Blah - Monday Mornings

Well another one is upon us, a dreadful no good Monday Morning (MM). It is always right around the time I start to enjoy my Sunday that I realize sooner rather than later it is going to be MM and I start thinking about all the details stupid MM entails. Mon-DAYS aren’t SOO bad, it is just the stupid MM and the anticipation of it that somehow makes it worse than any other morning. Normally it’s the regular routine, shower (or not), brush my teeth, feed the dog, eat some cereal, throw my hair in a pony, and drive (slowly) to work. While I don’t dread doing all these things it is just the matter of fact that it is a MM, the start of a new week, and all I want is for it to be 5:00 so I won’t have another MM for another 7 days. That makes for a long Monday and that’s a fact Jack!

Well today’s MM was a bit different. It started off by me having to wake up earlier than normal for an 8:15 dr. appt (boo #1). While that doesn’t seem to be too bad, the appt. was for the allergy dr. and the test I was getting does not allow me to shower for three days (boo #2)…so needless to say I went ahead and opted for a MM shower, and enjoyed every minute of it. I drove to the dr.’s office out by Memorial City Mall (would be boo #3, except that it was against traffic) and got put in the exam room. Well a man walks in, not the Dr., but a Man Nurse (MN). Now had it been Greg Fauker that would have been one thing, but this MN looked more like the creepy wrestler-teacher from Billy Madison (boo #3). THEN on top of having a creepy MN, he is wearing whitewashed jean scrubs (boo #1 for him, laugh of the day for me). Yep, you read that right…white wash jean scrubs. Who knew they existed?!? I wanted so badly to take a picture of said MN, but that would have required me sneaking one from his back side as he walked out the door and I thought I would spare all of you the grossness. After my conscience stopped the internal laughter the MN told me I had to put on a small paper robe exposing my back for the tests (boo # 4, 5, & 6) where he would apply (boo #7, 8 & 9) these weird sticker things. SICK!
MN - 1 Babs - 0

So that was my MM. Anyone else have any fun MM tales?
Peace - Babs

TCT's Inaugural Drinking Game Friday!

Happy Friday everyone! I’m stealing a page out of the book from one of the funniest girls I’ve never met – Meg McBlogger of 2Birds1Blog fame. If we were to be trapped on a desert island, we’d want Meg there with us – mainly because she’s funny and likes to drink creatively. Thus, TwoCoastTales’ introduces its first Pilfered Drinking Game Friday! (Please don’t sue us.)

For our inaugural game, I’ve chosen one of my favorite movies of all time, Out Cold starring Jason London and Zach Galifianakis. Little known fact: to the naked eye, this film may seem like your average stoner snowboarding degenerate adventure, but it’s actually based loosely on Casablanca, often touted as one of the best films of this century. Which just goes to show you: there’s so much more to Generation X than meets the eye! Before I can outline the rules of the game, I have to give credit to the individual who introduced me to Out Cold, Andrew C., my college chum. Everything good comes from Andrew, including the Rhonda – also known as “The Tuck” to most males. Every winter at school, classes would inevitably be cancelled for 2 or 3 days due to ice and snow, so Andrew and I would settle in with a bottle of Goldschlagger and a copy of Out Cold to get us through this trying time. We live in different cities now and don’t get to see each other much, which may be for the best, because a 26-year-old standing on top of a cooler at a party with his manhood tucked between his legs singing “Vaagiiiiinaaa boyyyyy!” can only lead either to jail or Chris Hansen. Plus, now that college is over, we’ve been forced to assume responsibilities like jobs, taxes, and random drug screenings, which can put a real damper on our repertoire. However, I know that whenever I get a hankering for a good ol’ snow day, I can always pop Out Cold in the DVD player and reminisce about the senseless overconsumption of cinnamon-flavored liquor. So grab your handwarmers, your Jacuzzi Casanova, and your favorite Alaska mountain resort that sold out to The Man: It’s time for the Out Cold Drinking Game!!!

1.) Take a drink whenever:

• A rip-roaring snowboarding montage is shown
• Anyone says “Bull Mountain – don’t go changin’!”
• The legacy of Papa Muntz is referenced in an inspirational speech
• Lance says something extremely chauvinistic in an effort to mask his blatant homosexuality
• Luke refers to his testicles as the Olson twins, the Hardy boys, dice, etc…
• Anyone refers to Pedro O’Horny’s
• Anyone says “Snow Nook”
• Stumpy says anything

2.) Take a shot whenever:

• Weezer’s “Island in the Sun” is played
• A prank is played (Polar Bear Blow-Job, Drunk-Driver-Black-Out, etc.)
• Anyone hits on Inga
• Luke passes out

3.) Chug whenever:

• Anyone has sex in a gondola

HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND EVERYBODY!

So, is it too late? NAHHH, It's never TOO late!

So today in the paper there was an article on “Regional eats to die for” where it talks about Jane and Michael Stern’s new book 500 Things to Eat Before It’s Too Late and Where to Eat Them. This couple has “made a living traveling on their stomachs” and it shows! The Chron talked to them last week about great eats in Houston which can be summerized as go to Avalon Diner and Lankford Grocery & Market. Now if you are from Houston you know these places have been around for ages and if you ask me I wouldn’t even bet $1 that they were going anywhere soon. So I am not quite sure what this “eat it before it’s too late” exactly means, is that a threat?! IDK but Avalon and Lankford are here for the long run.

Nonetheless this got me thinking about things to do before it’s too late and while eating is a life necessity, and eating well is a luxory, I started thinking more about life’s pleasures. My attitude in life is pretty much that it is never too late, and you are never too old, and it is never NOT FUN. But I’ll go ahead and make a list of fun things I think everyone should do regardless of your age, race, sex, gender, and stomach size. So to everyone out there (all 7 of you reading this) here is my list of fun thing’s to do before it’s too late (and please do not take these as too late before you croak…not the point).

- Eat a snow cone (SEE necessary to do before the summer is over)
- Drink the punch
- Eat late night
- Skinny Dip (wouldn’t want to do this past the age of 50, sick, so hurry up)
- Build a fort
- Kiss a random (that’s ALL though, I mean it)
- Microwave a Hot Pocket (those things have to be taken off the shelves sometime soon - SICK)
- Build a snow man (now in Houston this was possible only a short few years ago, so it might be
too late to see that much snow in H-Hizzle again, so go do it somewhere else)
- Throw a costume party
- Be famous, in your own way (if this means being a regular at Lizzards then so be it)
- Go to a Championship football game at the Rose Bowl *when the Longhorns are playing (now this my friends happened in 2005, but it DEFINETLY isn’t to late , figure it out!)
- Cause a scene (peeing in the Walmart isle counts :)
- Write in a journal
- Sunday Funday
- Skip school
- Live with a friend
- Live on your own
- Cook a Thanksgiving meal
- Start a business
- Cannonball
- Jump off the plank at Willie T’s and drink a Painkiller at the Soggy Dollar Bar
- Wake up in Vegas (or stay up in Vegas or get married in Vegas)
- Eat a KK’s cookie (just a small plug)
- Shop till you drop
- Eat a Whataburger
- Live on San Antonio Street
- Learn to LOVE Chocolate

Hurricanes are Not An Aphrodisiac

Note: For absolutely no reason in particular, this is the second pregnancy post in a row. Author’s apologies all around.

I want to share with you a little phenomenon I’ve recently stumbled across, and that is the unbelievably large amount of very pregnant women I have seen about town for the past few weeks. And not just “Oh-that’s-sweet-she’s-expecting-a-baby” pregnant, but an “Oh-my-God-that-woman-is-about-to-pop-and-I-don’t-care-how-magical-babies-are-I-am-taking-a-giant-step-backwards-because-her-water-is-clearly-going-to-break-and-these-are-my-favorite-shoes” pregnant. PREGNANT, folks.

Like the sheltered uptown cocker spaniel in Lady & The Tramp, I was simply baffled by all this baby business (but without a wizened bloodhound named Trusty to explain it to me.) I was recently at a wedding shower having a nice little innocent chat with two of my friend’s moms, one of whom is a nurse. God only knows how the topic came up, but she announced to us that Houston was expecting a 25% increase in births in June and July, because of Hurricane Ike. And suddenly it clicked. Thanks to MTV’s Sixteen & Pregnant (previous post – holla!), I now know where babies come from, and using my powers of deduction and some simple context clues, I quickly realized what was going on with this influx of fruitful ladies that me and my shoes had been carefully side-stepping during my daily errands. These broads had been doing the mattress mambo (yes, I’m twelve, and I make no apologies for it) DURING HURRICANE IKE. Think about it – June/July, minus nine months, takes us right back to September ’08. Knowledge really is power.

At this point in the conversation, one of the mothers giggled and admitted that her second-eldest child was a hurricane baby in the 80’s, because, and I quote – “the power was out and there was nothing else to do!” (Author’s note: Before I spin off into my rant, let it be known that my friend’s mom is totally excused from the verbal persecution as she falls under the Known And Liked By Wendy clause. Definition: Just because I hold society to impossibly high standards, you don’t have to live up to them, mainly because you picked me up from high school lacrosse practice or you make really good brownies or something.) I get a big kick out of my friends’ moms and have known most of them since I was a wee tot, so I prefer to mentally block any existence of their sex lives, just as I’m sure they prefer to do the same for our group of friends. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell – that sort of thing. For all I know, their “hurricane baby” floated down their flooded street in a basket made of reeds, a la Moses… just like how we threw up in high school after Senior Girls’ from “dancing too much after eating a big dinner” and those lipgloss-smudged cigarette butts behind the garage “must have been left over from the workmen.”

Thus we arrive at my issue: Sex during a hurricane??? Are you serious with this? You know who I got busy with during Hurricane Ike? A fleet of orphaned baby squirrels at the SPCA – but alas, that is a story for another day, another blog entry, and at least several cocktails. If any of you lived in Houston in September of 2008 and had the gall/stupidity (I can say that because I was here the entire time) to stick around during Hurricane Ike, you know exactly what I’m talking about. No power, no clean water - days ticked by and without a steady stream of Freon pumping throughout our houses, the September humidity began to permeate everything indoors, including my soul. A faint smell of mold introduced itself and everyone’s sheets were damp, and not in the “I had too much fun at Vintage” urine-soaked way. And oh dear God don’t even get me started on the generators. Frankly I would have preferred someone set up a week-long NASCAR race directly in front of my house, because at least then I could have had some great fanny-pack-wearing-people-watching to accompany the 24-hour cacophony of big-rig engines and the overpowering reek of gasoline. Your day basically went as such: Wake up in the morning drenched in a thin layer of sweat. Take a freezing cold shower in the dark. Dry off with a towel that is starting to smell like mildew. Have a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. Break out the chainsaw/rake/garbage bags and attempt to make your lawn/gutters/street look somewhat passable so that hopefully the revered CenterPoint Energy workers will show up and restore your power supply. Go inside and take another freezing cold shower in the dark. Play solitaire. Have a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. Listen to various National Guard and Red Cross reports of death and destruction on your wind-up radio (I’m not even kidding, my parents and I sat huddled around ours for days like eastern-European refugees during World War 2). Play solitaire. Find out one of your friends never lost electricity at their apartment. Bum-rush said apartment with a 6-pack of lukewarm beer and find 50 other assholes who had the same idea as you. Consume beer (which is unfortunately starting to taste like water by this point) and head home for another ice-cold shower. Contemplate another peanut butter sandwich but get too depressed staring at the king-size jar of JIFF. Read until it gets dark (7:30 PM). Lay in bed until you drift off into a fitful and sweat-laden sleep.

This went on for 10 days at my house. As one may imagine, leading a lifestyle such as the aforementioned wasn’t exactly doing wonders for anyone’s appearance. I’m a relatively low-maintenance kind of gal (“of an English mentality”, I prefer to call it), but by the third day of this crap even I was starting to shudder a little every time I glanced in the mirror. Not to mention the raging guilt I felt on the inside for realizing this is how people in third world countries live and the only real hardship my cushy little life can claim is being forced to listen to the guitar-guy in the wine section at Kroger on West Gray.

So as you can see, Homely Appearances and Overwhelming Depression reigned supreme in September. How was it possible people were feeling the need to get busy? I understand there are some folks out there who are into, for lack of a better term, some freaky shit, and to you I say Mazel Tov. But sex during Ike’s aftermath goes beyond anything even the most devout sado-masochist could conjure up. Sandals is for lovers; the Gulf Coast after a hurricane is not. Everyone was miserable because they were hot and muggy – why would you do anything that would further the hot mugginess? It’s like going for a jog in the Sahara and refreshing yourself with a nice cup of hot creamy soup afterwards – no one does these things! It isn’t cool, it isn’t funny, and there’s certainly nothing arousing about it. Let me the list the things I would rather do than have sex after Hurricane Ike:

• Sit on a cactus
• Have hot bamboo spears shoved underneath my fingernails
• Live on a steady diet of candied goat anus
• Have an abnormal amount of children with Jon Gosselin
• NOT have an abnormal amount of children with Robert Pattinson (See what I did there?)

In conclusion, God forbid we get hit with another whopper storm like Ike again in the near future, but if we do, I only ask that you people think long and hard (that’s what she said) about the activities you engage in while sans-power. The Baby-Boomers that resulted from the end of WW2 are one thing – putting a strain on the healthcare and social security system because you couldn’t think of anything else to do after Ike is quite another altogether. If you feel the urge, maybe try to distract yourself with something else. Come over to my house – we’ll listen to the wind-up radio and make peanut butter sandwiches. Because if your child is born with leaves in his hair and wearing a CenterPoint energy uniform, you really only have yourself to blame.

Dirty Confessions of the MTV Sort

Let’s talk MTV reality shows. At some point in my music-loving career, MTV declared a jihad against their own music videos and replaced them with “reality” television, the frontrunner being the Real World. Perhaps some of you were too young to remember (I was held back a grade), or you had a Mormon upbringing and were barred from MTV, but the Real World used to be the shiznit. Take the original New York cast: they had quasi-legit jobs and life goals, you could discern between them with ease, alcohol was consumed on a moderate basis, and what they lacked in fake tans, they more than made up for in high-waisted jeans and flannel shirts. As a 3rd grader in 1992, this was a group I could easily get behind. (I was sooooo Julie Gentry!) Don’t even get me started on the drunken meat-market that is this season’s “RW Cancun”, because if it were up to me, I’d send the lot of them out on a deep-sea fishing trip with Joran Van der Sloot. (What? Too soon?)

So a few series later of My Super Sweet Sixteen, Room Raiders, and Rich Girls, (did anyone else simply adore this hot meandering mess of Allie Hilfiger's show? What about the time the bulldog pulled an Exorcist and threw up neon green matter? “Madge is sick!!”) we arrive at our present day MTV lineup, the most fascinating, of course, being 16 and Pregnant. Who is the loon behind this, and what sort of Giggle Water was he drinking when he convinced himself he could pull the fleece over our eyes and keep us from realizing this was Juno: The Show?

What I liked about Juno:

• Ellen Page
• Michael Cera’s short shorts
• The hamburger phone
• Zany partner-in-crime played by Olivia Thirlby
• Allison Janney’s northern accent and weird obsession with dogs (specifically Weimeraners)
• The unfettered consumption of Sunny D and Twizzlers
• By the end of the movie, we know that everything is going to be okay

What I like about 16 and Pregnant:

• I can mentally dub it Comparative Proof That I Am Doing Pretty Darn Good With My Life Choices

And that’s about it. Because honestly, the rest of the show pretty much obliterates my faith in the high school population and makes my lady parts cringe in fear. I tuned in to Music Television in hopes of catching some Beyonce, not The Learning Channel – therefore please give me a little warning before you show a 17-year-old having contractions and being instructed to “push like you’re making a bowel movement.” And now the delicious Amy’s enchilada I was enjoying is going straight into the trash. You owe me $5.29, MTV – that shit was organic.

But, like any good train wreck you just can’t look away from, I keep watching. Every. Damned. Episode. Mainly because I’m just so startled how almost-acceptable they make it seem for high schoolers to have a baby. The baby shower scene alone almost makes me consider jumping in on the fun, until I suddenly realize who’s buying up all those onesies with “Daddy’s Strongest Swimmer!” and “I’m Living Proof My Mom Puts Out” written on them. If you, dear reader, happened to have a child at an early age, please don’t take offense – in fact, a tip o’ the hat to you. I just happen to know myself and have no qualms admitting that my loving-yet-easily-distracted arms are where a fleet of Tamagotchis, Chia pets, and one pet rabbit named Angel came to die (she lived outside, I forgot to feed her, my family still brings it up during the holidays, and I don’t want to talk about it.) Suffice it to say, I’m gonna need a little more time being selfish and looking out for Numero Uno before I can fully care for a miniature human being.

So you can imagine my disgruntled enthusiasm when I heard the season finale of 16&P was going to be “the most difficult episode yet.” More difficult than giving up your childhood, quitting school, giving birth, and waking up for 3 a.m. feedings?? Are they also going to live in a tank full of sharks? My mind was at a loss, until I tuned in last night mid-episode to find what appeared to be Lily Allen’s long-lost sister trying to select a couple to adopt her baby with the help of her stud-earring-and-sideways-cap-sporting boyfriend. “Oh ho ho, here we go!” I thought to myself. The minutes ticked by and the story unfolded– Lily & Eminem had been dating since 7th grade and both came from relatively unstable households (her mom was in and out of the picture and she’d lived in 13 different homes, his dad went to prison for a while – sorry to Debbie Downer this, but I’m a hard-hitting journalist who cuts to the facts), their parents had decided to marry each other so they were now step-siblings, and they were sophomores in high school. And pregnant. I didn’t even know where to begin, mainly because I could not get over her mother’s hair – it had to have some fake additions, because girlfriend’s weathered face was a telltale sign of her unhealthy lifestyle (read: crackhead), and I can only imagine that a diet of smack does not make for a healthy and luxurious mane. Additionally, the mom was a huge proponent of Lily & Eminem keeping the baby, because “Its my first grandbaby.” And she wasn’t alone! Eminem’s dad, who apparently spent his duration in the clink growing out a serious handlebar moustache, informed him that giving said baby away would be evidence of him not manning-up and “being a cowboy.” What??? Pretty sure there were no toddlers on Brokeback Mountain, Sir, but think what you will. I’m so confused as to why the kids’ explanation of “We want the baby to have a better life than we could give it right now” falls upon deaf ears, but I guess eating too many pork rinds and spending your time gambling at gas station casinos can make you hard of hearing. So I’ve already got the parents on my shit-list, but for the first time, the pregnant couple is kind of starting to win me over. For all his ghetto-bro façade, Eminem (fine, fine, his name is Tyler) is probably one of the most caring and realistic kiddos I have ever seen. They pick out a couple that want a baby very badly, have a stable household, waterski, and probably sh*t rainbows and cheesecake (I love ‘em!) Things get tense as the parents disapproval heightens, Lily Allen realizes how hard its going to be to give up a baby, Tyler is supportive and loving throughout the entire she-bang… eventually, my cold heart of granite started to soften a bit and I felt a hot salty tear dribble down my cheek. I cried during a reality show on MTV. And I kind of hated myself for it, because the commercial breaks were populated with sneak peeks at the upcoming Real World Cancun episode. The only thing that made it okay was the text from co-blogger Barbara: “Umm confession: sitting in my bed bawling and watching 16 and pregnant.” Through the course of the show, we came to the executive agreement that the couple was “SOOOOO SWEET!”, Tyler earned a "love love love!" and the parents were “stupidheads.”


So, MTV, well done. Although you’re only playing music videos from 7 – 8 A.M. these days, I hate the recent Real Worlds, and you are solely responsible for bringing Heidi Montag out from the Colorado rock she was living under, I can’t give up on you quite yet, because you restored a bit of my faith that there are decent teenagers out there. Even if they are having sex with their step-siblings.

No Icy Mits Here!

So I went to a pub crawl last weekend and what a time it was. Was I expecting Cancun Spring Break 1991? No, but I wasn’t expecting the geriatric pub crawl either. We started slow at Kenneally’s. We picked it up a notch at Mugsy’s, where we found a lovely picture of a 1920’s party scene. There were a lot of women and only a few men, but take it for what it is. Influenced by the photo Boozie started speaking 1920’s lingo. After this the whole feeling of the pub crawl changed. While he was speaking English you wouldn’t know it. We couldn’t understand anything he was saying and it was hysterical.

“Mugsy's got a special for slow hot gin fizzes under an Abe Cabe I tell ya....The bearcats should be out lookin to cash a check cuz the bank ain’t closin tonite...I gotta couple cuddlers on the line so you better be hittin on sixes I tell ya”

While I don’t hold a cake to Boozie, who can speak this off the top of his head, I’ll attempt to tell our 1920’s Geriatric Pub Crawl tale in 1920’s jargon to the best of my ability! Here goes it:

Five of us baby vamps got all dolled up and headed to Kennelly’s. We had Welsh, the bearcat speaking baloney from the night before. Frenchy and Kathleen were entertaining all the fellas at the table, Boozie, Wes, and Tony. We were making Shandy’s (miller lite, sprite, ice and a lime) and Welsh was drinking and spilling belts all over the place. After a few rounds of Uno we left for our second stop, Mugsy’s, where Catherine joined us and we all continued drinking the giggle water. Welsh was pretty bent when we got to Mugsy’s and was still spilling all over the place. That funny old bird Matt walked in like he was the big cheese but he didn’t even end up taking a belt all night. The bar tender wanted to tell us pipe down, we were being so loud, but since we were the only people there at 4:00 in the afternoon he couldn't really say anything.

After Mugsy’s we went to the Velvet Melvin, a nice little juice joint across from the old PPC. (I bet there are a lot of old quiffs in there). We were all zozzled so we ordered a pizza tray full of nachos and some queso surved in a styrofoam bowl. This is where sober LeBlanc managed to get us in the most trouble though! He was starting fires (literally), defaming signs, and running a muck all over the place!

After the bum’s rush at the Velvet Melvin we headed to Kay’s. By this time we were all fried. LaFollette, Joey and Woods all met up with us after the baseball game. Good thing this was the geriatric pub crawl and they weren' t driving around the city tripping for biscuits. We tried to tell them that this had been an all out, balls to the wall pub crawl but by the looks of us they could tell we were making it up. "Tell it to Sweeney" Woods said! Boozie was sitting pretty at the Texas Table just waiting for the flappers to approach him and we were all razzing each other! It was a nasty mess and in the end I bolted out early while the rummies headed to The Big Easy. I'll tell you what just because we weren't as rowdy as pub crawl 1991, we sure had a grand old time, got drunk, and it was the Real McCoy!

To translate using the 1920's dictionary click here

-Babs

Happy Birthday Wendy!!!!

Have a great one and see ya at da bah!

To The Rat Bastard That Stole My iPhone - A Letter

Dear Sir/Madam:

Well played. I don’t know how you managed to sneak off into the muggy Houston night with what was essentially my electronic life, but I guess you deserve it for the level of skill you exhibited. As I myself am not a thief (unless you count street signs in 6th grade, which my dad does), I don’t exactly have a lot of respect for your profession, and truth be told, my Sunday hangover didn’t get any better by spending an hour at the AT&T store trying to maintain a safe distance from a certain employee’s unibrow lest I start a brush fire with my gasoline breath.

That being said, I feel as though I owe you an explanation on several fronts. Yes, an explanation. To begin with, you didn’t walk off with a credit card or even a purse, you walked off with an iPhone, which probably gave you more insight into my bizarre little world than anyone could ever possibly want, myself included. You probably thought you hit the jackpot, didn’t you? Sell it on ebay or just use it for yourself. Unfortunately for you, there is an inevitable moat of mental filth surrounding that gadget. You may be a thief, but you’re still part of society, and I’m fully aware of society’s reactions to my uncensored humor and ideas. Suffice it to say, Tipper Gore I am not. Let’s take a little trip down to my daily gutter, shall we?

1) Text Messages
Go ahead and give these a good scroll through. Chances are you’ll find a lot of senseless drivel about bar locations, who owes who money, maybe a little good natured shit-talking– you know, the usual. You may also stumble across a Sunday morning message to Maverick asking “Wanna go halvsies on a hunchback baby?” Now, I don’t doubt you’ll cringe. After all, who honestly talks about the divided components of making a baby, much less a hunchback one at that? Well, I do, good sir. I do. Before you get all kinds of offended, let it be known that I love kiddos of all situations, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame just happens to be one of my favorite movies. Show me someone who doesn’t love Quasimodo at the end of those 91 magical minutes and I will show you a Nazi. Additionally, I can think of no better set of parents for any child than Maverick and myself. We’re caring, we’re diverse, and the goddamn zoo comes to town every time we get together. Added perk: we love reading aloud to each other from smutty romance novels we buy for $2.99 at Walgreens. Nothing says "sweet dreams" like Rose's step-brother gazing at her wantingly from across the rustic log cabin.

2) Internet Searches
Say you’re just trying to go into Safari Finder and Google the location of a good Pen store, maybe even the year Pepperdine University was created, or the number of a Pest Control service. Chances are when you type this in, “Penis Dragon Tattoo” is gonna pop up as the first automatic choice. If you haven’t ever seen this miracle of horror, I suggest you take a gander. Seriously, Thief, my treat. I spent a solid 20 minutes staring at that beast trying to figure out whether or not it was Photoshopped, because, after all, who on God’s green earth would tattoo their penis (AND testicles!)? Not me – and I don’t even have one! The extensive level of purple and green coloring indicates that this nutcase (pun intended?) went back SEVERAL times to get his fire-breathing friend juuuuuuuust right. For several hours, on several different occasions, this guy had a needle repeatedly jabbing at his manhood. Mull that over. The whole situation just sounds about as appetizing as sex with Spencer Pratt.

3) Pictures
These are relatively harmless upon first glance. Barbara eating paper confetti out of a Styrofoam cup, a misspelled valet sign (“Parking for Front Porsche Pub” – come on, people), Duffy wearing a shirt with a Texas flag that says “Secede!” while giving the thumbs up. But wait – what’s this? Why is there a 20-something girl with green paint smeared all over her face shoving an old and decrepit dog into a microwave? Well, Bob Hope, it’s called a joke. If you dress up as the Wicked Witch of the West for Halloween, the costume clearly isn’t complete without Toto. CAN A SISTA GET A SMALL, TERRIER-ESQUE DOG??? Fortunately for me, my parents’ old and graying Schnauzer, Freemont (RIP), fit the bill AND happened to be at that senile age where you can do anything with him and he didn’t mind it much – probably because he didn’t really know what was going on. Kind of like the dog version of Walter Matthau. Hence, lift him up near an open microwave, smack a sinister sneer on your face, email the horrifying image to your easily-horrified sister, and call it a holiday.

So there you have it. If you need me, I’ll be banging away on the Teddy Ruxpin battery that is my new Nokia. Jerk.

Most sincerely,

Wendy

Fanny Packs

The Return of the Fanny-Pack:

Are We, As a Society, Ready For It?

While I didn’t make it out to LA this weekend, I did make it almost half way to Vegas via Southwest Airlines. Now the three hour flight is nothing in comparison to the twenty hour drive, but a little boredom did begin to set in. And what does any smart person do when bored on a plane? Pull out a SkyMall and start looking for wedding gifts (get ready Winnie & Ben)!

As I was looking through this gem of a magazine, my eye was struck by the sort of revolution of the fanny pack that SkyMall is trying to promote.

Original Fanny Packs (OFPs)

Now, the OFP was popular for no more than a long weekend in the summer of 1980, but it seems like some people just won’t let this idea die!

SkyMall advertises this lovely vest as having 22 hidden no-bulge pockets and features the patented Personal Area Network (PAN) licensed from Technology Enabled Clothing (TEC.) Now I am sorry but the OFP did not offer more than a front zipper and a hidden back zipper that was worn close to your belt. This travel vest offers PAN and TEC? WTF are those?

Oh and just wait, the women’s version advertises a Weight Management System (WMS). Now explain to me how a 22 pocketed vest can control your weight? Can it do anything but make you appear bigger?

SkyMall has also come up with the Original Purse Organizer with seven pockets so you never have to search for your keys again! This to me just seems like another shot at making the fanny pack popular. Occasionally women would sport two fanny packs back in the day (you know, one in the front, one in the back) then how are they going to fit all their belongings neatly organized in just seven pockets? SHEESH! Most purses come with at least four pockets, how is this much better?

Let’s face it peeps, anything beyond a woman’s purse, a man’s wallet, and maybe a couple extra jacket pockets is just not going to make it. The fanny pack is not coming back! Not even any of those designer ones! I vote we leave it in the past and move on.

-- Babs