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.

(Photo: curlywurlygurly.wordpress.com/.../spring-break/)

Sunbrellas

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.

(photo: amandalithuania2009.wordpress.com/category/video/)

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?)

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.

(photo: www.flickr.com/photos/packie/3619199966/)

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.

(photo: thunkdifferent.wordpress.com/.../)

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.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/agentakit/2821154238/)

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.