The Thrill is Gone

Ok, young punk-ass hood rat Generation Zero, listen up.  Just because you all only remember poor old Michael Jackson as the crazy white guy with daddy issues does not mean you don’t need to mourn the bad ass who gave us this:

Got it?  Now quit making ill-timed, bad-taste pedophile jokes and get to learnin’ those Thriller steps.  And just remember: You might not be as weird as Mikey ended up, but you aren’t one shred as talented, either.  And nothing your shitty generation has produced musically* will ever be remembered the way MJ will.    

 

*  In other words, I am specifically addressing the fucktards who helped make Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, Britney Spears and [all] boy bands famous.  Thanks for nothing, you tools.  You get to judge my generation’s icon as soon as the rest of us get to start judging you for the hypocrtical, v-card ring-wearing bunch of musically incompetent degenerates that you all turned out to be.

Home Is Where They’re All As Crazy As You Are

… as proven by this delightful new favorite thing ever, Awkward Family Photos!  Hours of fun for the entire, well, family!  Next time you’re feeling homicidal about having nutsy relations?  Just click your resentment away!  Here are just a few highlights:

This pic just slays me

I mean, really, you know that guy is just dying inside because he never had a son to hunt with. HAH.  He might control innocent deer, but he sure can’t control his own chromosomes!  I love it when God has a sense of humor.

double the wtf

Here, I don’t think it’s “pleasure” that’s doubled so much as, you know, unmitigated horror. 

Sweet Christ.  What do you want to bet this is a lot like what Mel Gibson’s childhood was like?  It would explain a lot, right?

Aquanet owes these folks a check

I always wondered what happened to that high school boyfriend of mine whom everyone referred to as “Mr. Rockin’ with the 80s…” 

Yes, but WHY?!

Somewhere, some therapist has just died of despair.

Cunt Island

No, dear readers, don’t get excited — Cunt Island is not a place. Well. Not yet, anyway.

Here’s the story:

My brother and a BFF are at a Chinese luncheonette in Midtown Manhattan* and my brother, being nothing if not gracious, lets my pal and myself sit side by side in the booth while he takes the backless stool (this will be important later).

We’re nearly through with our egg rolls and obligatory ptomaine course when a swanky hipster face appears out of nowhere, condescending and serious at my brother’s shoulder, much like a poltergeist from the bitchiest part of hell. Whispery but ever-so-earnest, she says: “Excuse me, but could you pull up your jeans? My friends and I can all see your ass crack.”

What What WHAT?! Who the fuck are YOU, lady? No one out sasses the sassiest siblings in this fucking city! But she’d disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as she came, back to the black hole of banality and knitted scarves on the other side of the dining room, leaving only the scent of aging patchouli and smugness in her wake.

Then, upon locating her visually, my brother pointed out that she wasn’t even facing the offending crack! Her two little token white friends sent her over to him, making her do the, er, dirty work… meaning that they must have all had a whole conversation about my poor brother’s ass crack.**

As we’re leaving, I resist the urge to breathlessly appear at Bitchy, Itchy and Twitchy’s table and utter: “Excuse me, but could you tell me at what time the train leaves for CUNT ISLAND?”

Alas. The moment was lost.

There’s always next time…

 

*  Hilariously called, “Chef Yu” — I love it when my life makes it’s own brand of irony!!!

**  Which, for the record, is not offensive in the least, and was barely hanging out — he was wearing low-slung denim. Hey, he can’t help being fashionable! We’re talking bare top of the coin slot, max. Regardless, who the hell spends their wonton soup course idly disparaging other people’s assholes? Oh, that’s right. I was in New York.

Biz Markie and Inevitable Drunken Rape

Alright, folks.  Here’s the deal.  I just got back from the Big Apple, and I am going to presage this video by vaunting my newly found expertise:

I drink.  A lot.  And then sing.  And then need a cab.  And then sing some more. 

That being said, let’s look at the uh, more bizarre fucking message of the video:  Let a Stranger Take You Home.  WHATHEFUCK, Heineken?!  Clearly, brewing beer does not put you in the position to know what it’s like to be a young drunken girl, strange and counter-intuitive as that might seem.  I know, I know.  Drunk driving is kinda bad… But so is being tits-down tipsy at a bar and being haunted only by the thought, “Well, the beer men said I can just let a stranger take me home…. Ooh!  There’s one!” 

And no, I don’t believe they’re referring to these Strangers, Perfect though they might be… 

Back to Video #1, Exhibit C (for Clusterfuck).  That cabbie?  He’s about as ethnic as pledge day at Auburn University, kid.  Just sayin’.  Also, I have a hard time finding a cabbie that will let me smoke a cigarette in his precious, shit-reeking auto, much less one who is going to cheefully jam with me to ancient rap stylings.  Finally, who ARE those kids?!  18-year-old hipsters are now big fans of Biz Markie?!  Where the fuck all have I been?  Oh, nevermind.  I’ve been here.   

Anyway.  Trip to NYC was divine.  I made a spectacular fool of myself at Karaoke, but at least I did it with friends.  I also captured pictures of the sites: a naked man in a deli, an accordian player wearing a Boba Fett helmet, the menu from a German place honestly named “Lederhosen” that featured “Delicious German Pickle” as a real item.  And yes, while there was certainly drinking, at least I didn’t lay down in public this time.  I don’t think… 

But then, who knows?!

Cue the Music…

You kick me and I cut you

… and do a little kick line at least in your head, because Sorcia is heading off to New York City.  I am going forthwith to see my brother and two of my very best friends, and I will not be back until Sunday.  At which time, I will likely have more horrifying stories about myself lying down in card shops and slamming innocent girls in the boobage with beach umbrellas. 

So stay strong, loyal readers.  I’ll be back soon, just as soon as the Sass Takes Manhattan!

Baby Makes a Boom Boom

Kimmy: Pregnant AND classy!

I just drove a 9-hour trip home from FL with the following in my truck:  A diaper Genie (no, there is not a magic lamp included — believe me, I asked), half a homemade pound-cake (love/thanks to mom), a wildly pregnant* best friend, Publix chicken drumettes (that poor Lizzy-the-wonder-dog spent some serious time in trying to track down after I buried them under a pile of luggage and a small statue), approximately 10,000 baby outfits**, a Transformers bag that was bafflingly used to present a baby present in, Pee-Pee Teepees, 8 lbs of food forced upon us by my ever-worrying mother, a large knife (in the mommy-to-be’s purse, to fucking cut anyone who messed with us, I assume) and a Colt .45 GUN.  That’s when you know when you’re travelling in the South — when you are carrying equal amounts of Food, Baby Things and WEAPONRY. 

Other ways to tell you’re making a Southern road trip?  The guy who serves you at Taco Bell will freak the fuck out*** when your order comes to $16.66 — loudly proclaiming: “Lordy!  I just rang up the devil’s number!”  And who was still bemoaning his poor luck with the Prince of Darkness when we left, Apocalyptic Food in hand, 15 minutes later.  Because, you know, here, the cash registers will fucking eat your soul.

Also, you just might make the poor decision to stop for gas and a restroom.  You are, after all, travelling with a heavily pregnant woman (who, for the record, only WANTED to stop 3 times the whole trip…. wonder why…).  But when you follow the blue, State-placed exit sign that clearly reads, “FOOD GAS AHEAD” you are instead suddenly plummeted into a dark place of banjos, despair and a ramshackle bait shop that sold its last tank of gas in 19-dickity-2.  Mom-to-Be was sure there would be a crusty old hobo just standing in a field, all a’ready for a fresh raping, holding a gas can and a cardboard sign, “Gas!” 

Besides the near-misses with both Lucifer and a good old-fashioned hate fucking, though, the baby shower itself was perfectly nice.  I always enjoy staying at my folks’ house, and there was a really good moment there when it was Friday night, 88 degrees, and all I had to do was sit in the pool, wait for sunset and drink my peach vodka soda.  Whatever else I may loathe about the Sunshine State, there will always be the good points, too, I grudgingly admit. 

 

* The little bastard has already managed to kick me.  While I am rather honored that I’m one of the first people he’s made physical contact with, I still can’t wait to get him back.  Perhaps I will do this by coming up with an effiminate nickname? Or maybe I’ll just let him eat whatever the dogs drop inevitably into his crib… 

** Given to us by family members who informed poor Kimmy that a) her dogs will eat her baby, b) circumsicion is not only mandatory, but will be inflicted per force if she does not give up her hippy-ass ideas of leaving the baby’s innocent wee foreskin the hell alone and c) that she should probably start dressing better if she doesn’t want her husband to leave her.  Yes.  I know — Kimmy SHOULD totally have her own blog. 

***  No, weirdly, he did not freak out that we ordered almost $17 worth of Taco Bell, which was FUCKING DELICIOUS, by the way.

Saluting Ebullitions

God says, "smashy smashy!"

And by “ebullitions” I mean “bottles of wine.” 

Saturday was Bumblefuck’s local yearly wine fest downtown, an event not to be missed, since it’s about as close to anything cultural that goes on in this town.  Also, for a county that only last year finally voted to allow mixed drinks to be served IN BARS, it’s pretty shocking that they open up all of 4th street downtown to let the drunks roll up on multiple wine vendors.  For $20, you can have all the wine you might desire.  In 1/4 C. pours. 

Because I spend an inordinate time at my local grocery store, I was delighted to meet up with the Teet’s wine consultant while at said festival.  He was kind enough to show myself and my pals around, getting us secret sips of the good shit, and so on.  We all had lunch together, and by “lunch” I mean, “basket of fried things for $5.”  I was with two of my friends who had not previously met one another, which is always fun for someone like me, because then they end up spending quality time exchanging stories about my general idiocy.  Though, when I pointed this out, Friend A said, “You’re like Paul Bunyan.  Every time you go out, it becomes the stuff of legends.” 

Highlights of the day include (in no particular order): Me haggling down a vendor and then screaming elitist slurs about it as I ran from a hail storm (clearly God’s wrath upon the festival); Standing in Friend B’s rooftop pool and daring God to fuck with me… IN A LIGHTENING STORM; Drinking copious amounts of a blueberry wine that was to die for; Finding and breaking a housewarming present that I gave poor Friend B; Making an elaborate supper to make up for this list of transgressions using every item of perishable food in the house; Wearing Friend B’s roommate’s boxer shorts and telling him he was “the gay Faulknerian” of our graduating class; Offering sage romantic advice that amounted to, “Fuck that noise!”; Deriding the cabbie on the way home for having a cute Asian escort next to him and querying how on earth he picked up any chicks, given his occupation. 

But, stuff of legends aside, a good time was had by all.  Really, a wine festival in a small southern town is not going to turn out badly.  There is only fun to be had. 

Well, I am off to Orlando until Monday night, as I’m hosting a baby shower for Kimmy (of Fetus Fame… oh the irony).  I will back then with news of how I managed to likely ruin a young mother’s single chance of being sensibly showered with rattles and pee pads, or whatever the hell they give expectant mothers these days.

Bulky Item Pick-Me-Up!

Lord, ya’ll.  First things first:  I am so sorry I’ve been on hiatus for the last week.  Shit just gets crazy when you’re scraping away layers of asbestos with hardened old-lady claws and refinishing hardwood with your own tears, you know?

What else is going on Down South (and no, for once this won’t be an update on my ever-awesome va-jay-jay)?  Well.  Not ONLY did Miss NC  tromple the stupid, bigoted Miss CA’s ass in a pageant (one of them, not sure which — the one with the shiny tiara?) by NOT being the most hateful, gay-bashing person on-stage, thus ensuring the South’s superiority over a seemingly more open-minded commonwealth (Read: ol’ gay-marriage?-we-wuz-just-kiddin’ California) and my endless gloating on said subject.  We may have banjos, but at least we know better than to bash the gays in front of the always terrifying Perez Hilton.*

Also, one of my more vengeful students directed me towards a rather delightful form of actual revenge (since I’m already talking smack about people I hate and we’re only, what? 10 lines into this post?): Revenge Crabs.  Yes.  The tag line is actually, “Pubic Lice is What We Do!”  Hate someone?  Of course you do!  Want revenge?  OF COURSE YOU DO!  So do what any normal person** would do and order a packet of pubic lice to wreak havoc on their underwear.  It’s the noble course to take, really.  Nothing says I Still Love You Obsessively like chortling secretly at someone’s uncontrollable itching agony.      

And speaking of watching folks in agony, ya’ll just have not LIVED until you have gone through the South’s Bulky Item Pick-Up Day!  One day out of the year, all the folks in Bumblefuck, NC, get to put out their “bulky” items, things normally that would never be handled by man or beast, and the brave garbage corp will come and fetch them.  Mattresses, fax machines, old lovers, stuffed former pets, hideously deformed teddy bears, crap tables, etc.  These are all the things you can see your fellow-man discard!  And, if you have a pick-up truck and the inclination (and of course you do, you live here), you will go around scavenging this junk like it’s goddamn Christmas.  All day long, today has just been an endless parade of non-stop hillbilly-ness, what with folks descending upon old rocking chairs and rolls of carpet like no one’s business in a veritable kaleidoscope of disorderly mayhem.

I mean, couldn’t they be spending their time more constructively at home? Ordering online crabs or similar?!   

 

* Seriously, USA?  We still have fucking PAGEANTS?!  I mean, at all?  WHY?!  It’s 2009!!!  Let’s put all that focus and funding into making a flying car for fuck’s sake, not for over-agrandizing prom queens.  Jesus.     

**  Here, “normal person” means, “sociopathic clinger with delusions of grandeur imposing their sick will upon the unsuspecting”

Ah, Lily

Because no one has ever accused me nor the delightfully obscene and irreverent Lily Allen of being “timely,” I bring you her send off to George “diddyWhat?” Bush:

New House Update:  I cannot feel my upper arms.  Is this bad?! 

Also, to quote my husband’s boss: “Renovating a house is a lot like childbirth; the conception is a lot of fun, followed by 9 months of being increasingly uncomfortable, then you get one day of complete agony and… after all that, finally everyone loves the product.  But remember, you WILL forget the nightmarish part and will likely do the whole stupid thing again!” 

And in other news, I am ADDICTED to this puppy cam!  My brother’s friend Adam is having puppies!  Well, er, his darling rat terriers, Samantha and Spencer, are, at any rate.  And yes, I know, nowit may just be a cam featuring a pregnant, sleepy dog, but… soon!  There will be babies!!!  (You know, the furry, love-able kind, not the fleshy squawking kind favored by human births…)

Yes!

Seeing as how today is the day that Christians recall the death of one, single dead Jew rather than, say, the 6 million who died in the Holocaust, then I bring you something particularly irreverent.  The YES DANCE. 

Fork in the Garbage Disposal is maybe my favorite dance move.  And, “You’re Yessing too hard!”  Also, I do love the undressing powers of Ecstasy! 

So now, when some benign, self-important person tells you, in Easterly spirit, “He is Risen!”  You can shriek, “YES!” and then bust a move.  Do it for Jesus. 

Happy Easter, ya’ll.  May your peeps be fluffy and sweet, may your eggs be findable and shiny.

PS  Want to blow your mind this Easter?  Pop some Peeps in the microwave!  Breakfast of champions …