy from Six Feet Under
as his father?
(Answer: A retarded casting agent.)

Even Chloe sucks this season. She’s not funny and I could care less
about her, Morris and Borris.
Oh, how I miss Edgar and his lisp.
And David Palmer.
(David who [in between All-State commercials] is probably rolling
over in his grave because his brother Wayne is the most uncompelling,
ball-less President in [24-season] history.)

And color me bad[d], but I miss Jack’s murse. (Murse=man bag.)
I know he just got off the boat from China and all, but you think
CTU would give him some supplies AND A FUCKING STEAK DINNER!
Selfish bastards.
Martha Logan for President.
(That’s all I’m saying.)

And what’s up with the L Word?
(And why do I CONTINUE TO TUNE IN?)
I mean… really with the deaf girl?
Not to sound racist or whatever, but people, please…
Bette would NEVER (ever) date that woman.
(Ever.)
Plus, I’m supposed to believe that after studying a website
for like 25 minutes that she’s suddenly fluent in sign language?
Um… OK. Sure.

Not too mention, for a show focused so much on sex,
it does beg the following question:
Who would want to fuck a girl who when she attempted
to talk dirty to you (not to be confused with “ridin’ dirty”)
ends up sounding like Blair’s cousin, Jerry?

And who was the genius who came up with the not-so-festive story
line for Alice?
(Seriously. Who was it? Because I’d like to punch them in the face.)
AN ARMY GIRLFRIEND?
Come on!
I do so beg your pardon!
Alice Pieszecki would NEVER date someone in the army.
The mere idea is simply preposterous.
And soldiergirl has the personality of a wet rag.
THE WAR FLASHBACKS?
Ugh.
The fucking horror of it all.

And then we have Veronica Mars.
A long time ago, we used to be friends…
(A long time ago as in last season.)

I’m not even sure what to say about this one
(it’s just so damn heartbreaking), so maybe the
following analogies best sum it up:

Remember when Laverne & Shirley moved from Milwaukee to
Los Angeles? Or when the Facts of Life girls opened up that shop
with Mrs. Garrett?
Well, this is sort of like that.
The show just isn’t the same anymore.
(And Hearst College is only 5 minutes away from dear old dad! Yikes!)

I watched the first few episodes and then decided it best that I give
up my little detective for lent.

Now, I’m left with The Hills.
Not that I’m complaining.
Although, that Heidi could really use a good talking to.
WHAT IS SHE DOING WITH THAT SPENCER CHARACTER?
WHAT A DOUCHE!

That’s it.
I’m heading over Club Area to find her.
(She needs me.)

Right on the heels of our President’s speech last week,
the words, “I’m going to Iraq” came out of my mouth.
I declared them.
It was a declaration.

And six Starbursts and a pair of prescription eyeglasses
later (about an hour), I still thought this was a smart
idea for several reasons.

First, I can cancel my gym membership (and that
consultation with Dr. 90210). Nothin’ like a little boot
camp to whip the body in shape.
(We’ve all seen G.I. Jane.)

Second, I’m not sure how I’ll look with a buzz cut
(probably like G.I. Jane’s stepsister [once removed]),
but just think of all the money I’ll save not having to purchase
V05 hot oil treatments, root colorer, banana clips, scrunchies
(and other hair accoutrements).
Not too mention, I can finally let go of all the inner turmoil I’ve
been struggling with over that potential [Ogilvie] home perm.
Even the Magic 8 Ball couldn’t make a decision! When I consulted
about my possible new ‘do,’ the response was “Better not tell you now.”
Um. Really? (How torturous.)

Third, not to butter my own muffin, but I look amazing in camouflage.
No seriously, I do! Whenever I wear it (which isn’t all too often),
people stop and say, “You look amazing in those camouflage
shorts [or that camouflage onesie].” Again, this isn’t recurring as
I like to ration my camo-wearing. It’s obviously just too distracting
for all the passers-by and I’m a stickler for the “Golden Rule…”
You know, doing others or whatever.

Fourth, think of all the weight I’ll lose! I’m not sure what they
serve in Iraq, but I would bet my bottom dollar that they don’t have
a Baja Fresh or Hebrew National hot dogs.
(Lambs in a blanket? Oh, the horror.)

Fifth, maybe I can sublet my apartment.
Maybe there’s some sort of Iraqi exchange program??
We can totally swap places!
The army doesn’t expect me to sleep in a tent, do they?
I’m more of a cave girl. Plus, the caves have cable from what I hear.
WAIT.
You think they have nail salons in Iraq?
(Maybe the Magic 8 Ball knows.)
Stand by.
[I’m asking.]
ANSWER: CANNOT PREDICT NOW.
Note to self: Pack several packages of Lee Press-On Nails.

Well… look what the cat dragged in.
And when I say cat, I mean the UPS man.
(Just LOOK AT MY JELL-O RING! [It’s exquisite, isn’t it?])
Apparently my letter to the Tupperware people “took.”
That being said, if anyone has an issue that needs sorting,
LOOK NO FURTHER PEOPLE.–I’m your stripper.
It’s (clearly) safe to say I’m pret-ty damn powerful.
Need to send a letter to that bastard landlord?
Did your local dry cleaner lose your favorite Juicy sweatsuit?
Being stalked by an ex?
LOOK NO FURTHER PEOPLE.
(Don’t make me say it again.)
I can deliver results.
Which is better than say… delivering pizza. (For obvious reasons.)

In any case, I was expecting the “Jell-o Ring” to arrive before
Thanksgiving (which much to my dismay, it obviously didn’t) and
now I’m worried that I won’t be receiving it before Christmas either!
Ho ho ho? Um… no. That’s right, [Tupperware] people… I still HAVEN’T
received the “Jell-o Ring” and have contacted your company via phone
several times. Well, once. But in my defense, I’ve emailed a bunch
and it’s like you’re just ignoring me.

To be frank, I have never witnessed such horrible customer service!
Well, except for that time the Denny’s in Glouster ran out of bacon.
Damn sausage pushers.

I’d like to move on from this entire debacle. This missing “Jell-o Ring” is
destroying my life; it’s interrupting my sleep
(read: causing nightmares), my work (my boss, Gill Rosby,
keeps doing Bill Cosby “Jell-o PUDDING” impersonations [Jackass])
and my television watching (I can’t concentrate and even cute
little Tootie and her roller skates can seem to get me out
of this Jell-o-less funk).

Quite simply, I CANNOT FUNCTION.

Please send me tracking details for the package.
Maybe I can speak with your postperson directly?
Or better yet, just refund my sister’s credit card
for the full amount plus a little something extra
for all of my pain and suffering. I believe Dr. Seaver
referred to it as “duress” on an episode of Growing Pains.

Thanks a lot.
And please get back to me.
(You can’t ignore me forever!)

Jell-o no mas,
Treena

In any case, Jesus Cock is a spinning instructor at Crunch.
Crunch. Which boasts the mantra, “No Judgements.”
Fortunately, I didn’t sign any sort of paperwork or contract that
would pigeonhole me into this way of thinking.

Right.
Riding on…

Mr. Spinner’s given name isn’t “The Cock” or “Jesus Cock.”
I mean, can you imagine that birth certificate?
Oh, the horror! Or not.
Again– all contingent on your crowd, because in the porn star clique,
Jesus Cock would be a very fetching name.

And fetching it is.
The instructor was christened with said nickname for several
reasons: 1.) He’s very spiritual and motivating and for the most part,
reminiscent of Jesus. Not that I know Jesus.
Or knew Jesus. But if Jesus were alive today, something tells
me that he and The Cock would be besties. I just know it…

Although, lately The Cock’s taken to playing Whitney Houston
in class. And I’m not so sure Jesus would condone such behavior–
Even after all of the praise, dedications, declarations and
pleas of desperation. More specifically, Whit’s rendition
of the song “Jesus Loves Me” [as heard in the hit film,
The Bodyguard]. That Jesus is no dummy.
I think. (Remember, I don’t know him).
But I would bet my lifesavers he sees the
proverbial forest through the trees and is
smart enough to realize he ain’t her greatest love of all…
There just isn’t enough room what with Bobby and all of that crack.

Right… But you’re still wondering, “What does Jesus have to do with
The Cock? And what happened to reason number 2?”

Right… I just realized I neglected number 2.
And am totally abusing the word “right.”
Right.
Did I mention I woke up early and went spinning?
Rome wasn’t built in a day people.
Give me a little breathing space… some room to maneuver.
What a fun word maneuver. Equally as fun to say as it is to type.
Although, it kind of sounds like manure, but not really.

Meanwhile, back on The Cock….

In class, we’re instructed to ride standing up (”out of the saddle”) or
ride sitting down (”in the saddle”). Often times, instead of speaking
with the microphone provided, The Cock will use his hands
(very dramatically, I may add) in an up and down motion,
thus signaling the entire group to either rise or be seated.
Again, reminiscent of something Jesus might do.
Although when push comes to shove, I can’t say I know too much
about the man aside from the fact that he was in desperate need of
a haircut. So when people ask, “What would Jesus do?”
Now you know the answer– quite simply? Get a haircut.

The Cock is a fan of short gym shorts. Not those tight cycling
shorts which if you ask me, are the Speedo’s of the bike riding
community, but the looser fitting (really short) shorts.
Who wears short shorts? The Cock does. (Not Nair.)
And it is with the above sentenceS that I declare this portion
of the game over. C’mon people. Use your imagination.
Do the math.
Spiritual “Mother Earth” mantras + short shorts= Jesus Cock.

Anyhow, I found myself taking a stroll down memory lane.
Although, the lane was really more of a cul-de-sac. And I
only know this because I caught myself doing doughnuts
around it. But it got me to thinking about the days
of yesteryear… of the days come and gone.
More specifically, my time spent at summer camp
many moons ago.

I ask you this… Who was the braniac was who thought
archery would be an investment in a child’s future?
Let’s ask ourselves what one could possibly do with a
bow and arrow in this day and age? I mean, had I known ‘Lost’
was going to cast a crazy french woman who shoots poisonous arrows
at random, I would have brushed up on my skills and
auditioned to be her stunt double. “I have a career as an archer,”
I would boast. Obviously, that opportunity came and went and the most
devastating part is that I was none the wiser. No one called and said,
“Hey…I feel like you might look great with a bow and arrow!”
Note to self: Send submission tape to ABC casting.

Then, of course, there’s the art of candle-making.
We (we=me and my fellow campers) spent nearly 60 minutes
a day dipping long strands of yarn into basins of hot colored wax.
I know– it sounds very sexy. But it wasn’t. Really. Candle wax,
not so sexy when you’re 8. And now what? I’m supposed to make
candle-making my ‘hobby’? I’m sure that’d read brilliantly on my
Match.com profile. I mean who wouldn’t want to date me?
Note to self: Set up profile on Match.com.

And who can forget the lanyards? I made many a pot holder for
my mother who wasn’t even sweet enough to pretend to use them
since they weren’t a product of Crate & Barrel. “Oh, this is…um…
such a lovely sock, sweetheart. Oh I’m sorry, what? It’s a potholder?
Oh, of course it is.”

What the fuck is a laynard anyway? And what on earth could this
possibly do for me now aside from being an additional entry under the
“special skills” section on my resume? I could make everyone pot
holders and gift them this season, if I had a job and could afford the fabric.
Note to self: Get employment.

Maybe “Color Me Mine” will hire me. I might not be the best pottery
color-er candidate this side of the DesPlaines River, but I could expand
their superstores to include sock-making.

*In Scientology doctrine, Xenu was an alien galactic ruler. (Right. Sure he was.)

Photo of my summer camp group, although I am not pictured. I must have been out on a beer run.

So, I looked to my right and then to my left (to see if anyone was looking at me [looking at Eva]) and then I thumbed (albeit manically) through the “LIVE IT UP!” issue to find this juicy piece of journalism.

[AND SCENE]

OK.
(I hope you’ve read. Or at least skimmed.)
Clearly, this Erin Flaherty person has never [ever] had sex.
Need I point out words like “boo?” Or “yummy?” (Strategically placed next to the word naughty? Really?)
What’s kinky (or raunchy) about the $18 bra pictured above or the sleep mask which doubles as a [GASP!] fuck mask? (ERIN, YOU SO CRAZY GIRL!)

I feel like I feel because I just feel stuff so deeply.
(Do you feel me?)
I mean, I’ve never felt like this before.
You know… like a phony.
Phonies don’t have feelings.
Or do they?
I don’t know.
I’m not a real phony.
Just a phony phony.
And one may think that a phony phony would cancel itself out and thus bring me back to me, but no.

So here I sit.
Alone.
(With Elizabeth.)
In the dark.
(We are clothed. You filthy animal[s].)
Listening to Mark Eitzel’s “Candy Ass” and re-evaluating my year end CD.

And I have to tell you–
I fucked up.
For real.
(It’s a rarity when this type of thing happens and I assure you it hasn’t happened since I bet that Shirley Smythe that I couldn’t bite a chip. [When they said, “Betcha bite a chip, they weren’t kidding.” Those fucking Chips Ahoy Bastards.])
I’m telling you– this record is so brilliant.
And I just didn’t want to give it a listen.
I refused.
Instead, I judged the book (err… CD in this case) by it’s proverbial cover and thought American Music Club Mark Eitzel?
No, not so much.
No gracias.

So here I sit shaking my head in disbelief… so disappointed in me.
So disappointed that Mr. Eitzel (um… that’s Mr. American Music Club to you) wasn’t included in this year’s collection.
I so suck.
If I could take it all back and do it again, believe you me– he’d be included.
And I’d be a whole lot happier. (Which is important.)

(Oh and for the record, we are still clothed.)

“Candy Ass” is absolute perfection.
There are times when it sounds like Boards of Canada and times when it sounds like The Afghan Whigs and times when it sounds like Bjork… and times when it just fucking sounds cool.
Not to mention Mr. AMC actually says, “I’m playing Mariah Carey so there’s butterflies and rainbows in the air.” That’s right. Not only has she been nominated for 8 Grammy’s this year alone, but Mimi’s also referenced in the opening track…
So much for emancipation.
America.
God love it.

So, what have we learned here today?
Well, we’ve learned that I’m fully dressed, kind of sad about not including Mark Eitzel in my holiday collection and that I no longer eat Chips Ahoy cookies.

Most importantly, we’ve also learned that it isn’t wise to judge a book (or CD) by it’s cover. Unless of course, it’s an ugly book. Lord knows, we don’t need any more of those lyin’ around. (And that’s the most valuable lesson of all.)

(I won’t get into how I’ve walked out of your last two shows, as I would hate to seem mean.)

What happened to you?
I can only assume that maybe you’re too content with your life and just have nothing left to contribute to your music?
Your last 5 (OK–6) records are void of any passion whatsoever.

With that said, I just need to ask…
Why are you so content with mediocrity?
Whatever happened to striving for excellence?

Perhaps if you didn’t release records every 4 minutes, you would have a more substantial product? I don’t know…it’s just a thought.
(I mean… What about giving us a reprieve?)

Please understand that I have been a fan since 1992 when I first heard the genius of “Imperfectly.” I’m merely trying to get to the root of the problem–(cough) your problem.

And I don’t know who told you that horns were cool–
But just so you know, horns are not the new black.

I would greatly appreciate it if you would be kind enough to please reimburse me for the $15.98 I spent on “Repreive” (Don’t worry, I’ll cover the tax).

Have you seen this month’s issue of Blender magazine?
More specifically, the cover?
(And I quote) “Oh My God! It’s Laguna Beach’s Kristin Cavallari.”
Um…right. Who gives a shit? (Rhetorical.)
[Me to the news stand attendant: “I’ll take two. Please? Pretty please?”]

Seriously?
I think this “reality TV” thing has just gone too far.
Too.
Damn.
Far.
People.

Don’t get me wrong, “Laguna Beach” was one of my guilty pleasures (it was up there with my closeted love for r&b [don’t be hatin, hater’]), but we need to remember that nothing EVER happened on that show. It took the word “ridiculous” to a whole new level.
And what? Now Kristin’s famous? It’s that easy? Really? So, essentially all you need to do is play an absolute bitch on television and say, “Jessica!” three thousand times over and just like that- you’ll get a publicist?

It’s embarrassing already.
You really think there’s paparazzi following Kristin around?
LOOK! It’s KRISTIN! FROM LAGUNA BEACH! AND SHE’S WITH STEPHEN!
Please.

This travesty has led me to one conclusion:
I must get my photo on the cover of Blender Magazine.

And after giving it some thought, I’ve decided that I’m going to accomplish this feat via the game show circuit.
I mean, I do after all live in Los Angeles… The land of swimmin’ pools and (reality) TV stars.
Clearly, dreams really can come true!
(Just ask Kristin [Cavallari].)

Think about it…
First, I’ll just get myself on that $25,000 Pryamid game. (Although, I’m not so sure it’s the $25,000 Pyramid anymore. It may have gone up in value… You know, what with the times and all.)
I believe myself to be a perfect candidate. (You want proof? Read on.) [Ahem] For example, if the category was Showtime and the clues were: tennis player, lesbian and dead– I’d scream out “Dayna Fairbanks!” And if the next clue was: suburban, drugs and drive by’s–I’d yell “Weeds! or “Agrestic!” or “Mary-Louise Parker!”
You see? I’m a shoe in for this game.

From there, I could do the Price Is Right.
After all, it’s really close to my place… So close, in fact that I’d totally “come on down.” I mean for Christsakes, I could practically walk. (Although no one walks here and I would hate to arrive to set sweaty, as that walk through the audience and down the aisle is long enough.) Going on the PIR is a commitment though, because I’d have to wear sorority letters or some sort of themed sweatshirt that said something along the lines of “I kissed Bob Barker [on the mouth] and all I got was this lousy sweatshirt” sweatshirt. And despite popular opinion, I’m not so into the themed sweatshirt. No, not so much…
Knowing my propensity for good luck (I was shit on twice last week by two different birds), I’d guess the correct price for the Hoover Steam Clean Vacuum (complete with detachable hoses!) and end up getting an opportunity to spin the coveted wheel. Although honestly, I don’t think I’m strong enough to spin the wheel. (It looks so damn heavy. ) I’d end up winning anyway (again, two birds, people… two) by default because the other poor bastards competing against me would go over $1 thus propelling me into the showcase showdown… But that’s precisely when disaster would strike as I have no idea how much a camper / RV thingie and a home jacuzzi costs and I’d totally overbid (or underbid).

Too many nerds on Jeopardy. Not too mention, I don’t think I could take Alex Trebec’s pronunciations seriously. I’d be the asshole saying, “What?” or “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you” because I’d want him to repeat the question (answer, technically). Plus, there’s the whole clicker issue. I’d press the fuck out of that damn thing (because I could and he’s not the boss of me) and then respond with, “Just checkin’ to see if it works, Alex” or “Is this thing on?” (And then I’d then proceed to tap it with my fingers and speak into it like a microphone. “Testing. testing 1, 2, 3… “)

Wheel of Fortune is out because who wants to run the risk of bending over and breaking a nail while trying to spin that fucking monstrosity? (What is it with these shows and their wheels?)

I have always loved Super Market Sweep–but again with the themed sweatshirts? Come on already. I can’t do it. More to the point, I won’t do it. I’m just not that flexible (you should see me in a yoga class–it ain’t a pretty picture). I can however, tell you one thing– if I were to (hypothetically) be on “The Sweep” I sure as hell wouldn’t waste my time grinding those coffee beans. Those people are fools! It’s all about the meat(s). And expensive cheeses. Plus, I’d be so winded from all of that running around the store (smoking and) pushing those cumbersome carts what with all of those turkey’s and ham’s in there…

Who Wants To Be A Millionare (um… I do?) is out because if that ex-View host woman asked me if that was my final answer I’d probably say something facetious like, “Well, what did I just say, Meredith?” And then I’d probably inquire as to how she got her hair to be so silky sheen (hot oil, maybe?). But I would definitely want to phone a friend because I haven’t spoken to Kissy in ages. She lives in Italy now and I don’t have an international calling plan. “Hi Kissy? This is Meredith from Who Wants-”[Nicole interrupts said game show hostess with the mostess and by mostess I mean because of the really nice silky sheen hair] “Kiss? It’s me. How are you? Yeah… I miss you, too. Tell me everything and don’t leave anything out. Wait. You have 25 seconds.

Bummer about the host of “Press Your Luck.”
I think I would have been the best “no whammies” say-er ever in the history of whammy say-ers. (I’ve been practicing. Scratch that. I was practicing [up until last week]) I bet they even would have rewarded me a plaque acknowledging my “whammy greatness,” which I could have hung up next to my ‘Ten Thousandth Customer at Taco Bell!’ plaque from 1987. (I’m very, very passionate. And now, no one will ever know…well, there’s a few girls who can attest to that, but we shouldn’t really drag them into this.)

And finally, there’s Family Feud (”The Feud”)… Which just might be the best of all the game shows based on the brilliant various ways in which they pose the respective families at the magnificent opening of the show. I do love me a good serious pose. (Photos available upon request.)
No lie, I’d love to be on The Feud for this purpose and this purpose alone. I mean… Fuck the game. I want to play “30 second television freeze tag.” And who wants to do all of that hand shaking and kissing? The truth of the matter is, me on this show would be an absolute disaster. I’m way too much of a control freak and would dismiss any and all team input. I’d declare myself the leader (in the same vain I would call “shotgun” as a kid) and deem the rest of my family useless. Survey says I’m in charge. End of story.

But then I had a sign from our lord, Jesus Christ. (Swear to God.)

There I was…driving on Fairfax about to head East on Melrose (there are some totally killer leather stores there) when I saw it.

Divine intervention.

HELP FIND MARLEY.
MISSING CAT.
$2000 REWARD.

Did someone say REWARD?
The flyer featured a photo of little Marley and to be honest, he wasn’t the most photogenic feline I’ve ever seen, but that could have just been the lazy eye.
So what that the poor thing has been missing since January? I don’t take no for an answer (unless it’s really late and I’m too tired to argue).

As turned the corner, I was confronted by a life size billboard of Veronica Mars. (She’s a detective, too.) Taking this as yet another [cough] sign, I decided I WOULD FIND MARLEY and return him to his rightful (although obviously irresponsible) owner.

After a quick stop at Larry’s Leather Loft, I set out on my mission (God’s mission) to find my furry [soon-to-be] friend. I drove up and down the neighboring streets, but didn’t see anything– probably because it was dark outside and I still haven’t got around to fixing that damn left headlight. (I rather enjoy weaving the word, ‘pedittle’ into daily conversation, so no rush on that.) Not too mention, Marley is black. Which if nothing else, proves I’m not a racist.

After about 6 minutes (I know this not because I’m a detective, but because I listened to “Still of the Night” by Whitesnake in its entirety), I threw in the proverbial towel– kinda like earlier that day, when Big Mike wanted to have a second thumb war… And not for nothin’, but I’ve never combed an area for an animal before, let alone a black animal at sundown. Even the black cats can’t see each other under such conditions! I decided to retreat (it’s detective jargon people) and head back to Melrose to do a little [more] shopping (I put this great little vinyl number on hold!). May as well start spending that reward money… I would look for Money–I mean Marley in the morning.

You can imagine the devastation when the news of Moe’s Meat Market’s demise was announced at the neighborhood temple, although rumors of an exhibition (appropriately entitled ‘the other white meat’) at the Blitzstein Museum lessened the blow.

Whether you’re the breaker-upper or the breakee, it just never feels good.
But breaking up with a girl (or woman depending on the time frame [there were a few in college]) is always worse than breaking up with a man (there were a few… strangely enough, also in college).
The reason, of course, is that women never take no for answer. “Why?” they drone. “Was it me?”

Trust me when I say I’ve had some doozies.
But nothing was as bad or made me feel as dirty as my last break up.

With Jann.
My therapist.

From the start, I knew it wouldn’t last, but something inside of me wanted to make it work. A love affair it was not. Most of the time I thought she looked bored with what I was saying and I did catch her a few times doing that closed-mouth yawn thing. I thought about saying something, but I was worried about being confrontational (a quality on my mental to-do list in therapy, we just hadn’t gotten there yet…).
I even thought about making up stuff, you know, just to keep it interesting (read her interested), but I was too late for that. It was obvious that she had already begun judging me on my real life (which apparently bored her). I disliked Jann [for that]. More specifically, I disliked [paying] her [for that].

I really didn’t know much about Dr. Jann. I did know that she had two “n’s” at the end her name, which I thought to be a bit odd. I did bring this to her attention during one of our sessions. I inquired as to why she thought she needed that second n and explained that I believed it was not only excessive, but quite simply a waste of a letter. I refused to acknowledge it. It was just so damn flashy, that second n. But, after all, Jan was located in the heart of the 90210. Just a stones throw away from Prada and three stones from Gucci. Despite her designer zip code, Jan usually appeared outfitted (complete from head to toe) in some sort of Ann Taylor number. Seriously. There were lots of pastel turtlenecks. And lots of scarves.

Now, as a general rule, people [usually] don’t know much about their therapists. It’s not like you walk into the room and ask how they are doing…
“Gee, Dr. Jan… how are you getting on with that athlete’s foot? Is the husband treating you alright?” “Wait…are you married?”
I mean, sure…there’s the formidable small talk… but that usually consists only of the routine “how are you’s?” And the answer, of course–always the same, “I’m good. How are you?” Which then, is my cue to begin spilling my guts (or not, hence my decision to leave therapy).

Needless to say, after six months of uncomfortable silence(s) and countless, “I can’t tell you that; it’s personal” and “I don’t really feel like talking about that” and “No, really–I’m fine,” I decided it was time to kick Dr. Jan and her pink pashminas to the curb.

So there I sat writing Dr. Jan her last and final check when I noticed that I was scribbling with her pen! Well, it wasn’t her pen per se– OK, it was technically hers, but it’s not like I stole it or anything. She gave me a personalized “Dr. Jan(n)” pen as a parting gift after our first session.
I had put the pen in a drawer and forgotten about it because it was a black pen and well… I’m a pen racist AND I’M NOT AFRAID TO ADMIT IT (therapy). In any case, I was signing my name on the check when the damn thing ran out of ink. I began to shake it (kinda like how I shook little Jimmy last Thursday when I was baby sitting) and that’s when I noticed her website address engraved on the pen in question: www.doctorjann.com

I typed the link with trepidation and was horrified as her home page came up. There right in front of me was a “Glamour shot” of my therapist. She had more make-up on than the boys at the MAC counter…. her stiletto-laden feet draped over the side of a prop chair.
I scratched my head in disbelief. Oh. The horror. I mean, you think you know somebody!

And then I saw it–
The “video” section of the site.
What?
(Again I scratched my head. [No, that little itch wasn’t telling anything other than that I was really confused. And I felt dirty. And that I needed to be held.])
I pointed.
And I clicked.
And then I saw it.
The EIGHT MINUTE DEMO REEL.
WHAT?
What kind of therapist has a demo reel?
(Answer: A therapist in the 90210.)
Fucking insanity.
Still feeling dirty, I reached for a wet nap.

After my sponge bath, I sat back down at the computer with a bag of microwave movie theater butter popcorn (I tend to[over] eat in times of stress, a flaw which Jan had happily pointed out just weeks before).

AND SCENE.

I have no words to describe what I saw.
Jan had been on every single reality show ever produced!
I must have been living under the rock of Gibraltar!
(In my defense, with the exception of Project Runway, I’ve never been a fan of reality television.)
She was on morning talk shows, news shows and even on Soap Talk!
SOAP TALK???!!!!
Ew.
Can you imagine?
Did she have no morals?
No boundaries?
SOAP TALK!
Oh, the disgust.

I was horrified (out of wet naps) and in desperate need of therapy.

But seriously?
What possesses someone to intentionally choose to sit through hours of stand-up comedy, let alone the ridiculous wait to get in. (And don’t even get me started on the velvet ropes outside the door. Please. You’re not fooling anyone Laugh Factory. Not a soul.) It’s not like going to see the doctor when you’re actually forced to wait in that room with all of the germ-infested magazines cicra 2002. Or like when you’re stuck at stop light trying to make a left hand turn you’re forced to suffer through 3 light changes. (Note to self for next blog idea: Petition for left hand turn arrows at EVERY light in Los Angeles.)

Apparently people come from all over to wait in line for what would seem to me like an eternity just to laugh? Why not just get a new group of friends? There are plenty of funny people out there. And they probably won’t charge you a $20 cover. I know–Why not just throw in an Arrested Development DVD? Or that Kevin Costner picture where he thinks he’s a wolf? (That’s just good, clean fun.)

And why do all of the woman standing in line look like whores? The short skirts? The cheese-y Payless heels (they could’ve paid more–and they should have). It’s like a scene out a soft-porn movie. And no one likes soft-porn–it’s just a means to an end. It’s like settling. And why settle for soft-porn when you can have the real thing?

I think I’d really like to study “these” people. “These” waiter-in-liners. (Please imagine air quotes there.) To say I’m intrigued by them would be doing both them (and me) a disservice. And please know that when I say intrigued, I don’t mean intrigued in a good way. More like fascinated, really. But more along the lines of how you’d be fascinated when you drive by the scene of an accident. (Unless it’s one I’m err…involved in. Nothin’ to see there, folks.)

Honestly, the only place where I would ever even consider waiting is for a table at Canters (or any other deli hot spot). I mean, what kind of person wouldn’t wait patiently for a corned beef sandwich (on a kaiser roll) and a bowl of matzoh ball soup? Not to mention, Jewish deli’s have the best condiments around. If one of those line-standers at the hack club had to choose a condiment, they’d probably choose bbq sauce. Whereas, I would without a doubt pick the spicy mustard–and not that regular French’s crap they serve at baseball fields across America. The moral of the story is that I firmly believe most of the funny people can be found at Jewish deli’s. And that’s– one to grow on.

“…2 turtle doves and a stra–and of Indian hair.”
(Apparently, Christmas has come early this year.)

These days, it seems like everyone is making a bracelet!
Last week, I was driving home from work (well, I was work-ing…anyway…) and I saw a seven year old on the corner with a bracelet kiosk. Shouldn’t little Sarah be selling lemonade?

Seriously… it’s pandemonium out there.
These fucking things come in every color imaginable.
It’s become like the gay pride parade of the bracelet world.
Think about it.
Anyone can march in the parade…
There are so many groups and groups of groups and sub groups of said group(s)…
I mean, there’s a category for just about everything and anything! Why this year in West Hollywood, there was a group for men with one leg, 4 fingers who were bald (or balding).

And has anyone noticed how the bracelets have gone up in price?
They used to be like $1.00 or something. Now, my chiropractor is selling winter white “Joy & Harmony” bands at $5 a pop. (Hhmmm…I wonder if I buy one if I’ll be joyous and harmonious?)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for giving to charity. But why not just make a fucking donation?
No need to walk out with a parting gift.

Contrary to popular belief, these bracelets (in any color [yellow and winter white included]) just aren’t cool.
So so not cool.
And not very hygienic, either.

I don’t know…
Just a thought, but shouldn’t Lance Armstrong’s campaign been called: “Live Hard (or try to?).”
I mean, I’m no marketing genius and have never claimed to be, but…

Come to think of it– you know what Mr. Armstrong should have done?
Made cock rings.
Wouldn’t that have made more sense?
Boom.
Now, that’s marketing.
(Resume available on request.)

And to make matters worse, now he’s advertising–as if dating Sheryl Crow weren’t enough… I’ve seen “Live Strong” ads on buses and billboards. And I’m not sure if I was having a nightmare or not, but I thought I saw a TV commercial. But, I also thought I saw my P.E. teacher from Junior High, although you can never be to sure. You see one woman with a whistle around her neck, you’ve seen them all.

Moving on…
Moral of the story, if you’ve worn, are wearing or plan to wear a colored rubber bracelet, I won’t date you.
Actually, it’s highly likely that I won’t even hang out with you on a platonic level.
Your choice.

(I’m just saying.)

So…I’ve decided to enter the witness protection program.

That being said, I’ve reached out to the big men in blue (LAPD) with my formal request (formal=typed), but still haven’t heard back.
I do know a thing or two about patience (as it takes more than 30 minutes for a small cake to cook thoroughly with a 40 watt light bulb in an Easy Bake Oven), but I sent my letter ages ago!
I’ve also been calling their headquarters, but they never seem to answer their phone.
(I wonder if they have caller ID?)
I just don’t understand. To serve and protect? Maybe protect, but clearly their “service” sucks. I mean, why do I have to testify against Joey Bagodonuts to go somewhere in the sticks where no one knows my name. (Did the Cheers theme song just pop into your head? [Because it just popped into mine].)

The long and the short of it is that I’ve been an upstanding citizen for nearly 30 years now (although, I’m not counting the years 1992-1995) and I just want a chance at a fresh, new start….A clean slate, if you will. Somewhere in Arkansas. Or Iowa. (Not Indiana.)

Why can’t I start over? Come on– I should be able to. I pay my taxes.

(I still so have that theme song in my head, by the way…)

In any case, please let me reiterate that I shouldn’t be penalized for being a Jew in (sunny) Southern California. It’s not my fault I have no mafia connections. (Uh…that would be my mother’s!)

Does anyone have any suggestions? Or have a guy who can help me? I mean, the closest I’ve ever gotten to the ‘Italians’ is through the Prego pasta sauce. You know… because “it’s in there” and while cooking it (and by cooking I mean heating) you really do feel like you’re part of something rather special….something ‘really’ Italian.
It is Prego, after all. And it IS in there.

Seriously, I’m like the Pied Piper of (O)Possums.
And clearly, the word is getting out! Last night, as a gift, someone actually gave me a recorder! A recorder!
Can you imagine? Not even a flute! But, a R-E-C-O-R-D-E-R. (But you already know this.)
What does it all mean?
I consider myself to be as sharp as a Ginsu, but am I missing something?
Or are you still just mad I ate that cracker back in ‘91? [Again] I’m sorry. How was I to know? I’m a Jew! And I was hungry… it was well after midnight!

Back to the rodents…
What’s up with the “o’ in front of possum? Huh? “(O)pposum?” Did you mean for it to be, “Oh, possum” and it was misinterpreted? Or are you just really into interjections (I mean as far as parts of speech are concerned)? I don’t enjoy saying “(o)possum.” Quite frankly, I don’t think anyone does. It doesn’t flow. And it’s not that I’m lazy with the o’s– I love to say “cheeri-o.” And I’ll say it again, “cheeri-o.”

I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but I don’t understand their purpose. What do they do? They aren’t cuddly, that’s for damn sure. I mean God (that’s you!) bless the food chain and all, but this is ludicrous. I just can’t seem to wrap my head around all of it– I mean take for example, snakes… Why? Who thought that was a good idea? And mosquitoes? Come on already.

And since we’re being so honest–there are a few things I want to say:
First, please give me the skinny on those “Conversation With God” books. Were they real? (Seriously. You can tell me.) Did Neal Donald Walsch have a(n) (o)possum problem, too? Are you getting ready to start speaking through me????!!!? [OK. I’m settling down. Sorry. I got excited. It happens… but you already know this.]

Second, you know I never mean to use your name in vain. Like last Thursday night… for those few minutes, I’m real sorry, God. (Am I going to hell?)
What’s it really like down there anyway? It can’t be all that bad, right? I mean, I figure I’d be tan all year round, no? And roasting marshmallows would be very convenient. (I will make s’mores!) Not too mention, I think I’d be thin in hell. All that heat. It would be like living in one of those ’sweat-the-weight-off’ saunas. Where do I sign up?

Alright God, thanks.
I have my blue pen and paper all set and am ready to rumble whenever you are.

Speak soon.
Nicole

PS. What do you think of that XTC song written about you? Do you love it?