Wednesday, May 30, 2007

i should stop holding back and tell you all how i really feel

So Papadon, my adopted Texas grandpa, at the behest of his wife, Lisa, sent me a link to a video by Roy Zimmerman, a man who so far appears to be my soulmate. There's a bunch of his stuff on youtube, but so far this one is my favorite.

I put him in the same category as Mark Morford: hilarious, smart, and a guy I'd totally blow out of sheer principle. (And if you watch the Dick Cheney video, well, there's just one more reason. Because that's hot.)

Which brings me to my next topic: Bush should be impeached. Which all of you know. JK (my brother) asked me tonight how in hell it was possible for Clinton to get impeached for getting a blowjob while Captain Sparky is still wandering around the White House peeing on things. I only assume this is how he fills his days, because it's clearly not spent thinking up ways to solve problems. His biggest decision every day is what to have for dinner. You never know when a pretzel might attack. (Yeah, that's right, I went (back) there.)

A few years ago or maybe yesterday, I said that if some chubby-girl head is what it takes to get a president impeached, then I will step up for America.

But really, the idea of even seeing that limp, barely used nub of a cock that's buried in the graying pubes of our coke-rotted, barely literate, alcoholic, possibly functionally retarded squatter of a president makes me want to vomit in rage, fear, rage again, and just general repulsion. And that's exactly what happened. Although he still paid me. Can we impeach the fucker now?

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

optimus prime, the bible, and some douchebag with a milkshake

So last week I was chomping Midol like they were Skittles. I think there were tiny little peasants fleeing from every step I took. In short, it was not a good time. Of course, the foul-tempered writhing of various internal organs was nothing compared to the prospect of being turned into chowder on 376.

I was in the fast lane when the genius ahead of me slammed on his brakes because there was a ghost in the road or something. I suspect he was in fact trying to kill himself. So I screeched dramatically to a stop, which somehow did not involve getting my transmission in his back seat. The guy behind me did the same thing, but he fishtailed out into the right lane. On this particular stretch of 376, there are only two lanes, no shoulder, and a jersey barrier on both sides. It's a jumble of bridge, onramp, and overpass. So as we were all camped out (mostly) in the left lane while traffic whizzed past us on the right, I looked up and fucking Optimus Prime was barrelling along. And I had three overlapping scenes go through my mind: the last thing I said to my brother, the last thing I said to my mother, and a vision of the inevitable crash. I just knew the truck was going to clip the rear of the guy behind me and then send us all splattering into the barrier and each other. Apparently the guy behind me knew that, too, because he pulled some James Bond maneuver and whipped around me and the douchebag. I have no idea how in hell he managed that. But wherever you are, dude, thank you for saving my life. He quite literally risked his own life, but I guess he didn't have much of a choice.

So I managed to get myself to work, and the second I took the key out of the ignition, I shuddered and started shaking. It took me three tries to just log in to my computer. Oh, and did I mention the crying? That was lots of fun and not humiliating at all. But I couldn't stop. I had to go have a freakout in the bathroom for a few minutes. Almost dying is one thing. But I cannot stand to have anyone see me cry like that. So then I transitioned into furious. Somehow I got through the day, mellowed out, and in the last half hour I was in the office, I had to caption some religious nonsense. And what were these particular Unfuckables yapping about? Only the two issues most likely to make steam come out of my ears -- abortion and gay rights. At the same time. Which apparently can both be irrefutably condemned by god by reading the same few verses. One of which says murder is bad (so are lima beans. Your point?) and the other is even more rambling and pointless than what I write here.

I'm now going to do something I've never done before -- quote the bible. Specifically, the book of Romans, if you're interested.

"And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet." Yeah -- how many times did you just look back at that and go, "Huh?"

Once again, I am struck by the notion that if some omnipotent being truly did write the bible, it'd be better-written. But I digress. More than usual. Also, the phrase "use of woman" triggers screaming in my head.

Anyway, the whole thing is pretty vague. Sure, we've got the word "lust" going on there. But "working that which is unseemly" could be anything, especially since it previously mentions a whole slue of sins, including committing murder and being disobedient to one's parents and not having mercy for one's fellow man. Said list says nothing about boys kissing each other. Or girls. In case you were wondering.

But right in the next chapter it says something that is pretty unmistakable. "Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things. " I had to read that once in order to understand it. How about you?

That chapter goes on in that vein, essentially repeating itself and saying that god alone will judge mankind and man should be content in that knowledge. I could twist that around to oppose the death penalty really easily. But I'm not going to use it to support anything I believe. Why? Because using a 2,000-year-old book to support my own ideas is ridiculous. The bible says a lot of shit that is conveniently mostly ignored because we as a society have recognized that is is completely insane. Like in Leviticus, in the discussion of how long everyone is unclean after or during various things. Like childbirth. Apparently if you give birth to a girl, you're much more unclean than if you have a boy. Who knew?

Also, there is a giant list of who you should not have sex with or see naked. I think this is hilarious not only for the number of times I've seen just about everyone I know naked, including my father, which is right at the top of the list, but because it reminds me of the letter the FBI sent me when they ran a background check on me when I was working with the kids a few years ago. They sent me a list of every crime I'd never been convicted of. Which was all of them. (On that list was sodomy. Not forcible sodomy or anything, just sodomy. Which made me wonder several very strange things I'm sure you're already wondering so I won't bother reiterating your own thoughts.)

Perhaps if you're going to base your life around an ancient book and you're going to pick and choose your abominations (like eating sheep or shrimp) then at least acknowledge that maybe everything in the bible isn't meant to be taken literally. Because lamb chops are delicious and so is lady business. Mm-mmm!

My point is this -- I can't believe my head hasn't exploded. Especially since somebody threw a fucking milkshake on my car. I guess this was either some idiot teenager trying to look cool for his friends or someone opposed to ending the Iraq War. (Or they're opposed to Pittsburgh public radio or AIDS research, the only other stickers on my car.) Because nothing says "I blindly support our retarded chimpanzee of a president" quite like throwing a milkshake at a parked car. I suppose I should be happy it wasn't feces.

But, Amanda, you may be asking, How can you be sure that some idiot thew the milkshake? Well, dear imaginary inquisitive reader with whom I have frequent imagined dialogues, it's because I watch Court TV and have learned valuable lessons on blood-spatter patterns. I was out in the driveway in shorts and plastic sandals, holding a hose and Forensic File-ing the drips. Then I was out in the driveway in shorts and plastic sandals cursing the existence of that fuckwad. There are a lot of people in the world who I'll never meet but who I'd pay to hit in the face with a length of 2x4. And that list has a new entry as of yesterday.

As usual, I just wanted to give you all some stories to tell CNN via satellite interview after I finally snap.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

on the other hand, children are learning all about the doppler effect

Forest Hills is insane. I was sitting in the yard with my mother a few hours ago and we heard a voice over a bullhorn coming from the street that runs on the other side of our yard. Our yard slopes down into a wooded area that gives way to houses and a small apartment complex. Not the best acoustics. All we could make out was some garbled nonsense and then the phrase "pick them up at the fire hall." After about a half hour, the voice made its way up to a place where it could cut through the brush a little better, and we finally received the vital message, "For anybody that ordered hoagies off the fire department, don't forget to pick them up at the fire hall."

Seriously? The phone has been around how long? And everyone in the world, including my grandmother, has email. You can even email someone from your cell phone. And still, Forest Hills seems to think that the best way to communicate with people is the town crier.

We also have an insane ice-cream truck in Forest Hills. We never had one in my neighborhood when I was growing up, (a whopping three miles from here) so the only experience I have with ice-cream trucks comes from television shows and manufactured nostalgia I've inherited from other people. But I would think that when anyone thinks of an ice-cream truck (unless this person lives in Forest Hills, of course) the basic thought that comes to mind is some kind of melodious music and a slow-moving freezer on wheels. Forest Hills apparently hired the Antichrist for its ice-cream-delivery needs. My other theory is that they are trying to combat obesity in a really cruel way.

The music this thing plays is so cacophonous that you wonder if the ice cream it contains will bite you if you somehow find a way to purchase it. I say "somehow find a way" because the truck barrels down the road at about 45 mph. In case you're wondering, the speed limit is 20.

They pick a new song every once in a while. The last two summers, it was "The Entertainer" performed by, I think, The Mental Patient Ringtone Symphony. And the truck moves so fast, you only get to hear about four notes at a time, so it took me both summers to piece together just what in hell it was I was listening to.

Today was the ice-cream truck's first appearance of 2007, and I think their music selection has devolved even further, something I didn't even know was possible. Remember the episode of "Friends" where Ross is playing a collection of sound effects on his keyboard? I think that's what just blew past my house.

I'll let you know next August.

Friday, May 18, 2007

"amanda wins at life"

I mean, who doesn't know that already? But in case you were wondering, or perhaps if you need a reaffirmation, here is the story of why my coworker said that today.

I had been musing on just what it would cost me to hire Chuck Norris to stand by my desk and deliver roundhouse kicks to the faces of those people who feel the need to stand behind me and speak in obnoxious stage whispers and laugh like cartoon Japanese schoolgirls. About 12 times a day.

So then we started trading Norrisisms. (Chuck Norris does not sleep; he waits. Chuck Norris's tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried. Ever. Chuck Norris is not hung like a horse. Horses are hung like Chuck Norris. When it rains, Chuck Norris does not get wet. Water gets Chuck Norris.) Then I came up with a brand-new one.

Chuck Norris does not caption. He punches deaf people until they can hear.

I do, in fact, win at life. But only because Chuck Norris allows me to.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

a blogevangelist extravaganza: ding! dong! the douchebag's gone

Is it wrong to laugh at someone's death? Almost usually. But no more wrong than every single thing that Jerry Falwell ever said, including the time he said, "Sure!" when a waitress asked him if Coke was okay when he ordered a Pepsi. (Note: he then prayed for her heathen, Coke-selling soul.)

So apparently Ol' Jer dropped dead (or, if you'd like to use the medical terminology, he was 'smote') around noon. Right as I was getting up vaguely early so I could go vote. And oh, boy, am I glad I voted. Now I'm going to have yet another reason to want to go a-vote-castin'! Not only will I order up some democracy, Sheetz-style, but now I can hope that somewhere, every time a "Vote" button lights up, a disgusting ball of intolerance and adipose tissue will heave a sigh and then flop to the ground. Or, in the case of Fred Phelps, have a crystal-meth-induced seizure atop an underaged male prostitute.

Everyone who has a blog is today writing something about Falwell's death. Some, like me, are clapping their hands and cackling. Some are sure it's a sign of the apocalypse. (Note: if ever there is a day during which nobody says the words "it's a sign of the apocalypse!" it will actually be the apocalypse.) And some are saying that we shouldn't mock his death because he had a family, and it's mean. Or something.

Dude, what the fuck ever. I have a family, too, and he didn't seem to have any problem bashing every single thing I stand for. And if I keeled over today instead of him, he'd have surely condemned my entire life, glossing over all the good things I've done and focusing instead on the fact that I like to kiss girls. Right, so, party at my house. Let's get a fucking keg and celebrate all the oxygen that's freed up for the rest of us now that he's not yammering about homosexual cartoon characters. Naked post-barbecue absinthe-and-THC-fueled moon-worship is optional but encouraged.

Phelps is going to protest the funeral, which confirms my theory that Phelps does not actually understand the concept of a protest and just has some kind of a homemade-sign fetish. A protest is to bring attention to your cause in order to bring about some kind of change. So in protesting a funeral, what is it you want to change? The death? Isn't that somewhere along the lines of questioning god? Shouldn't you disappear in a cloud of logic right about now, Phelpie? I think being called "Phelpie" by such a "fag-enabler" and carpet-muncher such as yours truly would really drive him...well, crazier. If such a thing were possible without some kind of lobotomy. I thought maybe the protest was just a rumor, but you can't make this shit up. There should be a mental disease named after that man.

Funniest thing about it is not that I agree with one of the statements therein (that Falwell split hell wide open) and with Falwell when he called Phelpie a lunatic or somesuch a while back. It's not even that everything is so poorly written. (If you can't make your point without exclamation points, then you are an idiot and should sit down.) And it's not even that the first three digits of the zip code of Ground Zero of these nitwits are 666.

No, the funniest thing about all of this is that just a few days ago, I was channel surfing and landed on some televangelist. And he was blathering about something and using completely ridiculous attempts at logic to prove that god exists and free will is a myth. He claimed that if a man makes a table and then dies, the table still exists. So far, I'm with you. I've never seen a table get blinked out of existence. But then he just threw in that the opposite is true for god and the universe -- that the universe cannot exist without god and that if god ceased to exist, so would we. Right, because that's something you can prove. If you have a guy, some wood, and a gun, you can prove the first part pretty easily. But the two aren't really related beyond sharing a couple of verbs. That's so ridiculous that I can't even come up with an appropriate analogy.

So in watching this jackass rattle on, I got so irritated that I apostrophized god or whatever mystical force might enjoy listening to basements in Forest Hills, and I said, "Aren't you fucking sick of this by now?"

It would seem that I got an answer today. I think I might be ready to be America's next cult leader.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

if you need me, i'll be in a cabin somewhere in the shenandoah valley tending a small herd of goats

What the hell is wrong with people? I've been getting a lot of stranger-email lately. These people seem to be missing critical sequences of DNA. I know I'm not the most gorgeous woman ever to live, but I am, at the least, cute. Sure, I'm chubby, but Bill Clinton wouldn't kick me out of bed. (And neither would you, because chubby women kick back.)

So here's a sample of what some of these critters have written to me (in all cases, translated from Complete Moron into English).

"I don't know if you like older men, but I can keep you." No, in fact, you cannot. A) I will not be kept, fucker. B) You work in retail.

"I like thick women. Meat is for men; bones are for dogs." Really? Because we took a vote and we don't like you. And stop calling us 'thick,' for chrissakes. I am not a slice of something. And maybe the meat/bones crap worked 10 years ago, but it's time to get a new canned line.

"You look like a beautiful doll." All right, I know you're trying to compliment me, but seriously, man, think about your similes for a few seconds. When you don't, you wind up sounding like a serial killer. Dolls have glass eyes. They don't think. You collect them and then dispose of them if you feel like it. Seriously, don't call women dolls. It makes us want to call the police.

"Who wants some?" The answer to this question, when asked as a greeting to a stranger, will NEVER be "Oh, me!"

Then there's the guy who no woman, under any circumstances, should ever date. He's the guy who sends you an email, you don't respond, and then the next day and every day thereafter, he sends you another message, getting angrier every time. I've been meaning to enter into a relationship that will end with an "accidental" poisoning.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

of advertising and crippling blows to the head

Maybe I'm missing something, but I really do not understand how spam is successful. I get the free advertising and that if one person out of a thousand buys a product or gets swindled out of their grandfather's collection of rare whatevers, that it's still a profit for those bastards. What I don't understand is how all of these apparently severely mentally handicapped people have email addresses and bank accounts.

Yesterday I got 15 of basically the same message at the same time on MySpace. (Say it with me: MySpace is the devil.) If the spammers themselves were not so astonishingly stupid, they would probably be much less annoying and much more successful. Is there anyone on earth who thinks that "hey haven't heard from u in a while but i wanted to show u this ringtone site! hit me back! lol!" is even a slight approximation of authentic human conversation? So frequently do my long-lost friends message me on MySpace to announce their brand-new brain damage by way of alerting me to a ringtone site. They've also started leaving spam blog comments (not here, of course, but on MyDevil) that say something like "hey i saw ur post and i have to say i agree cuz i was thinking the same thing and thanks for writing that but i NEED to let u know about this ringtone site!" Dude, seriously. Come the fuck on.

Speaking of inauthentic dialogue, if the person who writes the esurance commercials happens to read this blog, don't ever tell me your name. Because I will kill you. "Quick, get in the hybrid!" are five words that, when strung together in that exact order, make me want to commit several very specific felonies, also in an exact order. That is such bad writing that it actually offends me. Let's say that I own a hybrid car and my brother owns a conventional car. Even if we were deciding whose car to take, we'd never say "Let's take the hybrid." We'd say "your car" or something specific like "the Escape." Furthermore, in that commercial, there is only one vehicle present. You'd say "get in the car!" or "get in!" And everyone reading this knows I'm right.

And has anyone seen the pregnancy test commercial where the male announcer voice informs us that this pregnancy test is amazing, blah, blah, blah, and is the most advanced piece of technology we'll ever pee on? And then a jet of liquid shoots in? Yeah, let's kill whoever wrote that, too. First of all, I don't care what answer you are hoping that little stick is gonna tell you --no woman wants to hear a man talk to her about a fucking pregnancy test. And they're all the goddamn same, anyway. Some are easier to read than others and some actually have a results system that makes sense (whoever came up with the one-line/two-line system should be shot in the fucking forehead) but they're all testing for the same thing. Apparently I'm a pregnancy test connoisseur. Just one more reason they should listen to me. Also: I will not be impressed by any home pregnancy test until it comes with a half-off coupon for RU486. That'll boost your sales for sure.