Smello. Remember me? Sorry I’ve been silent so long, dear readers (all 3 of you) – I got a BatSignal that a pack of wild, ravenous West-Coast coyotes (pronounced “KAI-YOATS”) was harassing my fair co-blogger Barbara, so I had to head out there and see what all the fuss was about.
It wasn’t pretty, but no one F’s with my Babs and gets away with it. On to the blog!
I don’t know if it’s the weather, the times that are a-changin’, or the fact I sit in a silent office all day so that any time anything remotely interesting happens to me I absolutely flip my lid, but I have really been noticing some strange occurrences “out there” recently. I’ll list.
1.) Fee Fi Fo Hogan
Brooke Hogan is huge. There, I said it. I know, I know “but everyone is beautiful in their own waaaay!” That’s all good and well but ohsweetChrist, HOW TALL IS THAT GIRL??? I nonchalantly tuned into Brooke Knows Best the other day and my jaw literally dropped when I saw her pose next to a group of friends for a photograph. It was like Andre the Giant taking a publicity shot with that family from Little People Big World. (Sidenote: I used to work for a government-entity-type-of-place and at one of our events we got to take pictures with Yao Ming, #11 for the Houston Rockets. Naturally, I stuck my picture next to my computer, the better to admire its circus-sideshow resemblance, until one day our CEO, who could only be described as a hybrid between Mr. Rogers and George-W.-Bush-on-acid, admired it for a bit too long and declared "Whew, that’s one tall Chinaman!" I honestly waited for him to pull his eyes to the outside of his head, a la Miley Cyrus' offensive pictures, but it was a no-go. HA-RUMPH.) I kid you not, B.Hoges nearly knelt to the ground to blend in with everyone else’s height. You know what I’m talking about – we’ve all seen a tall person do this at some point or another while taking a photo because they feel gargantuan compared to the pipsqueaks next to them and they think if they squat down, the rest of us will be none the wiser. To which I say Nonsense - if the can of vegetables from Wet Hot American Summer taught me anything at all, it’s that you should Be Proud Of Who You Are. So you're tall! No biggie! (Pun intended?) Let the rest of us dwarfs marvel at you for a bit, experience a tinge of jealousy after the realization your legs are twice as long as ours, and then let's all move on.
I truly have no beef with Brooke Hogan (at 5’4’’, I would be a fool to) and from the 30-minute, VH1-edited version of her we’re treated to once a week, she seems like an okay gal. But what is that title? "Brooke Knows Best" - knows what best, exactly? Hair bleach? Hollister mini-skirts? Weight-lifting? By leaving the title ambiguous, VH1 producers, you seem to assume Brooke Knows Everything Best, of which I assure you she does not. So what's the purpose of giving her her own show? Yeah, sure, sometimes Hulk Hogan shows up with his misfit meat-head friends during the kids’ spring break trip to rip off his sleeveless shirt and do a beer bong in front of a cheering crowd, but that doesn’t exactly make for an entire television show (who am I kidding, of course it does.) How ‘bout tossing a reality show my way, VH1? We could call it “Wendy Knows Whistling Best”, or even “Wendy Knows Best How To Look Productive At Work While Actually Writing a Silly Blog.” I’m willing to negotiate.
2.) Baby Can Freak Me Out
Every time I turn my TV on, it automatically tunes to channel 2, which is usually spouting an overly-enthusiastic infomercial of some kind. My budget has taken a real hit because of this seemingly-harmless-inconvenience, as I tend to passively watch the celebrity endoresed tchotchky for a solid hour without changing the channel to something else. Ergo, I buy shit. Within the past year I have ordered myself a Magic Bullet (the blender, not the vibrator), Cindy Crawford’s Meaningful Beauty skin care, and Sheer Minerals makeup. Frankly it’s a miracle the Gazelle hasn’t shown up on my doorstep yet. The other day, however, I tuned into my usual CrapForSale around noon and did a double-take as they showed what appeared to be a 1 year old child reading pretty articulately from a book. I don’t exactly know what it is babies do, but I’m pretty damn sure reading isn’t on the list. It both impressed and horrified me. First, I learned to read at the ripe old age of five, so good for you for getting a head start on it, Baby. Those kindergarten teachers are really going to be in for a surprise when you walk in with Tolstoy. On the other hand, WTF? Who/what taught an infant to read? “Baby Can Read” is a set of DVDs, maybe a book or two, I think some blocks as well… basically it is a kit sent to parents who seemingly have nothing better to do than teach their newborn to read. I want to call a spade a spade here and send these people a t-shirt with “Future Pageant Parent” printed on it as well – and you can be damn sure these are the same people who are training their cats to use a toilet.
It seems a defiance of nature to me – sure, there’s always going to be the “smart kid” in any group, but innate intelligence loses its importance when any old schmo can purchase it for three easy payments of $39.95. And where does it stop?! If you’re going to teach them how to read, why not squeeze a few quantum physics lessons in there as well and let’s make baby-rocket-scientists!? Life is not an E-Trade commercial - its funny as shit, yes, but toddlers should not be discussing their golf scores or singing Mr. Mister lyrics. Keeping children illiterate until the age of five is the practical thing to do, kind of like the Office episode where Michael and Dwight design a robot specifically with a 4 foot electric cord, so that if it tries to come after you, you can unplug it. Given too much power, robots and babies will overpower us as the human race.
3.) I Don’t Even Have Anything for This
This past weekend, me and my cohorts took our happy selves about 45 miles east of Houston to the Texas Gatorfest, as you do. The proper thing to do here would be to offer up an entire post dedicated to the splendor that is The Gatorfest, but I assure you John Steinbeck himself could not do it justice. There were executed alligators a-plenty, frozen cheesecake on a stick, live country music, and Disney-esque teacup rides. It was truly a fair for the ages.
One of the many, many reasons I love the Gatorfest is the people in attendance. It is a feast for the eyes like no other. Cowboys, swamp-dwellers, high school cheerleaders with too much makeup, pregnant teenagers, the odd European here and there who came to see that this does, in fact, actually exist. Think the small town from True Blood, sans vampires. And, ooohBOY, the looks we city-folk get! Taking a page from co-blogger Barbara’s book, I can safely say “the L.A. scene” was NOT “in full effect.”
Regardless, our group settled in with a few light-up pint glasses of beer and proceeded to observe the parade of humanity all around us. And then I saw it: a woman walked by me wearing a black tank-top and after a double-take, I realized it had the word “p….sy” on it. (Lord knows I’m not one to edit, but my skin literally crawls at that word. Just use your imaginations – we’re all adults here.) That’s something that doesn’t just walk right by and you think “Well, okay.” I had to see what the hell was going on there. With the stealth of a jungle cat, I clamored out of my seat and scampered up until I was a few paces in front of her. Then I pretended like I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten something, clapped my hand to my forehead with a look that said “Gahh, you nut!” for the full effect, and turned around. And that’s when I saw it. This at-least-45-years-old broad had a shirt on that said “I have the p….sy, so I make the rules!”
I’m going to let that sink in – I know you’ll need a minute or two.
Now, the shirt alone could stand as its own entity, but it was donned by a woman who was about my height, roughly a deuce, deuce and a ½, and was certainly no spring chicken (read: looked a lot like the grandmothers-to-be from Sixteen and Pregnant.) She had on jeans, I think some cowboy boots, and, obviously for modesty’s sake, a sequined bolero.
Like the title says above, I just… I can’t… I don’t even have anything to say for this. Except that if any of you can find that shirt and get it to me by Christmas 2009, I can assure you I will make it worth your while.