Anti-Affirmations

You May Now Begin Your Hero-Worship

2009-10-05T09:58:00.002-04:00

This Friday (October 9th) I will begin publishing a column for the Forces of Geek website (forcesofgeek.com) that will cover 4 decades of Pop Culture and my obsession with consumerism/memories of owning things that have little-to-no value in the real world.

I will also be stepping up my bitch-fest here on this site to accommodate my huge ego now that I am on the cusp of what can only be stardom.

Thanks for your undying devotion and come visit my incrediblt talent on Friday.

Joe Wilson is an Asshole: A Look at Contemporary Civility Today (complete with incivility)

2009-09-17T09:17:00.004-04:00

Civility: Courtesy; Politeness; a polite action or expression.

Asshole: (slang) A stupid, mean, contemptible person; the worst part of a place or thing

Even though I am unpleasant in nature and most people who know me would say that there is a lot to be desired by being my friend, I am, now and forever, a civil person.

Which is why when Rep. Joe Wilson from South Carolina yelled out “You Lie” from the Republican crowd during President Obama’s address to Congress, I was at first shocked by his display of assholeness, then slowly filled with a desire to beat him to death with the limbs I would tear off “Text Master” Eric Cantor’s body. (I said I was civil, not unviolent)

After a summer filled with the rampages of Ideologues who have never once taken it upon themselves to crack open a book, I was tired of listening to the right wing fringe freaks and was hopeful that once the cool air of fall began to hit their desiccated mummy skin, they would retreat back into their trailers and begin a long winter filled with reality television and bags of cheese doodles. This, of course, was not meant to be.

Spurred on by their belief that the taking care of another human being is Socialism (never mind the that most every program run by the government is, in essence, a form of Socialism) these blobs of ignorance and their gelatinous leaders have continued onward toward a total embrace of stupidity that has not only gotten the media’s attention but has also made it chic to be a butthole.

Case in point:

Rallied together by the talking heads of right wing media, tens of thousands of people spilled out onto the streets of Washington on September 12th to protest the reform of healthcare, Obama’s birth certificate, and the fact that Whitey has to listen to a Brother for once. And, of course to display the incredibly thoughtful and articulate signs of misspelled words and poorly Photoshopped pictures of Obama as Hitler, Che Guevara, and the devil. With the cries of “No Obamacare!” piercing the sky, they marched forward, a sea of Wal-mart shoppers gorging on their own fecund feeble-mindedness, achieving nothing of substance or enlightenment and finishing their march probably winded by the exercise and ready for some beer and light spousal abuse.

And what did the march accomplish?

Nothing more than allowing the media to air yet another round of unsubstantiated shinola and giving the right wingers another glorious moment in a sun that they believe rotates around a five thousand year old earth.

So what does this have to do with the collapse of civility in a country is increasingly uncivil you ask impatiently?

Well, for one, it indicates that we, as a civilization, are dissolving into some kind of primordial Neanderthalism that will eventually leave us naked and covered in offal, as well as an indication that we have no use for one another, nor that of anyone who is willing to make significant strides toward a more civil Star Trekian lifestyle. (I’m talking of course of a time in the future when people never have to worry about going bankrupt when they get a migraine and can order an Earl Gray Tea hot from a replicator).

Don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about the freedom to dissent or impugning the 1st amendment rights of our mentally impaired brother and sisters, what I am talking about is the inability of those people to engage in a civil discourse or to allow thought and the growth of oneself into the equation. The loud obnoxious hollering during town hall meetings, carrying guns to rallies, and yelling at the President of the United States during a speech in which he is trying to dispel the rumors that you, yourself have created are not Freedom of Speech, it is, simply, you being an asshole.

And now that incivility has jumped the political ship and has entered into the realm of award shows. This week at the VMAs Kanye West stormed the stage as Tyler Swift was accepting an award and declared that Beyonce should have won it. He later apologized for his actions but the problem remains, what gave him the right?
Apparently, Joe Wilson.

As incivility makes its way through the American landscape I fear more people will begin to take the same actions as Wilson and West and soon no one will be able to have a conversation without having to be ready to throw down.

In a sociology class of mine, my professor relayed a story that seemed to stoke my shriveled heart. Apparently during the seventies at the height of America’s disgust with Nixon, the president went down to the Jefferson Memorial, alone, and confronted a group of protesters who wanted Nixon dragged through the streets of Washington. The confrontation was not bloody, nor filled with the vitriol of today’s protestors; instead the people who thought Nixon was evil treated the man with reverence and respect, not because he was Nixon, but because he was The President of the United States. Did they come away with a newfound approval of him? No. They hated him as much as they ever did but that did not stop them from acknowledging his status as President and treating him with the respect that the position demands.

Standing up to Government and being able to question politicians openly is an American tradition and should remain as precious to us as breath and blood, but it disgraces that right when people act like mental patients and start to barter in rumor and lies rather than trying to discover fact.

As Wilson made his half-hearted apology and money poured into his re-election chest from fellow nimrods, it stands to reason that the America that the Republicans are creating is one filled with ignorance and incivility that will not stop until blood has been shed by those willing to remain unenlightened.

From tea baggers, to religious zealots, the New Republicans are becoming less a political force and more a burning ember of Fascism. I hope the leaders of the party take note and begin embracing the ideals that the party was founded on. If not, they may only be able to fondly remember the time when they were simply assholes.

If I Don't Get Some Healthcare Soon I Will Be Forced to Marry My Boyfriend for His

2009-07-29T10:26:00.004-04:00

Once again I awake with a slight twinging pain located in my sphincter and I know it has to be cancer. Like all pains I feel now, it is just a matter of time before I am riddled with mutated cells eating away at me until all that is left is a shell of a human being with really bad cancer breath.

As a hypochondriac with no health insurance, I suffer from a multitude of aliments that I know in the end will kill me: Cancer, Lou Gehrig's, Parkinson's, and of course the Swine Flu. When my boyfriend was recently diagnosed with Epstein Barr(which is the absolutely best disease a Jew can get) I was slightly more jealous then concerned. After all, all of my diseases have been self-diagnosed off of Web MD and he just gets to walk into a doctor's office and be given the horrible life-changing-tv-movie-of-the-week news. Of course, his disease is simply a virus that makes him tired all the time whereas my imaginary ones will produce blood gushing out of my orifices.

With all of this talk over a new health care initiative and my excitement that one day I might be able to just walk into a doctor's office and finally confirm my suspicions that I have the Ebola virus, I am also a little disappointed that the politicians are trying to keep me away from the doctor because they believe we are heading for Socialism. Let me put it to you in a way you all can understand...I don't care.

That's right, I don't care.

Medicaid, Medicare, VA Hospitals, and the Health Care of politicians are all government run programs that are paid for by tax money. The police, firemen, libraries, public schools, and national parks are all tax paid, government run programs that the American people can use for little or no money. We are already utilizing Socialist systems in our Democratic government so why are we stuck on this little issue?

Because Insurance companies want to make a profit.

It's that simple.

And now, with all my imaginary daily heart attacks and strokes that I suffer from, I am seriously contemplating marriage so that I can get on my boyfriend's (soon to be fiance, apparently) health care plan. Yes, for my own health I have to get married so I can go and get weighed on a scale that is improperly calibrated, sit in a freezing room for three hours waiting for a person in a white coat to tell me nothing is wrong, and be charged $100 for the visit.

Is this what America is coming to? Health care marriages? Will I have to say "I do" because, as a teacher, my boyfriend has access to great coverage? Will I be forced into registering at Target for towels just to have access to a pap smear? Will I have to drag myself down to the DMV, the Social Security Office, and call the credit card companies just to change my name so that I can refill my prescription for Extra Strength Midol? And, if the marriage starts to fall apart, do we have to go to couple's counseling, not to save the marriage, but to save our coverage?

Is this my future?

For the love of a tongue depressor, please pass the health care reform bill so I can go get my nether regions checked out for venereal diseases without me having to make a commitment to another person. Please?

It really isn't all that much to ask.

Math is taking up a lot of my time and is interrupting my drinking

2009-07-13T15:29:00.003-04:00

Because I have very little to give the world in terms of talent, vision, or depth (although, I do have a lot in the way of vengeance)I returned to school last year to suckle the teat of student loans and grants in order to try and make something out of myself.

So, I decided to become a biologist...then a vet tech...and finally, realizing that math is heavily involved in those subjects, I chose Journalism because I believe that nothing says, "Great Idea" like a major that will virtually guarantee me unemployment.

In becoming a Journalism major I am required to take College Algebra, which is a torturous subject meant to kill ambition and deaden the spirit and/or will to live. I have taken this class online to only make things more difficult for myself because I am apparently an emotional cutter. To make things even more interesting all the questions on both the quizzes and homework have been obviously translated from the original Engrish/New Delhian into the English language so that I will not have any comprehension as to what is on the screen.

Which brings me to this, as I prepare to take my Midterm tomorrow, wish me luck. Because frankly after three 8 hour days of staring into a computer screen, bursting into tears, and wetting myself, I think I will need it.

Bitter Billy's Big Long Day: A Tale of Disappointment

2009-07-06T12:29:00.003-04:00

Seeing that I have the attention span of a gnat and that I like illustrated books, I have decided to fill my time by writing picture books for adults starring sad characters who can no longer function in today's society due to their own pathetic, slightly autistic, ability to share other people's space.

Unfortunately, I have no artistic talent, therefore the picture books themselves are only written, not drawn, which works on the truly disappointing level that I am after...(hello artistic friends who I won't pay for illustrating such a tome.) So please enjoy the first in what I suppose will be many stories that cutesy-up the horrific lives we have all chosen.

I present: Bitter Billy's Big Long Day: A Tale of Disappointment

Ring, ring goes the clock next to Billy’s bed. It’s time to get up and go to work. Billy doesn’t like work. Billy thinks work sucks his soul dry. Billy pulls the bed covers up over his head. Oh No! Billy’s crying.

Every morning Billy stands at the kitchen sink and eats breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It gives you energy and makes your brain work better. For breakfast Billy eats a stale Pop Tart he found in a drawer and drinks a warm beer.

Going to work is an adventure! Billy has barely managed to merge onto the freeway when someone cuts him off. Billy honks his horn to show his displeasure at almost being killed. The other driver shows Billy his middle finger. Billy honks the horn again and shows the driver his middle finger. This continues until Billy misses his exit to work. Billy hopes the other driver gets into an accident and loses the ability to use the bathroom alone.

Billy parks his car and walks into work. His company is large and owns the entire building. While all of Billy’s bosses work in nice big offices filled with windows and comfortable chairs, Billy works in an enclosed space called a cubicle. A cubicle is like a pen in a zoo only no one feeds you. It is where all the people who majored in the Liberal Arts are kept so as not to disturb the people who actually majored in something tangible.

At work Billy sits in front of a computer and stares until his eyes get blurry and dry out. Billy spends most of his time going through the massive amounts of emails in his Inbox. He deletes emails about bunnies and kitties, jokes of the day, Hollywood gossip, and political polls. He pushes through the male enhancement ads, pictures from office parties, and reminders for birthday cake donations. In the end, all Billy does is delete, delete, delete.

Every morning Billy goes to a meeting with the rest of the people in his department. Billy’s department at work is Records Analysis. He does not know what this means. Billy’s boss uses these meetings to belittle his staff. Billy will often dream during the meetings about beating his boss about the testicles, especially when his boss tells the department that overtime will be mandatory.

Billy smokes cigarettes. While this is bad for his health and well-being, anyone at work who smokes can take what is known as a smoke break. A smoke break lasts ten minutes. Billy tries to take at least six smoke breaks throughout the day. He also takes coffee breaks, snack breaks, and bathroom breaks. By the end of the day Billy accomplishes very little.

Lunch time is Billy’s favorite part of his workday. Billy likes to leave a good fifteen minutes early and come back twenty minutes late. At lunch he eats at restaurants that serve over-priced meals that take all of Billy’s money. Thanks to lunchtime Billy owes four thousand dollars on his Visa card.

After lunch Billy tries to finally get some work done. He pulls up a spreadsheet on his computer and stares at it until his eyes glaze over. Billy really wants to get his spreadsheet done so that Bob, the middle manager, won’t come over to Billy’s cubicle. No such luck. “Billy did you do this?” “Billy did you do that?” asks Bob. Billy nods and says, “Yes Bob,” and, “I’ll get right on that,” until Bob goes away and bothers someone else.

Yea! It’s almost time to go home! If work ends at 5 o’clock and it is now 3 o’clock, how many hours does Billy have left before he can leave? Billy has 1 ½ hours left because he will sneak out of the office at 4:30 by telling Bob that he has to make copies of his data sheet. Billy is very good at sneaking out of the office early. He has done it nearly every day for two years.

When Billy leaves work the freeway is full of cars and trucks. Beep! Beep! Goes the trucks. Honk! Honk! Goes the cars. They weave from one lane to the next. Speeding up and slowing down. Apparently Billy’s car is going too slow for the man driving the Hummer, so he decides to get in front of Billy by pushing Billy’s car into another lane. Billy swerves, barely missing a woman in a Toyota. The woman, not going to be intimidated by another diver, honks her horn and yells at Billy from behind her window. Billy silently cries.

On his way home, Billy stops at the grocery store. In the evenings the store has samples of food to try out. This is the grocery store’s way of enticing people to buy their food. Unfortunately for them, this is what Billy calls “dinner.” Tonight Billy is having pizza rolls, cantaloupe, bread pieces with olive oil, and, lucky him, a free cola that the grocery store is giving away. Yummy!

Before Billy gets home he stops at his mailbox to pick up his mail. Today his mail is very pretty with colorful envelopes filling his box, holding reminders that his phone is about to be turned off, that he won’t have any electricity after next Tuesday, and that his rent is two weeks late. Billy gathers up his mail and out pops an envelope that fills Billy with a belief in a Higher Power. A new credit card! Billy can now pay his Bills! Yea for plastic!

When Billy opens his apartment door he notices the smell. Sometimes Billy’s home smells like death for no reason. Could it be the garbage can? No. Could it be the dirty dishes? No. Billy looks and looks. He smells all the furniture. He looks in every corner. After a while the smell goes away. How mysterious.

Billy owns an answering machine that never has any messages. It mocks him with a zero blinking on the display panel. Billy checks the machine anyway, hoping that the display is broken. The machine tells Billy that he has no message. Billy thinks the machine sounded sarcastic. The machine, being a machine, doesn’t think anything. But, if it did, it would think that Billy doesn’t deserve any messages. Billy is sure that the machine keeps all the good messages for itself. If the machine actually cared, it probably would.

Billy is still hungry after his grocery store dinner. What does he have to eat? Billy finds a stick of gum, a frozen waffle caked in ice, and a packet of ketchup left over from a fast food lunch. Billy sits on his couch and eats his snack. Sometimes Billy wonders what life would be like if he worked harder, maybe became more of a team player, and quit stealing office supplies. As Billy sucks down his ketchup packet an idea creeps into his head. Maybe he should go to Graduate school and live off of student loans until he is sixty-five. Good plan Billy!

In the evenings Billy find solace by going online and searching for sport statistics and pornography. In the cyber universe Billy is known as BigRod2356. He is very popular online. According to his online profile he is a thirty year old man who is wealthy and owns his own boat. When you are online you can be anyone you want to be, and no one will ever know that you haven’t felt the touch of a real woman in six months. Billy often “chats” with another person named Hootermama, who says she is very hot. “Chatting” is when you type what you want to say to another person online, usually with only one hand. Billy and Hootermama spend many hours in their special chat room. Billy hopes that one day he will meet Hootermama in real life. Hootermama hopes that one day she will meet BigRod2356. Hootermama’s real name is Earl and he collects clowns.

Brrring! Brrring! Hey, Billy’s phone is ringing! Billy is so happy to hear his phone ringing that he doesn’t check Caller ID first. Oh No Billy, it’s your ex-girlfriend! Billy’s ex yells and yells. “Why do you keep calling me Billy?” “Why do you stand outside my apartment Billy?” “Why did you post naked pictures of me on the web Billy?” Billy tries to explain that he only wants his t-shirt back, not to stalk her. Billy’s ex-girlfriend screams that not only will he never see his shirt again, but that he was the worst lover she ever had, that he smelled bad, and that he will die alone and afraid, smeared in his own feces. When she hangs up Billy decides to never date women again.

Billy likes beer. Beer helps Billy throughout the long day of constant disappointments. When Billy drinks beer his troubles and worries get all blurry and he feels warm inside. Sometimes Billy drinks until he forgets his name and blacks out. When Billy blacks out he usually ends up naked and crying, curled up inside the fridge, covered in butter. Tonight may not end any differently.

Drunk but not ready to pass out, Billy decides to write poetry and send it to everyone in his email address book. He writes about love and loss, he writes about lost dreams, about never knowing what it is like to be loved by a woman who doesn’t beat him. As he sends his poetry across the internet, Billy feels strong and good. Beer will do that to Billy. Tomorrow doesn’t exist in the creamy, frothy, world of Beer…unfortunately for Billy, he does and tomorrow will come quickly.

Sometimes Billy dances, and tonight the rhythm lives inside of him. He cranks up his stereo and puts on Celine Dion. Billy sings loud and proud. Tonight he is Celine. Tonight he is Canadian. With hands beating his chest, Billy sobs; he knows that his heart will go on.

It’s 2:00 am and Billy has to go to bed. Billy slides across the floor of his bedroom on his belly. Billy slides because he can no longer walk. He gropes along the carpet until he finds his bed and pulls himself onto it. Face down on his bed Billy throws up a little in his mouth and lets it dribble out onto his comforter. Right before Billy sinks down into the blackness he reminds himself to clean it up in the morning.

Ring! Ring! Goes the alarm clock! It’s a brand new day! Yea for Billy! He made it through the night without chocking on his own vomit. Billy rolls over and looks at the clock. Today Billy will make his first good decision: he will call in sick to work. Good move, Billy.

On Vacation, Will Return on Monday July 6th. If the Police Aren't Involved.

2009-07-01T19:07:00.002-04:00

As I shove far more underwear than I will need into a sack, I would like to take the opportunity to wish everyone a completely tolerable 4th of July. I will be celebrating this holiday as I do everyday of the week...laying down, not working on anything substantial. So really, this isn't a "Holiday Weekend" for me, it's simply a different location doing the same thing I do every day.

I will be back to blogging on Monday July 6th where I will recount in graphic detail how family members annoyed me and/or blew up their face with a sparkler.

Eat tons of dissected cow and enjoy!

Billy Mays: No Longer Powered by the Air We Breathe

2009-06-28T13:57:00.002-04:00

In a week where we have lost so many, I have to say the death of pitchman Billy Mays is an indication that the End of Times has surely begun.

It is only a matter of time before plagues of Locusts descend upon the world, the oceans run red with blood, and VH1 will cease to broadcast "I Love the 80's".

As a help to my fellow man may I offer this advice when the apocalypse arrives:

Get out your Y2K survival kits, stock up on SPAM, and download as much porn as you can.

As for the religious fanatics, congratulations upon being correct, may you enjoy your afterlife playing harps, kissing the feet of God, and wearing white.

For the rest of us, at least we can start smoking in bars again right?

Thank you and goodnight.

(special thanks to Steven Weitz who came up with such an awesome title)

Captain Eo Has Left the Building

2009-06-26T10:29:00.003-04:00

Upon learning of the King of Pop's death I was overcome with something I was told was "feelings" and salty wetness leaked from my eyes and stained my shirt. At first I thought I had the Ebola virus, but I was calmed down by my significant bother who assured me that what was happening to me was a perfectly natural reaction to being sad.

Having no other emotions other than "pissed", "annoyed", and "loathing" this Sad thing overwhelmed me. I spent several hours watching MJ videos, put on some of his music, and took a trip down memory lane to the night my mom let me stay up late just to watch the Thriller video on MTV.

Having become jaded by Gen-X coolness in the 90's, I left MJ's music behind me as I bathed myself in grunge rock, ambient trance, acid jazz, and 80's new wave. When MJ was accused of child molestation I ignored it like a Meth mom and simply went on with my life, after all, Michael Jackson was part of my childhood-a place where I kept all of my secretly adored music hidden (El Debarge, En Vogue, NKOTB)and had little to do with my apathetic persona now.

But yesterday I realized that Michael was more than a faded poster in my psyche, he was a part of me. Each song of his plucked a specific memory from my past and illuminated it. Thriller: Chris Martin and I dancing at my house, Billie Jean: Playing HORSE at my old elementary school on a Saturday, PYT: lip syncing with Nicole Wahlberg in her backyard.

These memories that I had no idea even existed reminded me of a time when I smiled more, had fun doing nothing, and most importantly, had no bills to pay. So for the first time in a long time I felt something akin to happiness and, although it made me slightly nauseous, I was okay with it.

So thanks Michael for reminding me of good times and good friends. You will be missed.

Twilight: The Book Series that Raped my Brain

2009-06-24T14:19:00.002-04:00

I did it. I read the entire Twilight series. And now I feel sick. Is my use of short sentence structure annoying you? Well good. Because those books mentally raped me and I have nothing left. Seriously. Nothing.

Upon finishing the last word and slowly closing the hardcover book I blinked twice, the book slowly fell from my grip and onto the floor of my office. Suddenly I felt cold.

Did you enjoy that sentence? If you did then let me introduce you to the wonderful world that Stephanie Myers has created for the millions of teenage girls who enjoy cutting themselves.

Amid the poorly constructed paragraphs that I was bludgeoned to death with, were scenes of such stupidity that I had to flip back to the author bio just to make sure it wasn’t written by a monkey with access to Microsoft Word 2007. Sure enough, there she was in all of her attractive glory, staring at me from a photo that would make Glamour Shots jealous. Her silken dark hair, her penetrating eyes, she was like a marble goddess who was way too good for me. (This last sentence is paraphrased from one of her many paragraphs glorifying Edward “Sparkly Boy” Cullen).

Of my many, many problems with the series the one issue that stands out the most is that the main character is a loathsome creation that so deserves an ass kicking that I had a hard time not wishing for one of the lame vampires to just eat her.
Case in point: Bella Swan moves to a small town, is presented with her own car, has no obvious curfew inflicted upon her by the most accommodating father in the history of literature, is immediately accepted by the popular crowd, has high school boys drooling over her, and is so completely put out by this misery that she treats her new friends and father with a disdain usually reserved for child molesters.

The story is not much better:
Upon spying Edward Cullen Bella is filled with a special down-low tickle and makes him gag with her scent. While this might cause other chicks to pause, she wins him over with her depressive nature and near-death experience. She finds out that he is a vampire and that when the sun hits him he sparkles like a gay pride parade. He has to hide his true nature because he is a monster and humans could never accept a creature like him, (although if he thought about it for a minute he might realize that if we humans accepted Steve Buscemi in our ranks then I think we could accept a hair-gelled metro sexual like him).

Anyway, the romance between Edward and Bella is written for an audience of overly religious guilt masturbators. There is no pre-marital sex, some kissing, a lot of yearning, and passionate displays of teen angst which basically means lots of brooding. She in return becomes a psycho by most relationship standards; screaming how she can’t live without him, will die without him, will never be with anyone else, etc. (If she threw herself on the hood of one of Edward’s cars she would be re-enacting one of my own post-teenage relationships) The relationship moves forward where her happiness is completely dependent on Edward’s acceptance of her, which is such a healthy attitude for teen girls suffering from low self-esteem, and spends most of the first book ignoring friends and her family, gets stalked by another vampire who doesn’t eat her, and then goes to the Prom with Edward where she begs him to kill her so she could be with him forever because college doesn’t matter.

The subsequent books are even worse. At one point Edward leaves Bella because her birthday party ended in bloodshed (you should see my family Xmas parties), she spends most of the book in a suicidal depression until they are reunited in Italy where she rescues him from killing himself (does she even go to school anymore?). There is a side quasi-romance with a werewolf where she leads him on for chapters only to dump him for Mr. Glam Rock. Bella keeps bugging Edward to kill her or to at least have sex with her, which he won’t because he is old fashion and wants to marry her first. She eventually agrees to marry him, they go to an island (that his family owns!), has bruise inducing sex, ends up pregnant, almost dies, gets turned into a vampire, has the ability to immediately control the bloodlust, has a telepathic baby that ages quickly and is somehow romantically bound to her ex-love werewolf, and fights in a vampire war which ends with everyone happy and in love with each other. There are no bad consequences to any of her decisions, she becomes extremely beautiful once she is dead, has a mutant smart kid who has the kind of critical thinking skills Bella could only dream of, and her dad is supportive of her deadness.
The End.

Great huh?

Boys, doesn’t it just make you want to slather on some body glitter, pick up an emotionally stunted teenage girl, and fill their belly with cold, dead sperm?

So now I don’t know what to do with myself. As a writer I spend hours crafting stories that will entertain an audience. I forgo cleanliness for sentence structure. I ignore the litter box for days just to craft a 1000 word essay on fruit roll-ups. But now, as Myer’s taint of a book series sears my brain, I am left scratching my head in confusion. People enjoy vampire stories about non-vampiric vampires who don’t suck blood and sparkle in the sun? What’s next? Aliens who invade a human host and come to realize what love is?

Yeah right, like that will ever sell…oh fuck.

How Lazy is too Lazy?

2009-04-09T16:27:00.002-04:00

My last blog post was written in February. Today is April 9th. I feel it is important to understand just how far I will go to avoid, well, most everything. As I enter the very mid of my thirties I have decided to just go ahead and embrace my crippling laziness and get rid of all my goals and dreams for the future. We all know it was bound to happen, I mean how long does it take to write a check, or clean the bathroom, or even take a shower anyway.

Case in point, I have been wearing the same clothes for three days simply because I can't be bothered to take them off. I am now on the borderline between the crotch and popcorn smell so I think I have until tomorrow morning before I reach the dreaded ass odor.

While most people may see my laziness as a character flaw, I like to think of it more as being quirky. I enjoy laying down, wearing pajamas all day, and consisting solely on instant oatmeal to maintain my unfashionable potato-like physique. It's a life choice but one I am proud to put out there for the world.

So enjoy my blog while it lasts. Although I'm pretty sure I will be too lazy to ever delete it.

Here's the Problem with Me: A Series of Lists

2009-02-26T13:20:00.003-05:00

While cleaning my office (in order to find my checkbook)I stumbled across a plethora of lists scribbled down on random pieces of papers, in old notebooks, and on a copy of the book, The Secret that was given to me as a joke. I have come to realize that there must be something incredibly wrong with me after reading through these things and, adopting the 1st step of AA, I am admitting that I have a problem publicly. Apparently my hostility toward humanity is spilling out onto napkins and other bits of ephemera and I am afraid graffiti-ing buildings is not far behind. So in order to plan accordingly for my eventual hospitalization I am publishing a few of the lists that I found...enjoy my psychosis!

List 1: reasons my brother gives for not moving out of our mother's house even though he is 30 and has two kids:
1. On-demand Cable
2. Lunch meat simply appears like magic when he's hungry.
3. Close proximity to fabric softener.
4. He's so good looking...the bitches don't mind.
5. Mom's wiener wraps.
6. Headaches & pulled groin muscle still acting up

List 2: Things I have found myself saying that I would've once made fun of:
1. "I'm not all that impressed with Boz Scaggs."
2. "If we're going to have sex we better do it now, because Dirty Jobs starts in 20 minutes."
3. "Can I interest you in a Crystal World?" (This was from an old job)
4. "I'm gonna have to pass on the steak, it gives me diarrhea."
5. "You call that REAL Velcro?"

List 3: Names that I would give my children if I wanted them:
1. Maxabillion
2. Milometer
3. Hero
4. Lucky Stash
5. McQuaid
6. Quatto
7. Loosey

List 4: Pitch ideas for my book, How to Be an Adult: An A-Z Guide to Accepting Life's Biggest Disappointment.
1. It's like, Prozac Nation meets Dr. Phil on an off day
2. It's like, a very special episode of Blossom meets a very special episode from 30-something.
3. It's like, "whatever is selling now" meets "whatever will be selling when this book is published"
4. It's like, "Goddamn it why can't you sell this thing" meets "I will blow you if you just take this thing off of my hands so I can finally move on."
5. It's like, "When a lot of drinks" meets "a depressed and insecure me at 22"
6. It's like, "When I first discovered YouTube" meets "My angry Boss."

List 5: Idea career choices that should exist.
1. Professional Sleeper
2. Profanity Expert
3. Smelling Milk to see if it's expired (charge $50.00 per carton)
4. Child Dream Crusher (letting them know they cannot be a princess or a dinosaur)
5. House Smell Administrator (I would grade smells on a scale from popcorn crotch to decomposing whale)
6. Reviving the band El Debarge (I still like the song Here's Johnny but that was El's solo song so maybe just get him gigs)

List 6: Movies that Should become musicals (even though I hate musicals I would possibly go to these)
1. Silence of the Lambs.
2. Reservoir Dogs.
3. I Spit on Your Grave.
4. W

okay, so that was a sampling of the world I seem to live in without me being aware. Now, if you will excuse me I feel a need to write down a list of colors that would be cool in a crayon box...puke, depression, mom's perfume.....

My absence from blogging can be explained by my massive laziness and addiction to my DVR

2009-02-15T10:32:00.003-05:00

Judging by my last blog (dated on Thanksgiving) my laziness has won and I am a lousy blogger. I know that for a blog to become successful it needs to be updated daily or, at the very least, bi-weekly. I understand this concept but lets be completely honest here, I am easily distracted by things like Snuggy commercials, a spot on my living room wall, or the fact that I can watch Real Sex On-Demand anytime I feel like it. I set out to create a humor blog that would regale thousands, neigh, millions, of readers with funny anecdotes about bad house smells, sad sex, and my inability to find a publisher. These are all good and wonderful things. But my strong desire to nap has outweighed my desire to satisfy the public's lust for such stories.

Seeing that we are heading into the middle of February let me make a New Year's Resolution. I promise to control my crippling need to look out the window for hours at a time watching squirrels sitting in trees and acting spastic and will instead write at least three blogs a week covering all topics (okay, maybe one a week, lets not get hysterical). I make this pledge because I have included this blog's website in all my correspondence to "friends" on Facebook and many of them have told me they are tired of reading about Thanksgiving. I understand their annoyance. It is the same kind I feel every time I have to be subjected to pictures of their children.

Now that we have come to an agreement I feel better about life. This really has helped me a lot. I feel complete as a person. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to avoid working on my novel.

Happy Killing of Turkeys Day

2008-11-26T11:20:00.003-05:00

As I make my way to the family feast by fighting traffic, indigestion, and quite possibly diarrhea, I am moved by the fact that even though I will be drinking heavily to avoid awkward small talk, I will be around people who love me.

So today, I am (with the help of Valium) giving thanks to a bunch of people who put up with me throughout the year and ask only that you all leave me alone for about an hour after I get home before interrogating me about relationships, children, and how much weight I've gained since last year.

I appreciate it.

Now go and fix that lumping gravy that always makes me nauseous.

The Night They Say Was Made For Love

2008-11-25T07:56:00.010-05:00

This is a love story.

One night two lovers met at a predetermined time that fit into their schedules. They were both excited by the fact that they had several hours free and could spend time with each other before returning to the grueling task of completing a Master's Thesis (Him) and trying to finish an article by the next day (Her).

This night was going to be very special for, you see, He had agreed to participate in a study for Herbal Viagra and had received his sample that very day...(He would like it to be known that He didn't really need the Herbal Viagra, He is perfectly fine with getting it up and keeping it there, He was really just helping out the company, you know, by being a good citizen). That evening She and He took showers and shaved, She even went above her knees this time, that's how excited she was, and then they both went to the bedroom to begin a night filled with passion and extraordinary staying power (again, He wants you to know he has no problem in this department) .

He laid her gently on top of the futon, overcome with love for his beautiful and slightly padded girlfriend. The moonlight reflected off her raven hair streaked with a lovely shade of gray, He stared deeply into her eyes and thought, "You know, she really should dye her hair tomorrow".

She watched him as he walked over to the desk and opened up the bottle of Happy Pills. The idea that sex might take more than six minutes really perked Her up. The prospect that she might even finish tonight brought Her much joy. As He swallowed the pills She felt a familiar stirring in her nether region, it was the way she felt every time she smelled warm fudge. "Oh", She thought, " this is going to be good."

He came to her, filled with a ravenous appetite for love. He could feel the pills inch their way down to his stomach, his (Extremely Large) penis trembling in anticipation for insertion. He began caressing Her in the way He knew She liked. He wondered how long he would have to keep up the foreplay before ramming her...he was always unclear on the timing but figured thirty seconds would be enough. As he touched her large, round, supple breasts he began to feel light headed. Then, he saw spots. He even tried to ignore it when he could no longer see from the stabbing pain in his head, but when the stomach cramps started he could no longer feign arousal. As he fell off the futon and began crawling toward the bathroom he had one fleeting thought before his bowls released covering him in his own filth, "Is this supposed to happen?"

She watched him as he crawled away, worried that He would get shit all over the carpet. As he closed the bathroom door She began to tear up. She had shaved for nothing. She could hear his whimpering and the occasional flatulence coming from the bathroom and decided she should probably go and make sure he was okay. Walking toward the bathroom she wondered why this always happened to her, well, not this, exactly, but the whole sex-gone-wrong thing. For a second she wondered if she should become a lesbian.

His pain was exquisite. He had never known that he could simultaneously barf, crap his pants, and leak snot from his eyes all at the same time. "I will definitely be filling out my comment card." He thought before passing out on the bathroom floor.

Several hours had come and gone since their night of passion began. She finished her article for work and then surfed the web for shoes before stripping off her lingerie and going to bed. She heard the toilet flush and then the shower turn on. So, She thought, he must still be alive.

He was empty now. No fluid left. He now knew what it was like to be close to death. Even his hypochondria was sated by the experience. He let the hot water of the shower run over his body, cleaning him of filth and bile. As he picked up a bar of soap he felt a strange stirring coming from what was once a sad, flaccid, dong of shame. Looking down he watched his man meat become unstuck from his thigh and rise up mightily like the sword of God. It pulsed and vibrated, the veins thickening in the shaft like the well-muscled arm of a weight lifter (not that He ever thought of other men that way...no, seriously, he never did). "Now you're working!?" He thought before he became dizzy from the blood being pulled from his brain to his member.

She heard the bathroom door open and close. She heard the sound of her love walking over to the bed. She felt the weight of his body as he crawled in next to her. Then she felt a large probe stab into the small of her back. A sense of excitement filled her...then she heard him moan, and not in a good way.

He didn't understand what was going on. First he was hemorrhaging waste from his orifices for three hours and now, now that he was harder than he had ever been in his life, he was suffering from motion sickness. The pain from his engorged beef stick was becoming unbearable. He was going to have to have sex or his penis would blow up. But how could he since the thought of moving a millimeter made him want to puke.

"Could you maybe, blow me?" He asked Her meekly.

She turned toward him, loathing spilling from the dark pools of her eyes. She wanted to punch him in the nose but one look into his tortured face softened her resolve. "How about I get on top and just screw you instead." She said with compassion.

"Thank you...thank you", he muttered before dry heaving a bit.

And there, in the light of the moon, began the saddest episode of sex that anyone, at any time, had ever experienced.

After it was over and they lay side by side,they both pondered the evening and what it meant to their relationship. He thought he should probably buy her something nice to make up for the sex and she, well, she realized she was probably going to get a yeast infection from his Herbal spunk.

Then they both drifted off to sleep.

The End.

An American Beef

2008-11-06T09:13:00.003-05:00

I would like to say that today I am truly proud to be an American, but I can't. It isn't because I am unhappy with Obama becoming president, on the contrary, I am overjoyed that he won. I can't say it because every time do, I hear the Lee Greenwood song "Proud to be an American" inside my head.

That's right, whenever I am filled with love for my country over electing the man who will bring change to our land, I picture an aging honky wearing a fringe leather jacket singing at McCain rallies.

This bothers me.

First of all, the song is stupid. I don't have a problem with the lyrics or the feeling behind the song per say, what I do have an issue with is that it is always sung with a thick Southern Hillbilly accent.

Being from the South, I feel that we are often misrepresented in the media as being backward and racist. Granted, we have an unsavory past but I have always loved the culture of our people and feel that we have contributed some of the most inspiring art, literature, music, and food to the world. However, all of that falls by the wayside every time one of us speaks with a severe twang. I don't care if you have a PHD in Geophysics, if you sound like you have a mouth full of tobacky and are wearing scat covered overalls, then you sound like a moron. Which is why when "How to be an American" is being sung I always have the uncomfortable feeling that I am attending a Klan rally.

Is it possible that we can retire the song or even retool it so that it has a beat that people can dance to? Can Lee Greenwood (who, by the way has been appointed to the National Arts Council by Bush this week) simply go away so I don't ever have to see him again? Can we as a nation move forward and quit writing overly sentimental songs about the country and instead, focus on making it better?

Perhaps I am over-tired and need a nap. But until Lee Greenwood stops belting out his only known song at county fairs dressed in a pleather flag I will never be able to be "Proud to be an American".

I am Elizabeth Young and I approve this message.

Vote!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-11-04T13:11:00.001-05:00

In order to bitch and moan about the state of your country, you need to vote.

No Vote, No Bitch.

It's that simple. Now go and stand in line so you can make a difference.

What's That Smell: The Story of One Woman's Search for The Weird Smell In Her House

2008-09-19T16:11:00.003-04:00

Let me begin by saying that I pride myself on the fact that I, personally, don't reek that bad. Sure there have been days when I could have been described as having a "ripe" smell but that was due to heat and humidity and copious amounts of alcohol seeping out from the pores of my skin. On a day-to-day basis I tend to smell, well, sweetly clean.

As a woman in a long-term live-in relationship I may have let myself go stylistically but smell-wise I am very careful in maintaining that "new relationship" smell. I may wear sweatpants and a stained tank top sans bra but I will NEVER smell like butt. When my significant bother goes in for a nuzzle he is safe against my skin and doesn't have to worry about getting a rash.

My house on the other hand is a different story.

For the last couple of weeks I have been trying to figure out, not only where this smell is coming from, but what, exactly, it is.

Let me explain.

On some days it smells like wet baked goods just about to mold over, on other days there's a hint of cabbage, yesterday it smelled like sweet-tea urine, and today there's death mixed with flowers. All of these smells are livable (well the death one isn't but after a while it kind of reminds me of Autumn) but they are off-putting because, frankly, I don't want people to think I live in "The Garbage House". Now I thought about blaming my downstairs neighbor as he is creepy and answers his door in boxing shorts that have seen better days but I can only acquaint him with the occasional cabbage smell (I am totally projecting my own opinion here as I am bigoted by creepy old guys in boxer shorts) but that doesn't explain the other smells. Wait...I think I just picked up a whiff of soiled diapers...Am I being haunted by past nose lives?

What is it about my house that keeps alive smells that should be over powered by the God-Like scent of Febreeze?

On one occasion there was a fish smell that became so disgusting that my boyfriend and I contemplated moving. We searched every nook and cranny, smelling carpet, walls, garbage cans, and litter boxes in a vain attempt to "smell out" the fish scent only to come up nada. After finally giving up and beginning our search for a fish-free home we came across the culprit in a random way...as I was cooking dinner. Apparently a bag of long forgotten red potatoes have the ability through evolution to become fish, and, when doing so, can make you vomit as soon as the bag comes within two feet of your face. Once thrown out, the house returned to it's clean smell only to begin smelling like feet a couple of days later.

When coming home every evening it is not my pleasure to see what scent will greet me as I open the door. I just want to smell nothing, or, if that isn't reasonable, I would like to smell cookies. That would be nice.

So once again my Sunday will be spent with a bucket of hot water and bleach and the determination to beat back the oozing smell that will eventually break me. I know it is all in vain and that tomorrow I will return home to a smell that can only be described as "popcorn crotch".

Which really, isn't all that bad if you have no will to live any more.

The Heartbroken Supper Club: How to Feed Your Single Friends Who Are Over Thirty & Hate Men

2008-09-17T10:12:00.004-04:00

For some reason I am in a successful relationship. This has come as a complete surprise to me and to many of the people who know me. After three and a half years of dating I wake up every morning feeling content and right with the world. This, of course, goes against everything I believe in. Unless this boyfriend starts to make me cry as soon as possible and/or cheats on me and knocks up some skank I will never know what a real "relationship" is.

After all, how can a woman find love unless it continuously destroys her on an emotional level?

As a Thirty-Something chick who has a lot of fabulous thirty-something women friends who are all single, I am well-aware how much they hate me. I hate me too. I mean, what's so great about me that this guy loves me? What's wrong with him? Why do I catch him smiling at me all the time? What does he mean when he says I look cute nude? What kind of bullshit is that? How can I survive a relationship that simply progresses day in, day out with no drama, and a high level of respect for the individual needs of each other? Seriously, even the sex is good...God, I am so happy it's depressing.

Because of my friends and my shared disappointment over my good fortune in life, I have decided to institute The Heartbroken Supper Club. A society of single women and those unhappy with their joy who can come together, eat fattening food, drink a lot of booze, and air their grievances in a safe environment that will probably end with all of us bitching about each other on our myspace/facebook pages.

I find that the camaraderie of shitty friends who want you to suffer is comforting. Just like a warm blanket that the cat pissed on, you didn't know about it, and are now pressing your face into. It is also refreshing to be around a group of girls who will be there on your bad days when they talk about you behind your back and spread rumors that YOU are the one in five people who have herpes.

Women friendships are complicated. We love to hate each other, secretly hope that our friends get fat, and are constantly comparing our lives against our friends. On the flip side we will also fight anyone who belittles our friends (that's our job), causes pain to them, or simply looks at them in a way we don't like. Think I'm kidding? Go to any crowded bar on a Friday night and just start giving the evil eye to a random female. I guarantee that in five minutes a whole swarm of black clad women will pounce on you and you will be brought to the edge of conscientiousness before someone pulls said females off of your skull. When women fight, we fight dirty...even with our friends.

So what about the club?

Well I'm hoping that like The Red Hat Society, The Heartbroken Supper Club will begin popping up in towns across America and groups of women will be drunk as hell, bitching about the unfairness of life, and, occasionally, starting fist fights in bars.

It's a dream.

How to Throw Your Own Heartbroken Supper Club Party:

1. Invite all women who are single, in bad relationships, or are happily in love but feel supremely guilty about it. Make the Party on Saturday night. That is "date night" and will set the tone for everyone.

2. Food and Booze are essential. Food-wise pick comfort foods that are fattening and will allow the women to scream, "I don't even care how I look anymore!" Which is a complete lie but, whatever.

Menu: Homemade Mac-N-Cheese

1 Pint of Heavy Cream
1 Box of pasta (your choice)
4 Bags of various shredded cheeses (2 cup size)
Meat: Hamsteak or 1 package of Hebrew National Hot Dogs (the best hot dog ever)cut up.
Red Pepper Flakes

1. Preheat oven to 350.
2. Pour pint of cream into large sauce pan and heat at medium until the cream is hot but not boiling.
3. In another pan begin boiling water for pasta. Once boiling cook pasta according to directions on box.
4. When cream is hot put one cup of each cheese into sauce pan and stir until cheese is thoroughly melted. Set heat on low until pasta has finished cooking.
5. Once pasta has been drained, pour into cheese sauce mixture. Add the remaining cheese, the meat and red pepper flakes until well mixed.
6. Pour Mac-n-Cheese into baking dish and put into the oven for about 25-30 minutes until the top has become a golden brown.
7. Let Mac-n-Cheese sit for about five minutes before serving.

Serve Mac-n-Cheese in something other than a bowl. It makes you look less of a pig if you serve the food in a martini, margarita, or open mouth champagne glass.

Drinks: Alcohol Mandatory

Cheap Champagne, Vodka and Cranberry Juice, and Rum and Cokes galore.

Deserts: The recipe I am about to share is so incredibly awesome that orgasms have been known to spontaneously occur in public.

The Mother f'ing Good-Time Chocolate Whore Frozen Ectasy:

1 package of GOOD ice cream sandwiches (pack of 8)
1 jar of caramel sauce
1 jar of chocolate sauce
1 tub of cool whip
Crushed nuts, or crushed candy, or both

In a baking dish put down one layer of ice cream sandwiches. Spread cool whip on it. Pour on some caramel sauce. Pour on crushed nuts/candy. Put remaining ice cream sandwiches on top. Repeat layering except pour on chocolate sauce instead of caramel sauce. Put in freezer until ready to serve. When people take a bite be prepared for tears.

Activities for the party can be movies that reinforce why relationships suck (Freeway, War of the Roses, G.I. Jane) dancing drunkenly, making drunk phone calls, passing out in corners, and finally crying.

Make sure to keep The Heartbroken Supper Club a monthly event. It's important to wallow.

I'm Just a Girl: or, How the Republicans Have Taken Sexism to New Heights...An Opinion by my Vagina

2008-09-11T08:50:00.004-04:00

As a member of the female species, I am both bloated and mildly irritated by Sen. John "The Maverick" McCain's pick of Sarah Palin as Vice President. Why? Because Gov. Palin is well, let's face it, exactly like those girls from high school that were always nice when they were around adults but once alone with you, spent the better part of four years stomping your self-esteem into a puddle of horrible self-loathing.

But I digress.

After watching the Republican convention last week with a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and a bucket, I was taken aback by the visceral discharge of hate spewing forth from the gaping wounds of the Republican party's speakers. (After coming down off a severe moonshine high I later realized that the gaping wounds were actually mouths) Most of the convention was spent, literally, belittling Sen. Obama. No real plans to take the country in a different direction, no genuine apologies from the party for what has happened in the last eight years, no real sense of genuine affection for a once great nation.

Instead, they roll out Gov. Palin so us women-folk would vote for McCain because Miss Sarah has a vagina just like me. That's it. Oh yeah, and because during the debates the Republicans can scream sexism when Sen. Biden actually question Palin's record. Wow, what a plan. Thanks Men.

Now if only she could cry on camera. Can you imagine the kind of votes that "tears of a woman" can get? It would be like Jesus coming back, that's how awesome the traditionally "weak female" persona is. All of us dumb broads could rally around the defenseless woman and protect her from the big, bad Joe Biden's mean Man questions by voting in McCain as president. That would show the Democrats. Of course, she would only be one severe flu season away from being President but we could always bomb whatever country said Palin looked fat in her business suit.

My vagina is moistening from the thought of it.

But again, perhaps it might be wise to judge Miss Sarah on how she treats other women too. But that might mean thinking above our station in life.

Let's face it, the veiled message from the Republican party is that we females are stupid and will vote for McCain because Palin managed to pump out a few baby units. And since she has a vagina and we have a vagina then maybe we should put our vagina's together and....wait, this is going in a whole other direction.

But maybe that's the point. Let's talk about vaginas for a moment. Just like women all vaginas are different and have different needs. Some vaginas are small, some large, some are decorated with jewelry, some are not, and some vaginas would like you to pay attention to the clit every now and then. Would it kill you to spend more than a second there? ...but again I digress. The point is that lumping all women together as having the exact same agenda shows how clueless the Republican Party really is when it comes to women.

I am a woman and I am voting for Obama. Is it because he is a man and I am not ready for a woman to be in power? No. It's because he supports the fact that when it comes to my body I should legally be able to make difficult choices. It's because he looks at women and doesn't see votes, he sees Americans who are starving for some chocolate-covered change. It's because he actually has a plan to get us out of the darkness and into the light. It's because he does not use the horrors of 9/11 as a way to keep us in fear so we ignore the lunacy of this administration, and most importantly it is because he has made me feel hope again and that my friends is worth my vote.

And as for the criticism over Obama's community service background vs. Ms. Palin's brief stint as Governor let me say this: As a woman, nothing gets me hotter than a man working to make his community better. Call me old-fashioned but compassion, hard-work, selflessness, and pride of one's community is a much better aphrodisiac than the over-played sexism of the Republican party any day.

Just ask Martin Luther King.
or, John Kennedy (you know, the guy who started Peace Corp)
or, every man and woman who volunteers at a school, woman's shelter, soup kitchen, beach clean-up, etc. Who gives up time to make a difference in the lives of those less fortunate.

Really, How could doing any of that prepare you to lead a nation?

The Incredibly True Tale of Me: or, Whoring myself to the highest bidder

2008-07-15T08:11:00.003-04:00

So I've been off for a month from blogging to embrace my inner freak-out and to really allow myself to experience a wide ranging, mind-numbing depression the likes of which should never be spent outside of an after-school special.

You see June sucked, and sucked hard.

Let me just apologize upfront, dear readers, you are not a therapist and I am not your patient but alas since I am neither covered by health insurance nor do I ever see the day when I can afford it, you will have to do.

At the beginning of the month I quit my job at the jewelry/soul-sucking/killer-of-joy store after two senior citizens called me "fat ass" because I wouldn't give them a senior discount. After asking the geezers to, "Shuffle Off." I gave my notice because really, once two WWII era farts become verbally abusive there's not much more you can do...Greatest Generation my ass. Then I was turned down for grants for school because last year I was apparently rich, which means I I have to take out loans. Loans that I have to wait several months to get even though I am paying for school now and there's books, and Lab fees, and dear God I forgot about my credit cards...my wonderfully-at-their-limit-maxed-out-entirely-need-to-be-paid credit cards...where's the Nyquil I need to be in a coma.

As unemployment loomed and my bank account literally shank to almost 0 in a week, the sweet mortifying hug of total financial annihilation gripped me in a blind panic. So I did what any self-respecting Gen X-er would do. I decided to sell stuff on Ebay. Which it didn't because, my stuff is kind of stupid. So I decided to go through Ebay's more interesting auctions and see what kind of stuff does sell. And my conclusion?

THINGS WHICH ARE SO STUPID THAT PEOPLE CAN'T HELP BUT BID ON THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

While no one apparently was interested in spending more than $.99 on one of my awesomely ugly brooches, apparently tons of people were willing to spend more than $300.00 on a pack of gum that the seller was unable to return to the store for Juicy Fruit. And don't even get me started on the "Lucky Amulet" that apparently gives the wearer the ability to make millions of dollars at the casino. That one has reached bids into the thousands. Oh and let's not forget that there are people bidding on empty cans of Coke as well. So the only thing left for me to do is this:

To sell my college education to the highest bidder.

That's right. My desire to pay bills, go to school so I can get a real job while writing has brought me to this realization. I will whore out my knowledge for some moolah.

And not just any knowledge, the kind of smarts that can only come from a mid-thirties chick who can excel in both Math and recreational drug use. The knowledge that comes from years of systematically killing my brain cells with Whiskey Sours and knowing how to make Yo-Yo Quilts. My ability to not only write fabulous research papers but also the best way to remove puke from the backseat of a Toyota Tercel after a long night of doing blow off the key of a stranger in a unisex bathroom followed by a Denny's Denver Omelet. And of course, the supreme knowledge that although I am old enough to have children, I have been able to avoid it this long.

So friends as I start figuring out how to write up the value of my college education and post it on Ebay I promise you this, bidding starts at $2.00 and I will give you free shipping if you should win.

Let the bidding begin.

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, But I Am Not Opposed to Making Some Coin Either

2008-06-16T16:52:00.003-04:00

For the last two weeks I have questioned my place in literature. Granted, I haven't actually ever had a place in literature, my application is still being reviewed as well as my credit score, but even though I haven't been accepted, I still have doubts as to whether or not I actually belong.

You see I write Porn.

And Humor.

Sometimes both at the same time.

And the worse part? It seems that my talent lies only in those two genres which makes it hard to break into literature...or children's books. Especially children's books. Nobody wants to publish humorous pornography written for children. Word of warning, even sending a pitch letter to a publishing house describing a picture book entitled, Annie's Secret Play Hole while using the phrase "fist pumping fun" will get you a visit from the local authorities. Trust me.

So the question remains, if your writing talent revolves around the descriptive narrative of the engorged meat poles of clowns, do you simply embrace it or do you run away hoping to fall into a skill that requires little mention of lubrication? It is a question that I have spent the last fourteen days pondering and the answer I have come away with is this: If you were born with a talent for pontificating on the shriveled scrotum sack of your fellow man then you have a duty to write about it. End of story.

Which brings me to this. On June 28th I will be included in the Anthology: Open for Business-Tales of Office Sex which will be for sale on amazon.com. It is a story about violating the anal canal of a boss. I won't say anything more. i don't want to give away the ending. It is a story I am proud of, not because it has been published, but because it was written on company time when my former boss thought I was actually working. It is not only a story of gushing fluids and the inner turmoil of a sado-masochistic middle manager, it is a story of all working people who wouldn't mind hammering the boss in the anus. An updated Horatio Alger tale for the 21st century...okay, that might have been pushing it a bit.

Anyway...as I embark whole-heartedly on a career path of degradation and filth I am looking forward to seeing what horrific pornography springs from my pen.

And don't worry, I promise not to cross any lines of civility. You'll see, once I self-publish my next book, What Rhymes With Buck it'll be apparent that great literature has met its match.

My Friends: The Pros and Cons

2008-06-05T12:59:00.003-04:00

This is my boyfriend Steve. Notice how his eyes fill with love when staring at me from across a table at a Friendly's (somekind of ice cream parlor/diner.) His obvious annoyance is probably due to me either belching loudly in public or after I asked him to explain in detail why he can't seem to hang up a wet towel after using it...I mean really, how hard is it?

After viewing this picture of the man I wouldn't mind spending the next decade or so with I started thinking of my friends and if I cause them the same kind of obvious pain. I understand that I am, at times, difficult to be around (mostly due to the constant diarrhea I suffer from). I also tend to drink too much and tell off color jokes around mixed company that involve body secretions and verbal degradation. And yes, I tend to hate everything and everybody and my emotions swing from general assholness to high levels of pisstivity. But I like to think of it as a certain charm.

The more I thought about my friends and their feelings toward me I began to think they aren't so great either and quite frankly they can go screw themselves if they actually think I care what they think...it is at this time that the subconscious part of Elizabeth would like to ask for forgiveness from her friends, she is not well, she has been living in the north and has not adjusted to the Yankee way of life yet. Please do not hold anything she is about to say as truth...just like when Mel Gibson didn't mean to call that policewoman "Sugar Tits" while he was drunk, Elizabeth does not mean what she is saying when she is sober....And another thing you douchebags...wait, where was I going with this?

Oh yeah, My friends:
(to protect the innocent I will acknowledge a random selection of friends by thinly veiled pseudonyms)

MICOLE
Pros: Has known friend for 33 years. Has never fought with friend. Friend is always there for me. Like a sister. Would take a bullet for this friend.

Cons: 33 years? Seriously? I'm only 34, have we really known each other that long? And why haven't we ever fought? Do you think you're better than me? You do, don't you? What with your fancy job where you make a livable wage...who cares that you can buy name brand cans of beans bitch...like the store brand is beneath you. Always there for me? Hah! When's the last time you sent a birthday gift on time? or a Xmas present? Whatever. Oh sure I might take a bullet for you but only if it was a matter of me dying and you getting gang raped by mutant turkey farmers...that's right Micole, I'd die before letting myself get plugged by a filth covered scrotum sack. I'm on to you...

LANDON

Pros: Tall, like 6'8" so he can reach light bulbs and spider webs. Makes me laugh. Smells like Old Spice. Can draw.

Cons: Only took up drinking when his girlfriend told him to...no you couldn't drink with your friend now could you? It had to be for a girl you were attracted to. God you're pathetic. And when I say Old Spice what I mean is out of date Paprika man...Dude, seriously, PAPRIKA. And why won't you ever return an email? How hard is it to type letters so they make a word? And the drawing? Sure you're good but where are my illustrations for my book Asswipe? Just because I'm not paying you doesn't mean you shouldn't do them...what else are you doing? I believe you once told me you spend a lot of time squeezing your dog's anal gland and I never made a crude remark out of respect. That's right respect. Besides, it gave me something to talk about behind your back. God you suck.

This is too depressing to go on...so what? I mentioned 2 friends but the rest of you know who you are and why I can neither live with you nor without you. Just know that I am keeping score and someday, when I win the lottery, our friendships will mean very little since I will be rich and can buy stuff that make me feel good like Top Shelf Tequila and a better computer.

Oh and NATHAN, just because you never gave me your new address when you moved, doesn't mean I won't find you...and send you a house warming gift.

An Open Pitch Letter to All Agents On the Event of My Availability to Be Represented

2008-05-19T07:55:00.004-04:00

Dear (Insert Name Here),

Many Congrats on the opportunity to represent me as a writer. As we embark on this new relationship whereby you take 10-15% of my income on projects that will only appeal to bitter 30-somethings who are underemployed and I fail to capture the mainstream market we shall both come to loathe one another deeply.

Now, like all relationships, the honeymoon phase will be sweet. You will fall in love with my newest book pitch, thinking it both hilarious as well as timely and can envision it appearing on many local news morning shows like, Wake Up Baltimore! or, Bacon and Eggs with a Side of Toasty News from McMinnville, Oregon! all of which will appeal to the tens of ones who watch such shows.

After signing me you will be pleasantly surprised by my naiveté when it comes to advances and I will promptly accept the lowest amount offered from a publisher without batting an eye or even reading the soul-sucking-bound-to-a-demon-god-creatively-strangling contract that you offer me to retain you. For so glad am I to have the opportunity to tell my mother that not only do I have an agent, but to also, "Get the Hell Off My Back Woman!" that I will finish my book before the deadline as well as be willing to pick up your dry cleaning, express the anal gland of your dog, or hand deliver rejection notices to your clients that suffer from anger issues.

Soon I will be your favorite client. Helpful, friendly, oblivious to anything remotely underhanded, I will be like a five year old child simply thrilled to able to go into the front yard. You will sell my book after only a few days of pitching and in return you will make a tidy sum for yourself as well as for the long list of expenses that you incurred including, "Massage Parlor" and, "The Lexus". The remaining amount of which will leave me with enough money for this month's rent and such luxuries as "Food" and "Laundry Detergent".

It will be at this point that I will become suspicious of you and will begin questioning your fees. You, of course, will explain that is customary to charge clients to breathe the same air as you when they are within 10 feet or to deduct $200-$300 every time I call you locally. This is standard, you will say, and I, still grateful that you have sold my book, will nod and agree that it is fair before donning my paper hat to go to work at the fast food restaurant across the street from you that you so generously got for me through your vast connections.

When my book is finally published eighteen months later you will throw me a launch party at Applebee's (which you will charge me for when my first royalty check comes in)giving a speech that will make me tear up and thank you profusely. As my book climbs onto the best sellers list you will call me up (charging me of course) to let me know before buying yourself an island from my sales and fleeing there to avoid extradition for embezzlement. After not returning my calls nor the FBI's, I will again be left agentless and will have to explain to my mother that it wasn't my fault that you took my money and will, again, be left out of the family's Xmas letter.

Broken by you I will retreat to my home where I will only eat frosting out of a can until I am so large I have to be cut out of my house. Covered in my own filth, drooling onto a dressing gown I fashioned out of a shower curtain, the only thing the EMS team can make out are the words, "(Insert Your Name Here)" and "I want a stick of butter for dinner."

So you see, up to the bitter end, we will be happy. A partnership made in heaven. So let me take the opportunity to thank you for choosing me, Elizabeth Young, as your client and I promise to fill your pockets with gold before you screw me over.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Young

PS. By the way, I write humor books.

Fashion Retardation: When Clothing Suffers from Down Syndrome

2008-05-07T15:09:00.003-04:00

Having a part-time job in the mall allows me to observe two things: How much I hate the American shopping public and how stupid most of the clothing options are for said public.

Gazing out of the entrance of my store I am struck by the following fashion statements:

1. GIANT sunglasses: sunglasses function primarily to keep the sun from searing your eyeballs and provide you with the ability to see. They do not, however, need to encompass your entire face until I see nothing but my full reflection in them down to my shoes. When I am talking to you while you are wearing them I am, in a way, talking to myself because all I see is me. If I wanted to talk to myself instead of you I would've bought myself a drink, taken me out for dinner, and told myself how completely awesome I am. Since I am, in fact, talking to you, I would like the opportunity to look into your eyes to verify my belief that you are as vapid and unresponsive as I believe you to be. The only people allowed to wear humongous glasses are old people and that's because they wear elastic pants.

2. Sweat pants with writing on the ass: While there is nothing inherently wrong with school spirit It is when you have it coming out of your ass that I have an issue with it. Under no circumstances do I need to see the name of your high school plastered over your shapely buttocks. Nor do I need to look up after having my eye line drawn to your butt billboard to see the sinister look in my boyfriend's eyes after thinking he caught me admiring another woman. All that does is put fantasies in his head which will take weeks of my precious time to deflate. If you feel that you must include words on your kiester try for something a bit more interesting and thought provoking such as: Go Green, No Blood for Oil, or I'm a Major Whore Who is A Disappointment to My Parents and Society as A Whole.

3. Tit Curtains (A description I have stolen because it's so good): Shirts that lay on the top of a woman's bosom and simply hang down so that it appears that the woman is pregnant when she isn't. I can't imagine a worse look on someone than a shirt that implies you're with child or are simply too fat to wear a normal shirt. You might as well just herd yourself into the Dress Barn there fatty and go with the mu-mu. As a woman who has packed on a few pounds due to beer and the occasional food binge I can honestly say that I try to avoid any fashion that has someone coming up to me to ask me when I'm due. It's a personal preference I'm sure, but seeing as I am holding on to just a thread of self-esteem I will try to live in a fantasy world where a size 14 is considered small.

4. The Ascot: This look was stupid in the seventies and has remained so throughout the decade. I don't care if Ashton Kutcher is wearing one to a premiere, we are talking about the guy who made puffy hats popular and that is something we as Americans should not tolerate. The only person who ever wore an ascot that had any dignity at all was Mr. Furley (Don Knotts) on Three's Company and that was because he was a complete ass and could pull off fey like a God. If I see a teenage boy walking near me in an ascot I swear I will not only rip it from his throat, I will also ball it up and rape him with it. A harsh penalty I know but sometimes tough love is what gets the point across.

5.Ass Cleavage Jeans: In the last few years I have seen so much butt crack I feel I am at a plumber's convention. Girls, seriously, I'm sure that you enjoy giving the guys an eye full and I don't blame you. You're young, possibly attractive, and your skin is at the peak of perfection. However, if it's all the same to you I would like to live in a world where the question of how well you wiped doesn't even come to mind. And that's just from the back. There is a whole other problem when you turn around. Frankly speaking, the idea that your pubic bone and I are now on a first name basis because it is simply there right in the open is a bit much for me. Especially now that I'm convinced that you partake in a Brazilian wax and have absolutely no shame. Ladies I am not your gynecologist and I thank you very much to keep your junk in the trunk. It is only polite.

and lastly,

6. Roller Skate Shoes: Why are you buying your kid's these? Are you mad? Do you not understand that roller skate shoes lead to children being too lazy to walk anywhere? Soon we will have legions of children strapping themselves onto the nearest adults like monkeys so we can cart around them around. We are de-evolving as a species people. Let the little shits walk! I have to wear high heel shoes to work where I stand for 8+ hours helping dumb asses like you buy jewelry while your mongoloid offspring zoom around the store knocking things off of shelves while you stand there looking at me to pick it up! I hate you! I hate your kid! I hate the fact that I have to wear a suit! Where did my life go? What am I doing here at a mall? I hate the Mall.

sobbing turns into full body dry heaves...

I Have a Job...I Am So Very Tired...I Pray For a Head Injury

2008-04-25T07:36:00.004-04:00

I have run out of money.

Such is the life of a writer. Because I am nearing the single digit category in my checking account I have sought out the only path open to a writer that has no career aspirations other than to write humor and porn. Retail.

Which means I am thrown around the public, many of whom I do not enjoy, and forced to sell them things they do not need. To add insult to injury the store to which I am required to be part of a "team" with is brand new and I have spent the last week working 10-11 hour days (IN DRESS CLOTHES NO LESS!)setting it up so that I can spend the upcoming week working 10-11 hour days (IN DRESS CLOTHES!!!)selling things that are sparkly.

Did I mention that the store sells jewelry?

As a person who wears bracelets made of glitter and office supplies, I am out of my league. As someone whose own business attire is a tank top, sweat pants, and flip flops, I appear at a loss when it comes to looking "professional". Did you know that there are different colors of black? And I quite possibly bought the only suit jacket/pant combo in the world that reflects that? Did you also know that high heel shoes are a torture device made specifically to upset me on both an emotionally and physical level? Are you also aware that I have to interact with customers, learn their jewelry needs, and ask them to be part of a "crystal world"?

I'm telling you all right now, If I have to invite anyone to join me in a crystal world the word "meth" better come immediately after the word "crystal". That's all I'm saying.

So as I embark on a job that I am positive I will lose within the next couple of months, I am hoping to rebuild my money, publish more stories, and go broke once more so that I can begin the process of looking for another job that will break my spirit and punish my soul.

And if any of you would like to live in a "crystal world" I have the directions to get there...just don't ask me to come.

I'm 34 today. Why?

2008-04-07T10:39:00.003-04:00

Today I woke up knowing for the first time that I am in my mid-thirties. The Unexplained aches and pains, the supreme hatred of Hannah Montana merchandise, the realization that although the 90's feel like last week, there were in fact, almost a decade ago. All these things put together are evidence that I am now getting old.

And for what reason?

As I look over at my stack of Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic books, my collection of Mystery Science Theater 3000 movies, and of course, the copious amount of porn, I have to ask myself, "Is this my adulthood?" At some point in one's life you have to re-evaluate your existence and now, as I try to remember why my left butt check would have a bruise, I have to make a decision. Do I grow up and become a productive member of society or do I lay back down and take a nap, ignoring all signs of being productive?

I am choosing the latter.

I refuse to embrace my mid-thirties as a time of change. In fact, I plan on embracing beer instead. (Although I will give a hug to a savings account. That I can be adult about, no sense putting my extra cash in a cigar box any longer, I am, after all 34.) Oh, and I will give a double butt squeeze to adding more Nachos in my life...because I can and because after all the beer it'll taste just as good coming back up as going down.

Okay, so adulthood solved. More beer and nachos, less everything else. I think I can make it till 40. After that I will have to just kill myself.

The Breakdown of My Relationship with God Through Our Increasingly Lackluster Emails

2008-04-03T12:40:00.004-04:00

bloatedtick@gmail.com

Hey God,

I wanted to say thanks for letting me cry all over you last night. I really appreciate it. It's so hard to meet people, especially someone so thoughtful like you. I am looking forward to spending more time with you. I promise I won't be so weepy next time.

-Elizabeth
P.S. let me know when you want to get together again.

god@allknowing.com

My child,

I too had a good time last evening. Don't worry about the crying, my robe is snot resistant LOL. Besides, I am used to it. I tend to attract people who are suffering, you wouldn't believe the stuff I have to listen to...anyway, I would like to spend more time with you too, just not on the weekends, I am totally swamped then. How about Tuesday? I did have something planned but I can alway postpone it.
Let me know.

-God

bloatedtick@gmail.com

God,

I had so much fun on Tuesday! Boy can you go through the beer! I don't know how you were able to remain sober after three cases but wow, I will never challenge you to a drink off again :) By the end of the night I couldn't even remember my name let alone remember where I put my pants. Speaking of which, do you happen to know why I woke up today six months pregnant? I am on birth control so it is a bit surprising. Anyway, call me later.

-Elizabeth

god@allknowing.com

My child,

How can you be six months pregnant? I pulled out? How could this have happened? I mean, you weren't a virgin or anything, no virgin I have ever met brings a riding crop to a date. I have to think about this. I have a feeling this is going to end badly.

-God

bloatedtick@gmail.com

God,

Don't worry about the pregnancy...it was gas. Remind me not to eat Mexican food then have sex with a deity...the combination was pretty hardcore apparently. Anyway, I thought maybe we could hook up again. I bought some angel wings ;)

-Elizabeth

god@allknowing.com

My freaky child,

I'm glad it was gas and sure let's get together. I'll pick you up tonight.

-God
P.S. Bring the wings

bloatedtick@gmail.com

God,

I didn't mean to laugh. Erectile Dysfunction happens to everyone.

-Elizabeth

god@allknowing.com

My child,

No big Whoop.
You want to go out tonight?

-God

bloatedtick@gmail.com

I kind of need to stay home tonight. I have a deadline.

-Elizabeth

god@allknowing.com

Sure. Whatever.

-God

god@allknowing.com

My child,

I bought Viagra. Want to test it out? I miss you.

-God

god@allknowing.com

My bitch-whore-child,

So? You won't take any of my calls? Do you know who I am? I could smite your entire family bitch. Why don't you call me? I love you. We were meant for each other...I'll prove that we belong together. You wanted a Wii right? Well look outside, I gave you one. How about all the seasons of Scrubs? Remember when we got drunk and watched the marathon and how we laughed? Good times.

Please love me again.

-God

bloatedtick@gmail.com

God,

I met someone else. Please stop calling me or emailing me. It's not you, it's me. Blah, blah, blah. Look you're way too needy and frankly, I don't have the time to deal with someone who cries after sex...and by the way, EVERYONE is stressed out not just you.

Go find someone else.

-Elizabeth

god@allknowing.com

My child,

I am so sorry for being a good guy. I know you like to be treated like dirt and perhaps you deserve it. Apparently a well adjusted guy with a good job doesn't do it for you. It's your loss miss wonderful. I know a half-billion women alone who would kill to go out with the guy that created the universe. Good luck to you and whatever disease-infected toad you are allowing inside your vagina.

-God

Six Months Later

bloatedtick@gmail.com

Dear God,

Forgive me?

-Elizabeth

god@allknowing.com

My Child,

Feel free to go blow yourself.

Love,

All that is Holy

PS. Forgiveness is not my bag toots, try my son.

How to Randomly Seduce a Man Whlie Drinking: A Personal Story

2008-04-01T18:22:00.006-04:00

So here's how this will go.

Take several bottles of wine and a couple of six packs of PBR. Drink all the wine yourself over the course of the evening. Give, or, push, the beer onto the novice drinker who is several years younger than you and makes you squishy.

Watch movies.

Choose action and/or westerns, preferably "Tombstone" as it has the best lines ever written and, when drunk, you can say, "I'm your huckleberry" and think it's hilarious.

At some point, slink off the couch in a sexy, tempestuous manner. (If you are already throughly drunk feel free to just fall off the couch, onto your stomach, while emitting a pig-like snort).

Make your way over to where the object of your lust is located and make small talk like, "YOU WANNA HIT IT?" and, "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH MY VAGINA."

At this point, hopefully, your lust bunny will not be able to resist your borderline rape tactics and give in to your demands. But there is always the chance that the man of your (sex) dreams is THE ONE GUY WHO HAS MORALS EVEN THOUGH HE IS SHIT-FACED! If this is the case be prepared for the speech: You're great, I'm flattered, we can't have sex because you remind me of my sister, blah, blah, blah. If you were sober this would be the ultimate sucker punch but thank God you have just finished the second bottle of wine and are not afraid to go back in for more. Because let's face it, if you haven't had sex in six months you have no choice.

You are horny.

At this point it is imperative that you believe his denial of your advances comes from him being a good guy and not because he caught sight of your fish-belly white fat roll that was illuminated in the moonlight as you slid off the couch onto your head.

Remember, it's all about attitude. You are a sexy, funny woman with skills. You've been around the block. You aren't afraid to try new things. And most of all, you repeatedly test negative on all the STD scans that your doctor begs you to have considering the damage you have repeatedly put your genitals through.

Back to the seduction.

Ply him with more beer and push away those hazy moral dilemmas like, "Is it still molestation if he's too drunk to say no?", or, "At what point do I become white trash?".

The point is to push on in spit of his obvious non attraction to you. This is America for Christ's sake, it is not only your right to take advantage of drunk people with a penis, it is expected.

When you have drunk absolutely everything that contains alcohol in the house and both of you are on the floor unable to physically sit up, it is time to make your move.

First, fling your arm into the air and hope the dead weight of it will land somewhere on his person. If you make contact, use your other arm to help maneuver your hand around so that it appears that you are feeling him up. (If you happen to make contact with his face and knocked him out just continue on).

Second, If he is still conscious and hasn't thrown up from your touch it is wise to pretend you aren't touching him at all and try and carry on a conversation. This will confuse him and he won't be able to protest that your hand is underneath his shirt. Trust me, this logic makes perfect sense when you have lost the ability to use words containing the letter S.

Last, talk about the movie, the weather, or your one lesbian experience in college in graphic detail. Try to pepper your conversation with random outbursts of words that, when linked, have no meaning. Like, "Val Kilmer is great as Doc Holliday...Fish Tacos...I think he is a really good actor...(giggle)...Penis".

If, by this time, he has not given in to your demands of, "...no seriously, I only need five minutes." give up. You are only human. As you gather up the tattered shreds of your self-esteem, tell him that you appreciate his decorum and escort him to the door. In his niceness he will probably give you a side hug. (The kind of hug that only involves his hand around your shoulder and screams, PLEASE DON'T READ INTO THIS IN ANY WAY, YOU FRIGHTEN ME AND I DON'T WISH TO ANGER YOU FURTHER. He will then pat your head like a mental patient.

Say good-bye, close the door, and fall onto the floor. Let your last fleeting thought of consciousness be that of your plan to try and sleep with him again next week. And this time have Roofies on hand.

Babies are Ugly: An Essay on Breeding

2008-03-31T20:14:00.002-04:00

“Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore, and that's what parents were created for”-Ogden Nash (The Parent 1933)

One of adulthood's little ironies is that, at some point, after all the years of being told to avoid it, you will start being questioned by family and friends as to why you haven't begun to have children.

For a woman this comes as a complete surprise since you distinctly remember the “Whore” talk that your mother gave you when you went away to college about how no man will ever want the cow if you give way the milk for free. Which, looking back at now, was quite demeaning toward you and your weight problem.

For a man the protection of your precious seed has been a lifelong battle. Through the close calls, the horrifying moments of hearing, “I'm late,” to the sheer dumb luck of not knocking up the one-night stand, your man-juice has been yours and yours alone. Now having to consider the possibility of giving it to another person who will use it to trap you into a long-term relationship with no chance to flee is not only laughable, but could be construed as terrorism.

During your twenties as you progressed from awkward adolescent virgin to an awkwardly adequate sex partner, the option to bring life into the world was on par with say, boiling your nether regions in hot oil. The idea that now, somehow, you are in a position to impregnate or be impregnated by someone both legally and morally is something akin to getting a well paying job right after college, meaning: unheard of. After all, how could you possibly have a child when you can't even figure out where your cat hides? And to whom you frequently forget to give water and food to, or even clean the litter box for?1

Children are a commitment that lasts a lifetime and unfortunately one that you can't talk your way out of like a gym membership once you realize it's not for you. And, if you decide to forgo children entirely, how do you reconcile with a mother who buys Christmas presents for the grandchildren she might have had had you not been such a selfish ass. How do you choose wisely?

How to tell you are ready for children

1.You never realized your dream of playing (insert activity here) and know that your offspring will accomplish all that you did not.
2.You move to an area where you know no one and figure a kid will give you an opportunity to meet new people.
3.Your sibling has increased the amount of gifts you are required to purchase for holidays by pumping out child after child and you want to even the score.
4.You find the sound of children singing has become relaxing instead of painful.
5.You're bored.
6.You are uncomfortable with having enough money to pay your bills and to buy video games.
7.You're curious to see if a harelip skips a generation or not.
8.The prospect of raising a child in the opposite way you were raised will upset your mother.
9.You can bitch and complain about something specific now.
10.You have been too busy boozing it up to realize that you haven't seen your period in three months.

How to tell you shouldn't have children (or be near them unsupervised)

1. Everything you own is expensive, highly collectible, and sharp. And you will kill anyone that touches them.
2. At family gatherings you are known as Aunt/Uncle Leave-Me-Alone.
3. You like to sleep in.
4. You will not, under any circumstances, put up with children's musical theater.
5. You prefer your clothing to be stained by your own vomit not someone else's.
6. You do not want to be responsible for naming something that can talk back.
7. You think all infants resemble Ed Asner.
8. You are sure the whole “parenthood thing” is just a phase people are going through.
9. When kids fall, you laugh.
10. You have been too busy boozing it up to realize that you haven't seen your period in three months.2

If children are indeed part of your future, congratulations, you are about to embark on a lifetime of joy and overwhelming responsibility...not to mention losing yourself entirely, questioning your place in society, and countless encounters with other parents who are positively convinced that their children are geniuses.

The first thing to remember is that even though you may have created this perfect little entity, they hate you. Nothing is more devastating to a child than to realize that you are it's parents. From the moment this genetic beast you brought in this world can hold up it's own head, it is trying to figure out a way to ruin everything you hold dear. This does not mean you are a terrible parent, in fact, you are doing a great job. Anytime your own child curses your existence and blames you for everything it means you are raising a child properly. If any parent refers to themselves as their child's best friend, be afraid, for what they have created is a demon, not an offspring, and those parents will come to rue the day they brought forth life. For it is inevitable that a “child friend” will become “the convict you visit on holidays”.

Maintaining the balance of warden and loving parent is a precarious one. As your child moves from hateful child, to seriously unbalanced pre-teen, to full blown psychotic teenager you will seriously contemplate swallowing large quantities of pills. You will have never-ending fights over hair, music, friends, body mutilation, and truancy the likes of which you never knew were possible. You and your partner will fall into bed at night filled with the sweet longing of carbon monoxide poisoning. And finally, when your child is finally ready to leave the nest, you are nothing but a shell of a human being. But, there will come a day when your soul-sucking cretin will come crawling to your door with their own horror of a child and say the words every parent dreams about, “I am so sorry for what I did to you.”. It as at this point that the wonder of parenthood is finally reached and you can sit back and enjoy the pleasure of it.

If you have decided that children are a curse you are unwilling to bear, you will be happy for the rest of your life, able to come and go whenever you want, and most importantly, nap. You will also be the most hated person within your group of friends and family. Especially when you mention that you are thinking of spending the summer in Venice for no other reason than because you can.

An Open Letter to All the Men Who Have Ever Asked Me, "What are you thinking?"

2008-03-24T20:27:00.003-04:00

(Warning: Language and Adult Situations the likes of which could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon)

"In my fantasies no one has ever loved me for my mind."-Nora Ephron

First off, let me make it perfectly clear, you will never match up to the lover that lives inside my head. Never. In fact, it would be wise to never ask me what my fantasies are as I highly doubt that you have access to a wrestling ring, catholic school boys yielding riding crops, or a swimming pool equipped with vibrating mouths on the sides. This is for your own benefit. Every time I am asked what gets me off I am left with the vague feeling that you are expecting me to say, "Another woman while you watch." or, "Watching you with another woman." not, "Being serviced by an entire Latin soccer team." or, "Being fucked at work in the supply closet while my boss is outside the door masturbating."

This is not to say you don't excite me. The fact that you have a penis is enough to make me go a round with you. But what happens when you're inside me and what goes on in my head are two different things. You might think that I'm getting worked up because of that new twisty-turn you've been practicing, but what's really going on is somewhere deep in the nether regions of my mind I am tied to table and being forced into a double-penetration senario with a faceless man-beast and David Duchovny.

Here's the thing, in my mind I am always the sexiest bitch alive. I don't have to worry about the faceless man-beast getting upset about my fish belly white stomach rolls, that I forgot to tweeze that one hair near my nipple, or that I wore the ugly granny panties. Why? Because the faceless man-beast is in awe of my sexual debauchery and doesn't have time to see the untweezed hair because, well, he's too busy between my thighs. This lover is virile, doesn't talk, does what I say, and most importantly, has no ex-girlfriend who messed with his head. You see, in reality, when the afterglow period is starting to wain and the desire to shower you off of me begins, I catch you looking at me and I know you are about to force me into the, "Was it good for you?" conversation. In which I have to tell you it was great and placate your sexual inadequacies lest I become "...that bitch who fucked me up sexually and now all others have to pay.". It simply isn't worth it. Sure there are times when I am so overcome with lust for you that the mere sight of you naked will make me quiver, but for the most part I will be applying the classic fantasies that has gotten me to my happy place since my teen years.

Unless of course you do have access to a bunch of innocent catholic boys who want to show me the face of God.

Barack Obama: The Man I Would Spoon With

2008-03-17T11:34:00.002-04:00

I love Obama with a kind of reckless abandon best left to those who would throw themselves on the hoods of their boyfriend's cars just so they won't drive away. It is an impractical love, a dangerous love, and has all the elements of desperation and just the faintest whiff of stalking. I will not apologize for this love and the last time I felt this passionate for a presidential candidate it was 1996 and his name was Bill Clinton and I wanted to have his baby.

So perhaps I am a bit insane but I like the fact that a candidate can take me to places that even surpasses an orgasm. In fact, I am finally looking forward to a future where the sun shines a bit more, where I don't have to claim I'm Canadian when I travel outside the US, and that my president doesn't resemble a Dyslexic Mongoloid with a speech impediment. As overused as the word "change" has become, Obama encompasses the word and I see a brighter future for us all, one with a hipper soundtrack, quite possibly featuring Sly & the Family Stone.

Which is why I am ready to throw down when someone messes with my man. For whatever reason the media has decided that because Obama's minister, The Rev. Jeremiah Wright, has made a few comments that white people don't like, suddenly Barack is the scary black man who will rape your daughter.

Which begs the question: Why should anyone be responsible for what another person says? You can't condemn a man for what a member of his family or a friend says or believes. Can you imagine what would happen if every raise, every job offer, even every dating scenario began with, "Hey, we would really like to have you here but unfortunately your Aunt Lettie made a racial comment about Mexicans and we believe that you probably feel the same way as well. So please get out of our sight you human stain." Were I to be judged completely on the pathetic, asinine things my family and friends routinely allow to come out of their mouthes I would be seriously fucked, not to mention locked away. So why blame Obama for what his minister says? And why isn't an unpopular opinion valid?

As a white female who grew up in an all white town I understand Rev. Wright's concern. We white people are way too politically correct when it comes to race in this country, and because we are scared of people who are different, we want all minorities to see us as being inclusive. Unfortunately we aren't and anytime a person of color reminds us of our hidden bigotry we get all uppity and let everyone know how many "black friends" we have. Which, if we are being completely honest about, is like one and we only see them at the office.

I like that Obama has someone around that says all the inappropriate things that most people who aren't white are thinking. I also like the fact that Obama, refers to him, "...like an old uncle who sometimes says things I don't agree with." It's real and it's true, just like life. And so what if the guy distrust white people, I can barely stand them myself, and isn't that what makes this country so incredibly interesting anyway? We may not all like each other but we sure as hell know when to come together in a tragedy. And in the end that's what matters.

So leave the controversy alone and pay attention to the real issues. Like a government that committed crimes, a failing economy, and most importantly, another season of Dancing with the Stars.

And on a personal note, Barack, if you are reading this, call me. I totally want to be your intern.

I am a Victim

2008-03-13T11:29:00.003-04:00

Earlier this week part of my apartment complex was swallowed up by a sinkhole for no apparent reason. Either I am living on a fault line or my mother has telepathically created a way to punish me for not giving her grandchildren. Regardless of why, I survived the chaos and am ready for my day in the victim sun.

With the press copters circling overhead and me not having taken a shower due to the possibility that my water heater could blow up the rest of the complex, I stood among the crowd of neighbors, smelling strongly of BO and waited for the journalists to line up and portray me as a poor sap with a tale to tell and, quite possibly, a movie-of-the-week to pitch. And what did I get? One schlep on a Moped that asked me how I felt about the big hole.

Okay, so no one died but I did see people mildly annoyed that their home started leaning to the left a lot and isn't being woken up by a strapping fireman at four in the morning something to write about even if they weren't there to ravage my nubile flesh? Look, I don't get a lot of interesting things happening to me since I moved up to the sticks and frankly I'm a bit upset that my pain isn't even worth a mention. I'm not asking to start palling around with Paris Hilton but at least let me cut out an article in the local paper that quotes me. And trust me, I had some awesome quotes.

"It was only by the grace of the God I don't believe in that I wasn't having diarrhea at the time."

"I believe it was caused by global warming, that or the sound of Albert in Apt. B10 snoring."

" WHY ME? I HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR...And DEAR GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO THE KITTENS?"

All I'm saying is that I had something happen to me and I feel that I need to pocket a little coin from the experience. Isn't that the American way? So now I'm sitting at home not talking to Diane Sawyer and instead having to re-adjust to a life that is completely the same as it was. I haven't grown as a person, I haven't re-evaluated what's really important, and frankly I feel that as self-absorbed as I am, I know I could've given a couple of great sound bites that would've given the impression that I care about humankind.

And now, as far as I am concerned, the world can go screw itself. I mean seriously, how hard is it for the earth to drag me down to the pit of hell just so I can get on Nightline? Mother Fucker.

I'm taking a stand for Abstinence

2008-03-12T13:09:00.004-04:00

In this crazy free-for-all world we live in I am ready to stand up for morality in this country. That's right, I'm not afraid to say it. I believe in abstinence for young people...anal abstinence that is; I don't really care what you do with your other orifices.

You see I have come to learn that as the Moral Majority has asked all of our young people to make a pledge for abstinence, more and more young women are withholding their virginity for that one special person whom they will spend the rest of their life with. However, since the hoo-ha is off limits these young do-gooders are tearing up the poop shoot with a wild abandon even I have to wince at. Now, call me old-fashioned but I believe anal sex should be left to those who are legally drunk enough to allow it. For myself that's once a year and I tend to be so sloshed that the sentence, "Hey, wrong hole" is barely able to escape my lips before I pass out face first into a pillow and awake the next morning with gastrointestinal problems, which I will suffer from for at least a week.

In my day (late 80's-early 90's) anal pleasure was off the table in high school sex negotiations. No one even breathed a word of it. Now, I know that it was often thought of by a few male friends of mine but it was discussed in the same way we would talk about our careers after college. You know, very distant and probably never going to happen. We were comfortable with the regular sex stuff and we liked it that way. It was hard enough to live down being a slut, let alone to introduce a completely new hole into the equation.

In high school you should start your sexual experimentation simply: for girls, you make out and dry hump for weeks with your boyfriend until they cry, then you up the ante with nakedness only to deny entry, and only after your boyfriend is doubled over with blue ball pain do you allow access to your nether regions and the subsequent disappointment and pain of your first time. For boys, I believe that there is a lot of masturbation and the fear of premature ejaculation followed by a feeling of supreme manhood which should deflate once you sleep with a woman who knows what she wants. No one should ever begin a sex life with anal ripping. That would be like passing over pot to shoot heroine straight into your eyeball. Trust me on this. If you are wanting to "save" yourself for marriage more power to you, but if you enter into a marriage with a butthole that you can drive a mack truck into you might have some problems. Also, I truly believe that a hubby who wants a virgin bride might be a bit put off if he can wear your anus like a hat.

Just an opinion.

Recipes & Tips to Survive a Family Get-Together

2008-02-27T08:32:00.000-05:00

Imagine that you have finally found comfort within your own skin. You are content in your job, your relationship is going better than you expected, you have carefully created the adult version of yourself that has, at last, shed all the family drama that you have been carrying for years.

As you sit on the couch with your beloved watching your guilty pleasure TV show, Flavor of Love, the phone rings and in an instant you know it's your family.

In two weeks your perfectly aligned life will be under attack by family members who want to share the horror of their lives with you and to introduce your significant other to all your personal demons and stories that you have desperately tried to block out. You are under attack. And it will only be a matter of time before your brother will bring up the fact that your favorite band in the eighties was El Debarge.

In order to make it through 3 1/2 days of constant family time, I give you the following recipes and tips:

1/2 Day: Your family arrives later in the afternoon. At this point they will be on their best behavior so you have at least two hours of no criticism. Welcome them into your home and start talking as much as possible. By keeping the conversation flowing with small-talk you can cock-block any major verbal assaults. Go out to dinner at a local establishment. Ply them with liquor. If there is a micro brewery in your town go there, they always have a beer sampler platter that will make your mother sleepy. Your brother will be a different story, beer has no affect on him so start buying him shots immediately. By the time dinner is over your family is too sleepy to do any harm. Carry them to bed and try to get some sleep.

Day 1: Wake up your significant other and get them out of the house before your family gets up. As the sounds of your brother's farting signals he is almost ready to get out of bed, begin breakfast.

Valium Pancakes

*Follow directions on box to make pancakes.
*Crush three Valium pills and mix with batter.
*Cook up flap jacks and feed your family.

After breakfast take family on a tour of your town. If you live in a touristy area it should be easy to keep them occupied with boring historical sights and random museums. If you live somewhere that no one wants to visit take them to Wal-Mart. At this point they should be numb enough from the pancakes to be excited to see a McDonalds. Spend most of the day in a constant state of terror that you can't wear these people out. In the afternoon ply them with more alcohol. When your mom asks for a tylenol for a headache give her a couple of Midol. This should increase her loopiness. When your brother expresses boredom try to find a hooker.

By late afternoon/evening take them back home. By this time your S.O (significant other) will be home from work and can help you negotiate your family by asking safe questions like, "What did you do today?" and, "When are you leaving again?". If the conversation begins to turn to personal issues and you over hear the words, Junior High, Fat, and Cried A lot in any order go ahead a cut your hand open with a knife so that your open wound can provide a conversational detour. Being rushed to the emergency room will kill at least three-four hours and you can probably get some pain-killers out of it.

Virgin Cherry Nyquil Fizzies

*Fill glass half full of ice
*Pour in 3 tbspoons of Cherry Nyquil
*Fill glass with club soda
*Top with a cherry

Serve to family. In 20 minutes you will have some peace.

Day 2: Repeat wake-up of Day 1. Today take family to the mall, the movies, and Best Buy. If there is a zoo anywhere near you go there. An aquarium? Even better. Fill the day with such random events that everyone is confused and disoriented. Feed them every few hours to keep them groggy. Keep the pain-killers on-hand for any emergencies. By the time evening comes your family will be dizzy enough to lose the power of coherent speech. If you own any type of foreign movie this is the time to put it in the DVD player. This should keep entire family immobile. Order in the heaviest food you can find: Cheese Steaks, Extra-large Pizza, Meatball Hoagies and keep an eye out for anyone looking like they might vomit.

Vanilla and Unisom Ice Cream Sunday

*Crush 2 Unisom tablets per person and mix them into the ice cream.
*Give each family member one scoop per dish.
*Pour on hot fudge, chopped walnuts, and a cherry.
*Feed it to your family

in about 15 minutes you can have sex with your S.O without any interruptions.

Day 3: Wake up family early so they won't miss their flight. Hug and kiss each one, telling them how great it was to see them again. Promise to call. Usher them out to waiting van that will take them away from you. Enjoy your freedom once again.

There. Now you can comfortably make it through a family visit without going crazy. Now the only thing you have to worry about is what to do when your S.O's family comes up.

I Love Rejection! or, How drinking has allowed me to contiue writing

2008-02-15T15:27:00.000-05:00

Today is a very special day for me because I received my 100th rejection off of one of my pitches. That's right people, I have reached that pinnacle of success that is sometimes looked at by family members as failure.

In order for those that don't make a meager living off of writing let me explain. A constant stream of rejection is what we writers live for. To constantly be rejected allows us to maintain the belief that, "those damn idiots wouldn't know good writing if it bit them in the ass." Believing that we are simply too good of a writer to be hired is what gets us through the day.

Case in point, today I was rejected by Southwest Airlines Spirit Magazine. You read that correctly, I was rejected by a magazine that lives in the seat back of a plane. My pitch was simple and fit with the style of the magazine...and I was rejected. Did I cry? No. Did I throw myself to the ground and bellow to the heavens? Well...okay, but only for like, two minutes. The point is that I am comfortable with being rejected and like all writers I cursed the magazine out and began searching for the next periodical to wish me , "...the best of luck finding the right fit."

Rejection of one's work isn't the only rejection a writer can handle. We are good at losing out on promotions at work, being shot down when asking someone out for a date, and we are adept at handling premature ejaculations, either ourselves or by a significant other, the same way we do everything else. With little more than a sigh and silent sobbing.

You see, being rejected isn't that bad, it's the possibility of succeeding that terrifies me the most. Right now, sitting at a publishing house is a pitch that the editor said is, and I quote, "...very funny and well done." This editor also advised me that my idea is being given careful consideration and they are looking at their publishing slate. I don't know what that means but I have a feeling that it might be good. Which is why I am having diarrhea. I am unable to process acceptance. It is, in fact, a completely foreign concept, and like Mexican food, is going through me at a rapid rate. If I am allowed to publish something I will most likely fall into a coma.

Although I spent several years as a writer/editor for a regional magazine and was regularly published, I was only allowed to write about people who were connected to us through advertising, and thus had my ideas shot done on a monthly basis. Being told what to write about feels exactly the same as being rejected, which is why it was a perfect match. I could always bitch about the stories I was forced to do while at the same time I was gaining writing credits. It was only when I left the magazine that I realized what a great thing I had going...and how I am longing to write about the people my editor did blow with.

So as I flip through the newest edition of the Writer's Market trying to find another mag to throw myself into, I am filled with the expectation of another email letting me know I have failed again. And like a warm hug from a critical mother I look forward to it.

Thanks to MySpace I am reliving the nightmare world of high school

2008-02-11T20:44:00.000-05:00

MySpace. Dear God what have I done?

Under peer pressure from my best friend (who I have known since I was one), I was bullied into joining the popular website MySpace for no other reason other than to subject myself to even more pressure to be popular than I had remembered from high school.

Under the guise that it would be easier to keep in touch with friends (as if picking up the phone or emailing them was too difficult a chore) I filled out my profile and started requesting that I be allowed to be "friends" with the people I was already friends with. As I was accepted into the fold of the people who I hung out with on a regular basis I was beginning to notice a pattern: I was not getting responses from my blood relatives.

My brother, who has only one "friend" listed, refuses to grant me access to him. It states clearly in his profile that he is on MySpace for relationships and friends, which of course should mean that I be allowed on his friend space. It is not unreasonable to expect instant acceptance as I spent many a day sitting in the bathroom with him when he was a little boy so that Jason Vorhees could not kill him during a prolonged bowl movement...My father thought it would be a good idea to show a five year old and a nine year old Friday the 13th Part 2, then, as both my brother and I huddled together in a state of frozen fear, let us know that Jason was probably outside watching us, and "Good Night". My brother's constant rejection is, needless to say, ruining my self esteem.

My brother aside, the idea that I have to request fake friendships so that I can accost the people I know is a bit unnerving. So is the fact that as I "message" old friends, I have to see the smiling faces of the assholes I hated in high school staring back at me from their friend space.

These people, who drove me bat shit insane, are supposed to be living in trailers with several dozen children who are missing certain facial features, not happily married to lawyers or members of the Junior League. How am I supposed to craft a carefully constructed fantasy life in which the bitches who would always prank call me while they were at a party and I was sitting home had multiple cases of VD if I can see that they not only retained their high school weight but are successful? How am I supposed to live with that? Isn't the whole point of leaving high school so you don't have to see these people again until the reunion (but not the 10 year reunion because you were not published yet in a decent magazine, and you were growing out that ridiculous hairstyle from your poser Goth days) The horror of knowing that any minute one of these people can pull up my profile and see my lack of progress is enough to make me have diarrhea. And trust me, anal leakage is something I am very familiar with.

So now every time I log on to the website it is with a sense of fear that I will be given a virtual weggie by people who I have spent a lifetime of therapy trying to forget. As I make my way through the corridors of painful high school memories I try to sustain the belief that I have moved past the horrible wardrobe choices of my youth and am a hip urban professional of today whose greatest power is to reject these people if they ever try to "friend" me. That and the fact that I can shotgun a beer like a linebacker.

It would make sense, that if I am so upset to see that these people exist, I would delete myself from MySpace. But I have never made sense and I know that I will continue to visit their profiles and wish bad things upon them, contemplating whether or not it would be wise to post a message about how much they suck while I am drinking. As a product of society I am without shame and will spend countless hours comparing my life to theirs. I am comfortable with this arrangement, even though it pisses me off. It is simply through my lack of common sense that I be allowed to live my life in this way.

Now, if I can only get my brother to be my friend, I could finally be happy. That and trying to get my mother to go on MySpace just for the opportunity to reject her.

My delay to write a blog can be blamed on my family

2008-02-07T14:57:00.000-05:00

Due to the fact that I was created by my parents and subsequently born to them I am, apparently, endebted to my bloodline. And thus, when troubles arrive, I am forced to come and wallow in their issues...a previously undisclosed arrangement that became apparent during a conversation with my mother that went something like this, "mom go to the doctor.", "Because you're sick.", "You're right, I don't own you.", "Fine, I'm coming down there and forcing your ass into the doctor's office.", "Screw you as well."

So I am in Dallas for a week.

Oh and I was fired by my job.

And I haven't slept since Monday.

Can someone please adopt me?

Future postings will be a lot funnier. I plan to drink as soon as I get home.

(returning to the blog universe on Feb. 11th-stay tuned)

Heath Ledger dead at 28...Britney Spears still allowed to share my air

2008-01-23T09:32:00.000-05:00

Where were you when Heath Ledger died?

Okay so maybe it's not as important as say, "Where were you when Dick Cheney blew his friends face off?" yet it's still somewhat horrible as Mr. Ledger appeared to be a well adjusted man who was a great actor and had the potential of bringing me years of enjoyment.

And yet there's Britney Spears...the human equivalent to a toe fungus, who is allowed to breed babies, appear suicidal at all times, consume amazing amounts of drugs and alcohol, and allow someone who refers to himself as K-Fed to evolve into the better parent.

I still have to come to grips with the fact that I actually said, "K-Fed should be given full custody of his boys, he is much more responsible" not only out loud but within hearing distance of family and friends.

Which brings me to this question: How is it that we lose good people in such a senseless way and are instead left with spunk-encrusted nymphets who spend their days covered in blow, panty-less, and seemingly without a morsel of commonsense?

The answer: Intelligent Design enthusiasts.

Bear with me.

Intelligent Design is a theory that we sprung, fully formed by God. Perfect. Without Fault. In His image. We have politicians that believe in this theory. We have a movement of people who refuse to believe that we evolved into humans. These are people who think the earth is like five thousand years old.

I believe that evolution has decided to kill off the human species by allowing these ass monkeys such as your Britney Spears, your Hilton sisters, your L.L to maintain life. I believe that evolution is saying to us as a whole, "Hey, you want to believe that a mythical man-creature made you out of dirt, well here you go numb-nuts, I give you your tabloid whores. Welcome to your future."

By systematically taking the good genes out of the equation, evolution is draining the proverbial pool of decent stock and leaving us with mutant, Quasimodo-like genes that will create a race of imbeciles. Who will, more than likely, be found covered in their own filth staring directly at the sun.

So when I pose the question: Where were you when Heath Ledger died? Ponder it deeply, because it's not simply about the end of a good man's life, it is also the possible beginning of the end for all of us and a world filled with Paris Hilton albums.

Why is my Email convinced I have an inadequate wee-wee?

2008-01-14T10:22:00.000-05:00

Apparently my baby-maker is too small.

Granted I am a woman and I don't have a penis but I am still somewhat miffed that an inanimate object like my computer has the ability to question the size of my manhood.

And what gives it the right to taunt me?

Everyday I log onto my email, ready to be enveloped by family and friends who assault me on a daily basis with criticism and, yes, love, only to have my inbox filled with promises that I can "slam an extra four inches into her" if I only send some guy in Venezuela $90.00.

Why four inches?

As a woman I am insulted. Why has no one asked me how small is too small for a "baby-maker" to be? And, if we are calling it a "baby-maker", does it really matter what size the packaging is as long as the chewy center of it is producing the "baby-making" substance?

What about MY "baby-maker?" Is it too about to become fodder for this Venezuelan money making whore? Will the size of my uterus be the next to receive the SPAM treatment, questioning whether or not I can hold the mutant fetus created by the monster "baby-maker" that has now impregnated me with it's freak-like, genetically rearranged sperm? And, if so, will my baby also suffer from not only the small-willy syndrome but also a lack of a head since there is no way my freak-baby can possibly survive a dosage of pharmaceuticals created in the garage of some Hippy Med-School drop-out in South America.

Maybe I am thinking about this too much.