Thursday, July 30, 2009

Cheeto dust

Like Shakira’s hips, Cheetos don’t lie. When viewing the orange mist in my car, on my clothing, on my couch, it’s clear that there’s been a high Cheeto count this summer. And if you were to turn on a blacklight or spray some Luminol in my pad, you might see an occasional orange splatter pattern.

Clearly, something really bad happened on the right side of my couch.

While I love to put away orangefood at every and any opportunity, I don’t really like the radioactive goo that cakes my fingers (Okay, that's a lie. I just hate the damage it does to my surroundings when I don't lick my fingers lickety split). As I got out of the car last night for a book signing at the Tacoma Public Library, my pal Jessica gave me a strange look. She then attacked me, wiping me down and beating my clothes until a cloud of orange rose up around me. Thank God. Without her delousing, the audience would have thought I had come out on the wrong side of a fight with a Tang canister.

I can't punch Cheetos in the face because it will only exacerbate the problem. The only thing to do is to throw some cold water on this all-unnatural snackfood…literally. Either that, or I'm going to mix it with some lotion, create a faux-spray tan, and dress up as Paris Hilton for Halloween…or an Oompa effing Loompa.


Tuesday, July 28, 2009


When last I checked, umbrellas were supposed to be pulled out in the rain. And in Seattle, you never pull them out. We can spot a tourist a mile away…usually because of the giant golf umbrella protecting a bob from the gentle mist of the Northwest.

Umbrellas, in other words, are for wuss wagons (and the Wicked Witch of the West, natch).

So how much farther down the pansy-ass food chain do you fall when you pull out an umbrella on a sunny day? (FYI: This is a rhetorical question.)

You may not be aware of this but there’s this new invention. It is sort of an umbrella that fits on your head. It even frees up your hands! It’s called—wait for it—a hat. Genius, don’t you think? And if you miss your dumbershoot, you can get one of these.

Now I understand if you have a sun condition like those pale kids in The Others but if you’re a hipster in a vintage dress and a paper parasol, not only are you blocking my view of a beautiful day, you’re chapping my already-chafed thighs. I could lose an eye on a rainy day. I really don’t want to get poked by a spoke on a cloudless one. The eyepatch will leave a tan line.


Friday, July 24, 2009

The Geico caveman

Apparently, the Geico caveman is working up toward a full-on docudrama. It started innocently enough: I liked the commercial in the airport. No dialogue, just Röyksopp and a moving walkway.

Then he moved into the therapist’s office. There wasn’t much room on the couch, since he was sharing it with a massive chip on his shoulder. The discomfort was palpable.

Now we’ve entered full-on Ben Stiller territory. In Fright at the Museum, Brow Ridge is a docent at the Museum of Natural History, leading a group of Greek system rejects who start circling him like they’re re-enacting a scene from “The Lottery” (that short story by Shirley Jackson we all had to read in high school). If those stones in the diorama weren’t papier mâché, I’d be worried for the dude’s survival. Sure, Clan of the Cave Bear bags the babe in the end but, like a Ben Stiller movie, the payoff never equals the shit he had to eat during the previous 89 minutes.

Cro-Gagnon gets to show his acting chops in this 3-minute commercial…well, as much as he can show under all that fur. He is a long-suffering martyr. He tries on bemusement. Here we go: he’s officially annoyed! He transitions into supercilious before finally settling on bitter. Are these the five stage of caveman grief? And why do I need bear witness?

If I wanted to see bitter, I’d look in the mirror…or re-read these blog posts. It’s time to throw him into a crate and ship him back to Olduvai Gorge. Maybe the missing link should stay lost.

(And does anyone else think that the caveman bears some resemblance to Val Kilmer?)

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Airport bagels

As much as I crave a fresh, doughy, warm-from-the-oven poppyseed bagel, I really can’t stomach airport bagels. You know the kind: dry yet weirdly foamy pucks that have the audacity to masquerade as a bread product. They get busted out in airport coffee shops and delis and at lame buffets (steer clear at your next sales conference if you know what’s good for you).

A freezer-burned Lender’s Bagel would taste like a delicacy compared with this waste of intestinal space. All I can say is, whatever corner of hell they're made in must have really suck-ass water. I suppose the airport powers that be think any sort of filler food is fine for a long flight, but let me tell you, I’d rather chew on the Skymall catalog than try to choke this thing down. Even using it as a vehicle for cream cheese is futile: the spread just sits there, refusing to melt into the breadrock—even if the potential murder weapon has been toasted.

We delicate flowers need alternatives to McDonalds, sure, and sometimes trail mix isn’t going to do it. But no amount of asiago is going to mask the sawdust that went into these plastic-wrapped plastic bagels. Kick them to the curb in favor of something like PB&J or mac and cheese. I’ll happily take the remaining inventory off your hands. They'll make excellent pucks for makeshift airport shuffleboard. Meet me outside Gate 18; we’ll borrow some brooms from the janitorial staff and get it on.


Monday, July 20, 2009

Spinning beach ball

My computer is on its deathbed, I get it. I don’t have to hear the death rattle to know its days are numbered. But yet my iBook has to keep reminding me that it’s a hunk o’ junk. In fact, it throws it in my face in the form of an obnoxious beach ball that frolics all over my screen, mocking me and my three-year-old equipment.

Apparently, my rotten Apple can’t keep Word from quitting on me but it can still muster up the energy to flip me the rainbow bird.

I hate to wait to begin with. Throw the spinning Trivial Pursuit pie into the mix and you have a serious suck cocktail. Since baby needs to blog, I have to resist the urge to punch my laptop in its smug but increasingly ineffective LCD face. But on the rainbow brite side, while I wait for the beach ball to get its yayas out, I have ample time to think about how I'm going to burst this trouble bubble when I finally upgrade.


Friday, July 17, 2009

Parking hogs

You know them. Chances are, you want to punch these selfish fucks in the face (or shatter their windshields with that baseball bat you happen to keep in the trunk for “emergencies”). I’m talking about the asscaps who park their precious car/truck/SUV/crotch rocket/shitbox caboose over several parking spots. I suspect they want to avoid any damage from neighboring car doors. I got news for you and your insurance provider: splaying your vehicle across several spots is only going to draw attention to it, and not in any kind of good way.

I have the same violent feelings about this parking violation as I do about people who hate to park their car on the street instead of a garage, or are scared to drive it into the big bad city. If you are that worried about your ride, you prolly shouldn’t take it out of the cul de sac, or you shouldn’t own it at all.

But maybe you have a different reason for flunking your driving test on a daily basis. Perhaps you’re visually challenged. Maybe your first name starts with N and you’re trying to create a capital N with your Nissan by joining the ends of the painted lines. Guess what? N is also for Nimrod, Nincompoop, and ‘Nads. Maybe you’re playing a giant game of Connect Door. And in case you are confused, that line in front of you is not a guide for centering your Hummer.

Get your OCD on and make it a challenge NOT to touch either line, instead of straddling it like Brooke Hogan on a mechanical bull. If you keep it up, I’m going to go all Kathy Bates on you and get jiggy with the parking piggy, regardless of whether you are in the lot of the Piggly Wiggly or a parking garage. I’m going to drive up your insurance premiums when I smash into your beloved Beemer from whatever angle you’ve provided me with. And if that doesn’t do the trick, I’m going to really go Kathy Bates on you and get out the sledgehammer. I’ll make sure you’re not driving or parking anything but a wheelchair anytime soon.


Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Unflushed toilets

Do what you want in the privacy of your own home. If it’s yellow, let it mellow, whatever. I don't give a shit. But if you are planting your ass on or aiming your junk at a public toilet, finish the job. Wipe up and flush.

Were you raised in the wild? Are you Nell? If not, I suspect your parents didn’t bring you up to leave your waste in a public space. Whether it’s number one or two, flush that shit down the drain. And while you’re at it, check for stray spray. As it says on the bathroom wall of the American Legion in Coloma, Michigan, “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat.” I couldn’t have toll painted that better myself.

For your lack of consideration and rudimentary hygiene, I think a big-ass swirlie is in order. Bobbing for crapples is a whole new kind of poo punch in the face, don't you think? What’s wrong, sweetpee? You look a bit flushed.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Christmas shoppes

I’m currently in Michigan. As a native, I can’t help but be assaulted by memories both good and bad, and by the Great Lake State’s many noteworthy attractions. One of these draws is Frankenmuth, a town where it’s Christmas 365 days a year. At least that’s what it’s known for. Hailed as Michigan’s Little Bavaria and THE place to pick up a new pair of lederhosen, I always word-associate it with frankincense, one of the Three Wise Men’s housewarming gifts.

But it’s Bronner’s (and its kissing cousins) that is the real Christmas culprit. This is the world’s largest Christmas shop(pe), guaranteed to bring out my inner hyperglycemic. I can taste the candy cane just thinking about the flocking, the commemorative glass ornaments, the Santa suits, and—sweet baby Jesus—the outdoor inflatables, lights, and holiday decor. Much like year-round Christmas decorations, these stores need to be packed up and stored somewhere out of my sight for 10 or 11 months of the year. I'm not a complete humbug hosebag. Come November, I'm happy to have Santa Clause come to town. But for the rest of the year, there’s no room at this inn for these not-so-little shops of holiday horrors.

If you continue to flaunt their bubble lights and Christopher Radko ornaments in July, I'm going to transform all of your Santa suits into sexy devil costumes for Halloween and sneak into your shop(pe) after hours and plug in every single indoor and outdoor strand of Christmas lights. If I don't take out a city grid, expect a massive electricity bill. It's my present to you, because I'm thoughtful that way.


Friday, July 10, 2009


I pick around you in my stuffing and drink Bloody Marys despite you. I threw you up in kindergarten when you were slathered in peanut butter. Fuck you, ants on a log—I get car sick whether or not I’m in motion when this sorry snack crosses my path. I can’t put my finger on it but celery, you leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Yeah, I’ll admit that I've chopped you into a savory mirepoix but I cook the holy hell out of you to get rid of your stringy half-moon shape and texture.

Don’t even think about sassing me with your perky phallic shape.

I’m going to get jiggy with Mendel and create a hybrid that I can choke down. What do you think: celparagus? Celettuce? Curnip? Oh hell, who am I kidding? It's a waste of time to put lipstick on a pig and it sure as shit is a dead end trying to make celery into something palatable. Let's nip this problem in the bud. Rather than planting the world's celery seeds, let's grind them up with some salt and rim Bloody Marys ad infinitum.


Thursday, July 9, 2009

Bush’s Baked Beans commercials

As someone who prides herself on making kick-ass baked beans (using drained Bush’s beans as a starter ingredient), these commercials chap my cookout hide. I have two issues.

  1. Duke seems to think this is a recipe worth stealing. Whether it’s homestyle or country style, these beans are just filler food. Add a pound of brown sugar, slow cook them for a few hours, and then, we can talk.

  2. Duke can’t seem to steal the secret family recipe from apparent Mensa member Jay Bush. The dog can talk, for fuck's sake, but he can't get his paws on the recipe. Even masquerading as the furry ghost of Grandma Bush, the Golden Retreiver can’t seem to pull one over on Jay, even when the dude is distracted by his precious fart pot of beans. The pooch can build a secret lair, complete with a security system, but he can't figure out the ingredients in the can? They are listed on the label! Come on, Duke, stop farting around and put your breeding to good use. Spill the beans—literally. Sweep the leg and knock that pot off the stove and onto Jay. While he’s busy eating himself out of his protein puddle, raid the recipe box, grab your chew toy, and hightail it out of town. Head toward Boston where you can make some mad money pawning off the recipe card to some unwitting chowderhead.
(This idea came to me as a late-night text from my pal Jessica, who wrote "Dodo could steal that recipe. Andale." Word.)

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Commemorative plates

Michael Jackson isn’t even in the ground yet and already, the vultures are circling. I’m not not talking about the paparazzi or relatives looking for a mention in the will.

Nope, I’m referring, of course, to the Bradford Exchange. Kissing cousin to the Franklin Mint, this company has already put out a hideous commemorative MJ plate. The Spencer Gifts-ish art blows: I am afraid either the eyes will follow me or they'll morph into a cheetah when I look away. I guess that’s okay, since whoever buys this crap deserves to be a jungle cat’s snacklet.

After 9/11, I was working for a book publisher who was rushing to press a commemorative photo book on the Twin Towers. When I protested, I was told that "We should not apologize for making books that people want." I get that. But let's not pretend that it's not gross.

I grew up amidst tchotchkes: Hummel figurines, glass slippers, beer cans, miniature trains, souvenir spoons and thimbles, antique baskets. I had a lot of shit to dust. But the most disturbing thing had to be the Emmett Kelly clown plates. As I lay tossing and turning in my twin bed, tormented by images of the sad-faced clown, I wanted to give that plate a real reason to look sad.

Princess Di’s wedding and death, presidential inaugurations, a Thomas Kinkade Christmas—why do these occasions drive folks to fork over hard-earned clams for a porcelain plate rimmed in precious metal that will never see the dinner table? If you’re looking for wall art, why not buy a Farrah poster or some sort of rad black velvet Elvis poster? Those are much easier on the eyes and won’t hurt you in the event of an earthquake.

As a smooth criminal, I want to hijack the entire fug shipment of MJ collector’s plates—the only plate with art personally approved by Michael Jackson himself!—smash them, and make limited-edition mosaic tables out of the shards, which I’ll sell for three easy payments of $19.95.

If I see a Michael Jackson Beanie Baby, heads are gonna roll.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Facebook quizzes

Pop quiz hotshots: Which of following are actual Facebook quizzes?
  • 5 Things I Could Grab from Where I’m Sitting
  • 5 Things on My Body I Can No Longer Grab
  • Top 5 Ways You Want to Kick the Bucket
  • Which Michael Jackson Hit Song Are You?
  • Things I’ve Used to Wipe My Ass
  • Things I’ve Put in my Mouth When Drunk
  • Which Texting Emodicon Are You?
  • 5 Facebook Quizzes that Will Drive You to the Edge of Insanity and Then Push You Over
Which Plastic Army Man Are You? Really? REALLY? Here’s a clue: I’m the one with the big fucking fist aimed in your direction. Plastic or no, I’m going to clock you and your waste-of-time questions. My friends already know 25 things about me. If they don’t, there’s probably a good reason (my police record, random hookups, and late-night refrigerator raids are not for everyone’s eyes).

Navel gazing has been taken up a notch with these quizzes, whose dumbassedness is only rivaled by Jar Jar Binks. Blogging, creating profiles, writing pithy status updates—this is all cyber child’s play when faced with the monumentally feeble attempt to make us believe we are more interesting than we are. I don’t give a rat’s ass what Jane Austen character I am (as long as it’s not Lydia Bennet); I’d rather spend my time reading Miss Austen than imagining myself stuffed into an empire-waist gown in a pre-deodorant era. I love my friends, I really do, but frankly, my dear, when it comes to your 5 favorite cereals, I don’t give a damn.

For the record, here are my top 5 ways I'm going to kick your social networking ass:
1) Shut down Living Social with a nasty virus.
2) Ruin your reputation by spreading a nasty rumor on the men's room wall.
3) Cage fight. I've got my top 14 phalanges right here, ready to inflict some damage to your face, Facebook. Don't even think about tapping out, bitch.
4) Start my own rival quiz network, where I'll ask questions that really matter (such as Top 5 Patrick Swayze quotes and 5 Worst Hangnail Experiences of My Life).
5) Ignore you altogether and watch reruns of Jon & Kate Plus 8. Just kidding. I'll be in the tub re-reading Persuasion.


Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Jon & Kate

Here are the top 8 reasons why these two—either separately or together—need to jump on an ATV and go deep into the woods of Pennsylvania, never to return.

8. Ed Hardy clothes. Tattoos belong on the skin, not on daddy’s hoodie.

7. Kate’s last nerve. She’s always on it, I’m always over it.

6. Jon’s somnambulant demeanor. Are you walking off a bender? Did you pull an all-nighter at a college sports bar? Are your biorhythms at a low point? Lacking electrolytes? Zombie? Throw back some coffee or Gatorade, eat some brains, and look alert.

5. Matching kids’ clothing. You dress all your kids—sextuplets and twins alike—to match. Are they on a team and need a uniform? Is it your way of tagging and herding them? I wonder at what age the multiple personality disorder will start to kick in when one of them actually wants to carve out an identity.

4. Kids as billboards. If your kids aren't Oilily-ed out, you’ve got them wearing t-shirts promoting the Crooked Houses that are currently being assembled on the show or some other swag you got for free.

3. Media attention. For Christ’s sake, can the paparazzi get back to their job of stalking Lindsay and Britney and those no-talent bitches on The Hills? Baby needs to know what baby-doll dresses are in this season!

2. “I didn’t sign up for this.” Yeah, you did. TLC has a signed contract that it would be happy to show you, if Hannah happened to spill her sippy cup of apple juice all over yours.

1. Kate’s hair. Duh. Hair should attract the eye, but not from the skies. A 'do should not double as a nest for fledgling owlets or goslings, but maybe that’s just me.