Speak now or forever hold your punch

It's the Punch Bowl deadline today and I've received some really fabulous posts for next week. Some are short, a couple are long, and some folks have anger that can't be contained by a silly word count. And I thought I had issues…

It's not too late for YOU to punch something in the face. I don't give a rat's ass what you pick to pick on. Just promise me that you won't hold back.

Send Punch Bowl entries to me (subject line: Punch Bowl) by the end of the day. The best smackdowns will be showcased all next week.

(And I know; you sort of want to punch the boxing glove art in the face, don't you?)

Camille's list

To get your juices flowing for your Punch Bowl entry (due tomorrow!), I thought I'd share a list of things my friend Camille wants to punch in the puss. After a "craft night" at my place (which basically translates into lots of wine and reruns of What Not to Wear) where we brainstormed TIWTPITF ideas, she sent me an e-mail the following morning. This is her unedited list that I suspect was fueled by ire and caffeine. As you can see, punch-worthy items are all around us. By the way, I love Camille.

• Dumb-ass kid shows like Thomas the Stupid-Fucking Train
• People who don't call you back
• Proprietors who ignore you when you go into their store, like they're doing you a favor
• Government bureaucracy
• Being on hold for 15 minutes then having the phone tree hang up on you
• Paying bills
• People who park too close to my door so I can't open the goddamn door
• The fucking gray Seattle winters
• Running out of material while I'm in the middle of a craft project (no wire, no metal)
• Paying taxes
• People who let you know how smart they are
• Ivy league graduates because they usually tell you that they went to Stanford, Harvard, Yale, etc.
• Rich people who complain about having to go to Aspen, or some other hoitie toitie expensive place that normal people can't afford
• Rich people in general
• Inconsiderate people
• Vegetarians who look down their noses at us meat-atarians
• Stupid ass mothers who potty train at 2 years by using some new age bullshit called Elimination Communication—yeah right!
• Same stupid-ass mothers who then brag about using Elimination Communication
• New agey parents
• Political correctness
• NIMBY-ism
• Anti-growth advocates (excuse me, cities are meant to grow and become dense with population, that's why it's a city, dumb ass)
• Nosy, creepy neighbors
• Prices continue to rise and/or stay high while the economy tanks, come on—give us a good sale
• 400-dollar sunglasses
• Snotty Sephora makeup girls
• People who don't swear
• Happy people (there's something seriously wrong with these types of people)
• People who dis coffee (coffee is my God and I worship my God daily)
• Heavy doors that you have to push with all your strength to open
• Bottled water (what the hell ever happened to water fountains? I never thought I'd pay for water)
• Oxygen bars
• People who don't take the Lord's name in vain
• Losing a sock
• People who don't like bacon
• Seattleites in general who harbor some passive aggressive "I'm cool because I recycle/don't smoke/do yoga/hike" resentment towards normal people
• Discrimination against smokers (let them ruin their lungs and skin in peace for God's sakes)

Comfort shoes

We’ve put a man on the moon, created fabrics with UV protection. We’ve cloned a camel, for crying out loud. So I’m frankly puzzled as to why cushioned and supportive shoes invariably give you Frankenfeet. Bouncing along in personal flotation devices, you might feel fantastic but you look like you’ve been in a car accident, what with those casts encasing your hooves and all.

Dansko, Birkenstock, Clarks, Easy Spirit, earth shoes, and, ugh, Crocs—y’all are the red-headed stepchildren in my shoe wardrobe. You’re part of the foot family but should remain out of sight if you know what’s good for you. Soles are bulbous, footbeds stanky, and uppers rounded, wide, and clunky. Sensible with a side of suck, these travesties manage to look like clown shoes while simultaneously announcing that you’ve just given up.

If your designers can’t cook up a sleek approach to comfort and cushioning soon, I’m going to dig out my red Dansko clogs and inflict a bit of blunt force trauma. Did I just put my foot in your mouth?

(photo: thefashionpolice.net/shoes/)

Punch Bowl entries due Friday!

There are only days left to tell me who or what you want to punch the crap out of. Write up your post and send me your entry by May 29 (that's this Friday, yo!). Whether you loathe a song lyric (Michaela, I'm talking to you), a redonculous commercial (Kevin?), or want to get all up in television's grill (Jess), write a post and send it to me.

Then, next week, from June 1–5, I will post the best TIWTPITF guest posts. Don't worry about photos; I'll find the images for your post. In addition, I'll link to you and whatever site or blog you indicate. Or you can be all mysterious and shit and go anonymous.

Send Punch Bowl entries to me (subject line: Punch Bowl) by May 29.

Coffee snobs

I’m a coffee pussy, I'm the first to admit. But when I’m forking over good coin for my grande decaf Americano (with room, if you please), I’d really like it if the barista didn’t coat me with disdain. I once ordered a nonfat decaf latte, and the baristickupherassta snidely informed me that this particular drink is called a “why bother.” As I added my three packets of raw sugar, I thought that maybe I should have bothered to jump behind the counter and whack her upside the head with my metal thermos.

It’s not just espresso-stand employees who give me guff. I also take shit from my more cultured friends who seek out beans picked by virgins in the most remote mountain regions of Central and South America and then home roast them, pulling them out at exactly the right moment after the second crack.

Dude, you have your form of crack and I have mine. You’re addicted to caffeinated coffee that costs $20 a pound. I’m addicted to MAC Viva Glam V Lipglass. Potayto, potahto.

If you insist on giving me the java jeer, I’ll have no choice but to give in and order up a cup of black coffee. After a horrifying sip, I decide you’ll enjoy this a whole lot more than me so I’m going to throw it in your jittery Starfucks face.

Just say espressno.

(photo: bloglines.com/blog/lizfender/2007_11)

Tennis bracelets

Forgive my lack of sophisdickation, but does anyone actually play tennis while wearing these? In my mind, jewelry + exercise = silly. Diamond bracelets shouldn’t have anything to do with tennis (Chris Evert learned this the hard way when she broke one mid-tournament and had to stop the match to retrieve her gemstones). Like chicklets in Juicy sweatsuits, gals wearing tennis bracelets are most likely not mid-exercise.

The jewelry equivalent of a French manicure, tennis bracelets are nouveau riche. As soulless as Ryan Seacrest, these bourgeoisie baubles don’t denote your status on the social ladder; they tag you as sheep. They aren’t bracelets as much as leashes. Baby, you may own a few carats of J-grade diamonds, but your ass is metaphorically owned by Kay Jewelers and the Cheesecake Factory.

Since you put the ass in class, I'm going to carve "classy" into your butt cheeks with one of your diamonds. Too harsh? Okay, fine. I'll rip that double fault of wretched excess off your tanorexic wrist and lash you with it instead. I'm just helping you leave your mark.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/rmrayner/509802076/)

Punch Bowl 2009

Punch Bowl 2009 is less than two weeks away! Entries are flowing in from all corners of the globe but I suspect that there's more that y'all want to punch. I know it's hard after a lifetime of holding back and being polite, but we won't judge you. In fact, we'll be right there with you, punching your peeve in the face.

From June 1–5, I will post the best TIWTPITF guest posts that are sent to me (along with your name and any links you want included; you can also choose to remain anonymous). Pick something super specific—like a terrible waiter named Neil at that new restaurant you just went to—or something we can all get worked up over—a horrible snackfood or band that makes us scratch our heads over its popularity, for example. I don't care. Just let it rip and make it funny.

Send Punch Bowl entries to me, your head pugilista (subject line: Punch Bowl) by May 29.

The last swig of beer

An ice-cold beer is the perfect complement to so many things: fish and chips, polish sausage, my left hand. Couple my thirst for a cold one with slow service and my miserly nature, and you’ll find me drinking every last drop from the bottle.

This is a problem.

The last swig of beer is always, without fail, a disappointment, a letdown akin to Hayden Christensen skulking around as an emo Anakin Skywalker or Molly Ringwald showing up in a pink potato sack to prom at the end of Pretty in Pink. It’s warm—you could heat a room with it. It’s flat, like a soda that’s been sitting on the counter for three days. And it’s sour…like backwash. That last ill-advised sip leaves your mouth tasting faintly of hurl. In other words, it’s puke-flavored broth. I don’t know about you, but this isn’t the taste I want left in my mouth at the end of the night. Um, you know what I mean.

This afterwaste is going to get an afterlife. Being thrifty and shit, I’m pouring the dregs of every last bottle and can of PBR/MGD/IPA/BFD into a vat and repurposing this pukewarm swill to make bread or shampoo. Flat beer may bring me down, but damn if it doesn't fluff up my hair.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/miketoons/2579466215/)

TIWTPITF is all zeitgeisty

My friend Kevin saw this in this week's New Yorker. Maybe Genie should be on my list...

Cha-Ka

What on earth—or an alternate-reality earth—are you? The missing link? Sleestak-australopithecine love child? Unwaxed bonus Jonas? Sid and Marty Kroff were tokin’ some seriously wacky tabacky when they dreamed you up. Dude, you give Bigfoot night terrors.

This Creature from the Whack Lagoon needs to get lost. There’s a reason the Land of the Lost is LOST. It’s lame. With residents like Cha-Ka, the place is too stupid to find itself.

Rather than punching your low overhang and letting you off easy, I’m sending you to an esthetician for a full-body wax (that includes your glam rock mullet). Next, you're off to a plastic surgeon who will shave down that brow ridge. And then it’s back down river in an inflatable raft for you. Back on the Island of Misfit Boys, find a source of calcium, stand up straight, and work on your posture, you knuckle-dragging biped. If I see you hunching over or falling down on the grooming front again, I’m pulling the Sleestak out of the pylons and away from their precious fucking crystals and siccing them on your hairy ass. I bet they have a few ideas on how to depilate your bum.

(P.S. Is it just me, or does Cha-Ka look like Clint Howard?)
(P.P.S. Are you as excited as I am for the new Land of the Lost movie with Will Ferrell?)

(photo: http://www.horrorremix.com)

Peach schnapps

Setting: Triangle Fraternity, somewhere in Michigan, sometime in the 80s…

Enter a brainy co-ed, wearing a peach-colored shirt from Contempo Casuals and that awesome pair of Guess jeans with the zippers at the ankles. You know what I’m talking about.

Well, the brainiac wasn’t so smart that particular night, as she was also packing a pint of peach schnapps. Even though the engineering fraternity usually had an open bar at its parties, it was sometimes inconvenient to interrupt a heated game of 8-ball or Twister to get a fresh fuzzy navel. So she brought her own, alternately taking swigs and reapplying her frosty Clinique lipstick, the one she got as a gift with purchase.

You know what happened next.

Wildly drunk, she had the walking spins, was flirting madly, bent down to pick up something and accidentally got kneed in the eye, yacked, and mercifully, finally passed out after Maria or someone got her back to South Quad.

The next day was not pretty, and not only because of her black eye.

To this day, the less-than-brainy graduate can suss out that treacly syrup in any punch (Jared’s new year’s concoction, to be precise) or cocktail. Just a soupçon of that peachish smell brings on da acid reflux, brings on da funk. During a brief stint at The Body Shop, she was immediately nauseated whenever someone dabbed the decay-scented oil on the wrist.

What's the deal with fruit-scented stuff that doesn’t actually smell or taste remotely like the real thing? Peach schnapps gives peach a bad rap. This will not do. It’s time to defend the honor of stone fruit everywhere and punch the evil that is peach schnapps in the schnoz. Better yet, I'm going to pour it into a vat near Fraternity Row, set it on fire, and let co-eds get that warm, fuzzy feeling without the threat of puking.

What booze has your body rejected?

(photo: andygreenwell.com/big%20pix-all/peach_schnapps.jpg)

Punch Bowl 2009

It's time to let the inmates run the asylum. Like Nurse Ratched, I usually like to administer the pain myself. However, for one week only, it's your turn to punch back. From June 1–5, I will post the best TIWTPITF guest posts that are sent to me. Pick something super specific or something we can all get worked up over. I don't care. Just let it rip and make it funny.

Send Punch Bowl entries to me, your head pugilista (subject line: Punch Bowl) by May 29.

P.S. I never want to punch anyone who has taken the time to leave a comment. In fact, just the opposite. Sadly, I've never been able to figure out how to post a comment on my own blog posts. Blogger isn't cooperating. In fact, it's being a dick. Any suggestions to rectify this will be mucho appreciated, as I definitely want to respond to y'all.

Nicolas Cage’s hairline

Is Nic Cage honoring the eroding coastline of California? Did he melt a record and fit it over his melon? Are times so tough that this national treasure can’t afford a full head of plugs?

Add to ConHair’s freaky coif an increasingly gaunt face and you’ve got Skelator in a skullcap. I’m absolutely goonstruck looking at Hair-raising Arizona. No one’s forehead should end at the crown. Normally mild at heart, I have no choice but to take this hair yarmulke into my own hands. I’m going to face-off against Mr. Moppola and my weapon of choice is a straight razor. I’m shaving that shit old-school and landscaping the back of his head. It’ll be gone in 60 seconds.

(Note: This Letterman interview is a snooze but you can get an eyeful of Peggy Sue Got Hairried.)

Fruit cocktail

Riddle me this: What exactly is fruit cocktail? It’s not dessert, it’s not a side dish, it’s dumb in Jell-O, and it sure as shit ain’t a cocktail. I choked on this corn-syrupy slop growing up in the Midwest. It was thrown in weird concoctions that usually involved marshmallows.

It was served a lot in the school cafeteria. It was also thrown out a lot in the school cafeteria. It’s a staple of institutional food trays. The only thing that should be retired at rest homes and hospitals is this mystery “treat.”

You can dress it up, but it’s still a filler food. I’m kicking this crap outta the cupboard and onto the playground. I think it’s time to relive happier childhood memories. Kick the can, anyone?

(Photo: thegeminiweb.com/babyboomer?p=669)

American Idol judges

Dawg, yo, yo, check it out. Here’s the thing: After eight seasons of American Idol, I’m over the sniping and playground antics. I may be a cold-hearted snake, but I want to look into the judges’ eyes and redirect the conversation where it belongs (toward Adam Lambert).

What is going on behind the judges’ table? The wheels have come off the short bus. At one point, Paula pulled out crayons (probably what she used for her eye makeup) and handed them to Simon, suggesting he was a wittle childish. It takes one to know one, even if you are hopped up on an OTC cocktail. And Randy and Kara, I’m not letting you off the hook, either. Stop taking the bait, talking over each other’s barbs, and keep your eyes on the goddamn stage.

How can I be so heartless? Well, I need something new to do, since my “Seacrest Out” voodoo doll doesn’t seem to be working.

It’s too late to apologize. Just focus on the performances and stop bickering with each other. You’re eating up airtime that could be spent talking about Adam, I mean, the contestants. Do what you do best: Paula, keep giving us kookaloo non sequiturs. Simon, take the words out of our mouths when critiquing the contestants. Randy, take the middle ground. Kara, well, um, just follow Randy’s lead with the commentary and keep wearing pretty baubles.

To make sure you fall in line for the finale, the voodoo dolls are in play. Feel that, Simon?

(Photo: Michael Becker/FOX)

Space Invaders (and not the rad Atari variety)

Rainbow Space Invaders
Originally uploaded by Rosy_O

I'm sorry, do I know you? Did you want to pay for my groceries? Are you trying to get a DNA sample? If the answer to any of the above questions is “no,” I have one thing to say to you:

Back. The. FUCK. Up.

Well, actually, I have a bit more to add.

If you’re close enough for me to smell what you ate for dinner last night, you are cramping my style and my body. You aren’t going to get to the register any damn faster. Calm down and stop hoovering the anti-oxidant trail mix; no one is going to cut in front of you at Trader Joe’s. I know your plane is boarding in an hour; so are the flights for the 10 people in front of us. Hold your fugly topsiders and your Ziploc bag and step back before I clock you and you miss your flight altogether.

Being the optimist (and a Monty Python fan), I like to look on the bright side of life. The upshot of your vertical spooning? You’re within my reach. I don’t have to move to push back…hard. Shove off and stop sharing my oxygen. Oh, and yes, my hair does smell terrific.

TIWTPITF nabs Kreativ Blogger award!

Indie Icing passed on the blog love by presenting me and TIWTPITF with the Kreativ Blogger award. Here's how it works: Once I receive it, I need to pass it onto seven other bloggers who rock my world. So without further ado, here are my picks for the award. Check them out and show them some love.

• Fuck You, Penguin: This genius blog partly inspired TIWTPITF. Dude is hilar.
  
• This Is Why You're Fat: I needed to link this to my cross-pollinated food post. Ugh. My cholesterol is going up just thinking about the photos on this blog.
• Your Baby Is an Asshole: Need I say more?
• CraftyPod: Diane Gilleland's blog and podcast covers everything going on in the craft world.
• CraftFail: Heather Mann started this group blog to showcase our beautiful disasters (also check out her clever Dollar-Store Crafts blog).
• Do Stuff!: Lee Meredith's blog chronicles her many far-out creations.
• Dudecraft: Paul Overton makes stuff, and he's not ashamed to say it.

Honorable Mention:

• Stuff White People Like: Y'all probably already know about this popular blog, but I have to give it a shout-out anyway.

Oh, and I'm supposed to list seven of my favorite things. Not a surprise to those who know me:
7. A good book in a hot bath
6. A cold Tangueray and tonic on a hot day
5. Whac-a-Mole
4. My friend Alison's laugh, the one that's accompanied by banging her hand on the table and breaking whatever ring she's wearing
3. Photo booths
2. Bon Jovi
1. Pie

What blogs do you check every day (besides TIWTPITF, natch)?

Pollen

I know plants need you to grow and shit, but do you have to rub it in our faces (especially my right eye, which is almost swollen shut because of your need to be front and center)? I swear, you’re just like John Mayer or Speidi: stop talking about you for a minute and you have to whip up a new controversy to get carried along in the wind. Get over yourself and let something else shine for once. Have you ever considered that mold spores might like a moment now and again?

I don’t mean to be a major ragweed but enough is enough. I’m tired—seriously, I need a nap—of breathing only through my mouth. It’s time to make hay, not hay fever, while the sun shines, which means I need to wash you and your allergen pals outta my hair, off of my skin, and down the drain. I’m going to drown your greedy sinus-squatting ass in vats of antihistimines and decongestants. Maybe that’ll teach you to keep to your turf and fertilize flora, not my nasal passages…microscopic bitch.

It feels good to finally get that out of my system.

(Photo: flickr.com/photos/neoserenity333/1328125376)

Mercury in retrograde

I’ve been dreading this day for awhile. By most accounts, goddamned Mercury goes into retrograde today and ends May 30. What this means is that Mercury appears to us earthlings to slow down and move backwards for several weeks.

It also means that I’m fucked.

I am often suspicious of anything with a whiff of woo-woo, but over the years, I’ve learned to heed the power of this punk-ass planet. E-mails go missing, interpersonal communication goes down the crapper, misunderstandings abound, business deals fall through, my motherfucking motherboard dies. It’s about this time that I turn to the bottle.

How this little bitch planet wields so much impish power is beyond me and people a whole lot higher on the intellectual food chain. The one thing I do know is that this ass-illogical shit has gots to stop. I think a call to NASA is in order. Maybe if we can hit it hard enough with a monster missile, we can change its orbit and stop the insanity.

But until we make that happen, back your files up…seriously.

(photo: zamzamworld.com/science_space_2.htm)

Middle initials

William F. Buckley, Johnny B. Goode, Howard K. Stern, Vivica A. Fox, Michael J. Fox, Alex P. Keaton, Craig T. Nelson, Donnie B. Douchebag, the list goes on…

Stephen Hawking doesn’t use his middle initial. Neither does Queen Elizabeth. You shouldn’t either. Heck, Buddha, Oprah, and Madonna can get away with just one name, you greedy son of a bitch.

I don’t have an issue with you having a middle name or initial; I have a problem with you using it. Like many actors (several who I mentioned above), William H. Macy added his out of necessity, since there was another Bill Macy registered with SAG. I get it. But if there’s no actual reason for busting out the middle initial, leave it where it belongs: on your birth certificate.

Jesus H. Christ, you are one pretentious fuck. Do you think one letter is going to be able to mask the fact that you’re lacking two other letters, namely “I” and “Q”? I think the only appropriate thing to do is to repurpose a passel of early learning alphabet books, Duct-tape them together, and beat you until you forget your name and we can start from scratch.

(photo: bestuff.com/stuff/alex-p-keaton)

Renée Zellweger’s bird face

Are you having an allergic reaction? Can you even see through those slits you call eyes? What are you so fucking smug about? Bridget Jones Diary and Chicago were a longgggg time ago, sweetcheeks. Maybe you’re worried about the recession and you’re storing nuts in there for next winter (which is, admittedly, not a bad idea). Whatever the case, Tweety Bird, you need to step away from the cosmetic fillers, bee stings, and possibly shellfish and give your face a chance to deflate.

But not until after I clean your cuckoo clock. If you insist on maintaining your face bloat, let me offer me, myself & my fist to the cause. Slapping will put some color in your cheeks, while a serious punch or two will swell those eyes shut once and for all.

You had me at hell, no!

Bizspeak

“Our business needs to grab the low-hanging fruit.”
“Take that idea off-line and put it in the parking lot.”
"Let's have a meeting to blue-sky that idea."
“We need more bandwidth to support the hockey stick on the home page.”
“Schedule a meeting next week for a masterminding session on monetizing our site.”
"How can we get to yes?"

Um, are you developing a new language? You should know that the only cool language to invent is pirate speak, matey.*

If you insist on talking nonsense in a bid to sound like you know what you’re doing, I’m going to have to take out my Franklin Planner and beat you, restructuring content without boundaries from the top down. Oh, you want to brand yourself, you say? Pull down your flat-front trousers so I can go old-media on your ass and brand you with a red-hot poker.

I’m just trying to be proactive.

What phrases make you want to beat your co-workers with their Blackberries?

* For a cool take on your Facebook page, go to the bottom left-hand corner of your page, click on “English (US)” and then you can switch things over by selecting “English (Pirate).” See what happens. Aaarggghh.

(photo: management-skills-development.com)