6 Colossal Dicktators

lease tell me that I’m not the only one who had not yet uncovered the glory that is Huffington Post Comedy’s Dickipedia, a wiki of dicks??? I just found out about it today, via Twitter, and at this point, I pretty much can’t comprehend how I existed in a pre-Dickipedian world.

So, to go along with abdpbt’s Listless Mondays (which I haven’t done in way too long), I thought I’d go ahead and list my 6 favorite dicks thus far, along with some of my favorite lines from their Dickipedia entries.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering: yes, women can be dicks, too. “Dick” is a gender-neutral epithet and equal opportunity.

6 MASTER DICKTATORS:

1. Dr. Phil:

Phillip Calvin McGraw, better known as Dr. Phil, is a psychologist, author, TV personality and a dick. He is also Oprah’s bitch.

Sanctioned by the Texas State Board in 1989 for an “ethical violation” involving an “inappropriate relationship” with a 19-year-old patient, “Dr.” Phil was stripped of his license to practice psychology. (To date, Dr. Phil has not completed the conditions required by the Board of Examiners of Psychologists to regain his license, and remains unlicensed to practice psychology. Anywhere.)

In 1990, he co-founded Courtroom Sciences, Inc., a firm that advised Fortune 500 companies on how to use psychology to manipulate the justice system. It is through this company that he met Oprah Winfrey, who rewarded him with a recurring segment on her show, even though he really just wanted a Pontiac G6 like she gives everyone else. Every Tuesday for the next several years, Dr. Phil appeared on Oprah as “Relationship and Life Strategy Expert,” qualified by a failed marriage he kept secret for 30 years, plus numerous moral lapses, some illegal.

On his show, Dr. Phil pontificates on a spate of topics with which he has little expertise and, in some cases, upon which he is legally prohibited from offering advice. Of course, anyone accepting weight-loss or financial planning tips from a disbarred psychologist who has also run afoul of the Federal Trade Commission gets what they pay for.

Like any psychologist worth his salt, Dr. Phil is also an advertising shill for an online dating service.

2. Jon & Kate:

Image: http://multiples.about.com/

Jon Gosselin currently makes his home in Wernersville, a town whose Asian population literally quadrupled when he and his family moved there.

Kate Gosselin’s hobbies include berating her husband in front of a national audience, getting divorced in the most public and painful way imaginable, and ovulating.

The sextuplets were born on May 10, 2004, at the Milton S. Hershey Center, in Hershey Pennsylvania. As such, they came to be known as the “Hershey Kisses,” which, though embarrassing, is a hell of a lot better than the “Hershey Squirts,” as their nickname easily could have been.

Together, Jon and Kate Gosselin have the worst collective hairstyles of any couple since Kid N’ Play. Despite the plugs, Jon still somehow manages to sport a nasty meat yarmulke in back, while Kate’s can best be described as a forward-facing Flock of Seagulls.

3. Sarah Palin:

Image from RunnersWorld.com

The only thing Sarah Palin seems to enjoy more than having children is giving those children ridiculous names and inadequate sex education. Should she birth any further issue—and she very well might—it is entirely possible she will name it Trix Rabbit Palin.

Sarah Palin’s political views are totally cribbed from the “Focus on the Family” website. Pro-life, unless you’re talking about the life of a criminal; limited government involvement in people’s lives, unless those people have a uterus or are gay and want to get married; and guns for whoever wants them, as many as they like, unless they look Islamic, in which case they should be detained indefinitely, preferably naked and arranged in a human pyramid.

On August 29, 2008, Republican presidential candidate Senator John McCain performed perhaps the greatest political mindfuck in American history by announcing that he had chosen Sarah Palin as his running mate. Palin celebrated by ovulating.

4. Donald Rumsfeld:

Like many dicks, Donald Rumsfeld is a product of the Ivy League, attending Princeton University, which is pretty impressive, considering how Jewy his last name sounds. While at Princeton, Rumsfeld roomed with another future Secretary of Defense Frank Carlucci. You can imagine there wasn’t much partying in that room, but probably a fair amount of clandestine masturbation.

Nixon was recorded on tape calling Donald Rumsfeld a “ruthless little bastard.” This is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid him.

Donald Rumsfeld is also noted for taking a special interest in crafting Defense Department propaganda, personally weighing in on interrogation techniques, and tacitly approving of the destruction of priceless cultural artifacts. So while many people—knee-jerk liberals, for instance, the kind of people who shop at Whole Foods—liked to call President Bush a Nazi, they clearly had the wrong guy.

5. Elisabeth Hasselbeck:

Elisabeth Hasselbeck is a former reality show contestant—not even the winner, mind you, or even the runner-up—who somehow became co-host of one of the most popular daytime talk shows of all time, and a dick. Though not especially well informed, Hasselbeck is, nonetheless, an irritatingly vocal supporter of conservative viewpoints. Also, she bears a striking resemblance to one of those “It’s a Small World” animatronic robots they have at Disneyland, if those robots were programmed by Sean Hannity.

Elisabeth Hasselbeck is a panelist on The View, the program that pioneered the format of four women jabbering over each other for an hour and a half, interspersed with commercials for Boniva and a special kind of yogurt that promises to regulate your bowels. In this capacity, Hasselbeck’s main duties involve baiting the other panelists to drop the F-bomb on national TV and attaining a level of shrillness that would make most testicles re-ascend. Of course, anyone with external genitalia really has no business watching The View, so it would serve them right.

The morning after Barack Obama won the election, Elisabeth Hasselbeck appeared on The View in funereal black to deliver her “concession.” Despite predictions, she did not choke to death on her own tongue.

The Hasselbecks have two children, a girl and a boy, Grace Elizabeth and Jonathan Taylor, apparently named after the washed-up teenie-bopper heartthrob who played the wisecracking middle kid on Home Improvement.

It’s a safe bet that Elisabeth Hasselbeck has never taken a dump in a public restroom, and even at home hovers over the seat.

6. Warren Jeffs:

Jeffs proves the age-old adage that anyone can be famous, but to gain real notoriety you need to get caught getting it on with an eighth-grader. Just ask Roman Polanski. Or R. Kelly.

Jeffs is the son of Rulon T. Jeffs, the original unquestioned omnipotent leader of the FLDS. Known to his followers by the creeptacularly pervball nickname “Uncle Rulon,” the elder Jeffs proved hornier than Tommy Lee on an ecstasy binge, fathering about 60 children with several dozen wives. Upon his death in 2002, Warren Jeffs assumed his father’s place in the church, his father’s nickname, and, within one week, all but two of his father’s wives. This effectively made him “Uncle Brother Stepfather Warren.”

Jeffs spent the better parts of 2005 and 2006 facing, unlawfully fleeing, then ultimately hiding from, various statutory rape charges. Interestingly enough, he actually resurfaced in June 2006, for one day, to perform more child bride ceremonies. To many, this was the extralegal underage wedding officiant’s equivalent of the Beatles’ famous impromptu rooftop concert.

But, come on, a dick is a dick, so you might as well check out all of them in HuffPostComedy’s DICKIPEDIA DIRECTORY. But be careful: you’ll spend HOURS…

(*Initial “P” found HERE. All photos above from Dickipedia.org unless otherwise indicated)

10 Things my mom would say if she walked in my living room right now

ith Christmas looming (TEN FREAKIN’ DAYS, ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME WITH THIS?!), I have entered the annual phase I like to call: MomPrep (MP). There are several components of MP, none of which I care to share with you at this juncture (you’re welcome); however, a residual effect of said MP is that I unfortunately “hear” my mother’s voice in my ear pretty much constantly so that I may begin to anticipate potentially frustrating/enervating/absurd motherly confrontations that would make me want to slam a candy cane up my nose. So to speak. The whole point is: once I can successfully identify Crazy Mom Patterns (CMPs), anticipation and recognition of predictable CMPs will allow me to save myself (and my gram, and my sister if she’s around) and our collective sanity and, therefore, our familial Christmas experience as a whole. So, basically, MP and recognition of CMPs represent the means by which I shall become my own Christmas Savior.

Amen. 

So, as I sit now in my living room, ruminating on this Monday list, with ungraded student papers strewn about and CNN on in the background, I can’t shake my mom’s running commentary. Which really just means that I’m progressing nicely through my MP, don’t you think? Thank you.

Here are 10 things my mom would definitely want to tell me RIGHT NOW (because nothing can wait with my mom — that’s, like, step 1 of MomPrep.): 

1.) “I like what you’ve done with the place. It looks cute. But… (adjusts plant-lamp ratio on end table) … there, that’s better.”

2.) “Wow, you’ve received a lot of Christmas cards… (goes to mantle and pretends to read/appreciate the cards… thinks I do not notice when she “fixes” the card order). Very nice.”

3.) “What’s that bright orange ticket sticking out of your mail file?” (umm, a parking ticket that is 99% hidden behind other envelopes, thereby further proving the existence of Mom-(ra)Dar)

4.) “Have you paid all your bills this month?” (yes.) “HOW have you paid all your bills this month? Do you still owe a bunch of money on your credit cards?” (ugh.)

5.) “Are all those papers graded?” (no.) “Well don’t you think you should stop typing and watching Larry King and get them graded? Aren’t grades due on Wednesday? Isn’t it going to take you a long time? How long does it take you to grade one paper? Why have you waited this long to start grading them when you only have a little over a day? Come on… how long have you been in school and teaching? You’d think that over a decade in higher education would teach you a thing or two about procrastination.” (you’d think.) *note: notice that my mom strings along a ton of questions without a break for me to have a chance to answer. This is a common CMP.

6.) “Why do you have my wedding picture hidden in the corner behind your coat rack? You can barely see it!” (umm… because, I don’t know, I guess, for some reason, I thought that maybe a photo of you with step-dad #3 could be viewed as an optional design feature that probably wouldn’t gel with the overall comforting aesthetic that I’ve tried to create for myself in MY HOME.)

7.) “And why do you have that horrible, old picture of me and your father on your bookshelf where everyone can see it?” (umm…)

8.) “Are you still seeing that guy who’s friends with your good friend?” (no.) “Well, what happened? I thought you really liked him? Do you think you’ll get back together.” (NO.) “Why not?” (ugh.)

9.) “I know you don’t have much money, so why don’t you just make Step-Dad#3 and me something for Christmas?” (because I almost feel more pressured to make you something?) “Well, Jesus, I’m trying to help you here. Fine, then spend $20 or $25 on us, tops.” (gee, thanks.)

10.) “You spend an awful lot of time on that computer. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could get paid for it? Have you still been looking for a part-time job? Have you called the temp agency? Do you know for sure if your Writing Fellowship will be renewed next year? because, if it’s not, that means you need to look for a full-time job, have you thought of that? and if you have a full-time job, how will you find the time to write your dissertation? and you need to finish your dissertation. What are you going to do???” (*coma ensues*)

Yeah… definitely still a lot of work to do in my MomPrep before I hit the road on Sunday. 

Think happy thoughts, please. And I will think happy thoughts for all of you and your family (dys)functions this holiday season.

GLORY TO ANNA IN THE HIGHEST!

15 December associations I tend to make

1. December = the smell of pine, which is mildly orgasmic. For me, anyway. Lucky me.

2. December = Egg Nog Shakes at McDonald’s. Other than the Shamrock Shake for St. Patrick’s Day (and the sadly fleeting Arctic Orange Shake, which I haven’t seen since my adolescence), the Egg Nog Shake encompasses McDonald’s best achievement. I mean, other than that whole Super Size Me thing.

3. December = SNOW HATS. Snow hats provide me with infinite comfort and protection from the elements. And by “elements,” I mean, well, everything. Truth of the matter is, I’ve been known to wear a snow hat even during the summer months. Whenever I feel like I need some heavy-duty protecting, the snow hat is there for me. The snow hat does not discriminate by season. The snow hat loves me, unconditionally. I love you, snow hat.

4. December = Andes mints. I’ve been to Peru, but I didn’t see any mint. What I did see, though, were mountains of sheer awesomeness. It is, therefore, no surprise to me that the extensive South American mountain range produces this smoothest of chocolatey-minty decadence all wrapped in a thinly veiled, metallic-green wrapper. One love, Andes. One love.

5. December = A Charlie Brown Christmas. You’ve probably noticed that I’m sort of a Peanuts fan. Pretty much no holiday would be complete for me without Vince Guaraldi’s accompaniment and that spotted beagle jigging around. But A Charlie Brown Christmas takes Charles Schultz’s brilliance to a whole other level: not only do the Peanuts characters make an impressive statement about the over-commercialization of Christmas and holiday depression, but they also take part in this incredible dance number that could put all Dancing With the Stars coaches to shame. For real. That kid in green was doing the Running Man before the RUNNING Man was doing the Running Man! And the mohawked dude in orange had some crazy-@ss double-jointedness happening with his shoulder that remains inexplicably innovative. I mean, you try that sh*t!

6. December = unfortunate and excessive lawn ornamentation (particularly the blow-up variety), which serves as a physical manifestation of the yard owner’s insatiable need to be coddled and also his/her inability to streamline. The result is terrifying and nightmare-inducing. See my previous pog. 

7. December = boots that inevitably make my socks fall down inside of them and, therefore, drive me insane. Thanks a lot, boots.

8. December = homemade Christmas gifts when I’m too poor to buy any. Which I am every this year. I hope my gram likes her homemade family tree this year.

9. December = crazy fabric wreath that my maintenance dude always hangs up on my porch, which leads neighbors (and fellow tenants) to believe that I have masterfully bogus holiday decorating taste, which is CLEARLY not true. I mean, come on. I have nothing against fabric wreaths, mind you. I am all about the handmade. Still, just because I support handmades doesn’t mean all handmades are good. It’s sort of like how, in the past, my family would just buy me anything they saw that had any French language on it. Including a Celine Dion CD. Their logic being: she likes French, Celine speaks French; thus, she must like Celine. Umm… faulty syllogism, family members. Likewise, Maintenance Dude’s fabric wreath has no relevance to anything even remotely pleasing — to the eye, or otherwise. It’s sort of like your old elementary schoolteacher’s tacky holiday sweater barfed a wreath. So, I let the fabric pseudo-creation have its day (or ten), and then I stealthily swipe it off its hook and stash it in the shed… until Maintenance Dude resuscitates the wreath next year. It’s this little game Maintenance Dude and I like to play. Four years and it hasn’t gotten old yet.

10. December = 10.5-hour trek to Ohio to see family and friends for the holidays. Always therapeutic and often amusing (what with my various interpretations of Broadway show-tunes, first in a French accent, then in a British accent, then in a Pakistani accent, then as my mom, etc.), the drive from Boston to Cleveland has become almost automatic by now. Which just seems wrong, doesn’t it? Ten and a half hours of wrongness.

11. December = birthdays. Lots of good friends with birthdays this month. Yeah, Scotty and Denise, I’m looking directly (and accusingly) at you two. I’m sure you’ve gotten the shaft over the years because, let’s face it, birthdays around Christmas pretty much equate to “combined present,” and that just blows. Sometimes quantity is better than quality, ya know? So I feel pressured to get you two separate gifts (or more), and to make them awesome and meaningful, first as a birthday gift, then as a Christmas gift. And it’s so hard to decide which gift equals birthday and which gift equals Christmas, so I ultimately end up in a near-catatonic state, choking on my own saliva. Umm… as opposed to someone else’s saliva? I don’t know. But it’s not pretty. So… thanks a lot. Way to be born during the holiday season. Poor planning. Your parents’ libidinal clocks BLEW. And you can tell them I said so.

12. December = holiday hours. And holiday hours RULE. Not even because I necessarily want to go Christmas/birthday shopping at 10pm, but it’s nice to know that, should the urge pinch me, I could hop in my really loud car, barrel past a ton of scary-@ss blow-up ornaments that have no business infiltrating my field of vision, and go buy my friend a Homer Simpson Chia-Pet. Awesome. 

13. December = my gram. Gram comes to visit us from South Carolina each Christmas. Ninty-years-old, and the woman still mows her lawn and landscapes. In pumps. STEP OFF. Gram is my favorite person in the world. No contest. And I usually see her at least a few times a year, but… Christmastime is always the most special, because it always equates to literal and figurative strolls down memory lane, made even more poignant by the surroundings: my Gram was born in Cleveland, just as I was. I love asking her questions and hearing her stories. Like when she first went out with my grandfather: she was a bookish high schooler, waiting outside her house for a blind date to arrive and pick her up. Only he was late. And the next thing she knew, here came my grandpa, sidling up  in a convertible with a friend of his. He made some comment about how Gram’s prospective date must have been “a real louse” (or some other such groovy term), and that she should get in the car and go out with him instead. And so she did. And they were married four years later. Studs.

14. December = advent calendars, which I will relish till I’m old and decrepit. You should probably check out my other blog for crafty examples of advent awesomeness.

15. December = CHRISTMAS COOKIES!!!!!!!!!!!!! Enough said.

 

Top 5 reasons for why my frontal lobe hates me

y Monday list centers on the headache that throbs right through my skull. I’m pretty sure that, were you to stand in front of me from one foot away or less, my current headache would knock you senseless. It’s throbbing that hard. I swear. It’s like my brain-womb is pregnant with some horrific wildebeest that can’t or won’t stop rampaging around my frontal lobe, kicking me into submission. 

You could say it hurts.

There are plenty of reasons for why my head despises me right now. Good ‘n plenty. It’s quite brutal to whittle down my list of potential causes to just 5 things, actually, but…hey, I’ll do my best.

Top 5 reasons for why my frontal lobe hates me:

 5. Certain members of my family prefer to play “She said/She said” and act like infants rather than speak directly to one another. What a novel concept that would be. ps) instead of directly speaking to one another, they choose to call me and vent and ask why so-and-so said X, and why so-and-so did Y. Why must people involve me in their crap? LEAVE ME ALONE.

4. Apparently I’m not a good listener (see #5).

3. No matter how many times I tell my students to focus on the texts we have studied ALL FLIPPIN’ SEMESTER rather than the biographies of the authors, they continue to construct (pseudo-)arguments about experiences from writers’ lives. WHY WON’T THEY LISTEN TO ME?

2. Apparently I don’t know how to sink in to others’ brains (see #3)… only my own (and way too much).

1. I have a brain tumor. Or Ebola. Or both.

Happy Monday.

Sincerely,
Debbie Downer
xoxo

Random Tuesday Thoughts (not to be confused with my random EVERYDAY thoughts)

ecause Anna’s Listless Mondays have proven to be so utterly spanktastic, I thought I’d go ahead and tap into the Un-Mom’s wellspring of weekly Random Tuesday Thoughts. I mean, the case could certainly be made that randomness-of-thought does not discriminate by day of the week. I’m pretty sure my thoughts will be just as random tomorrow as they are today — perhaps even more random. It’s like a fun little surprise, really. However, because the Un-Mom has officially designated Tuesday as Grand Central Station for my random, directionless trains of thought, well… it’s kinda like an extra heaping spoonful of peanut butter sauce on my Friendly’s Reese’s Pieces Sundae of perfection.

A.K.A., it freakin’ rocks. Hardcore.

So, here goes… my inaugural:

Wait a second. Can I list my random thoughts? Or does the very essence of “listing” de-randomize the randomness? Sh*t. Does the very fact that I’m even thinking about listing random thoughts (oxymoron?) prove my analness? anality? analiciousness? Whoa. OK, the “-licious” suffix should never find itself adjacent to an “anal.” My bad. I totally just grossed myself out. But anyway, hey, this is my inaugural go at this RTT stuff, so… I can make it up as I go along, right? Right.

1) I just got done watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, and all that sticks with me is: WHAT THE F*CK DID THEY DO TO THE VOICES?!? The only one that sounded authentic was the voice-over-the-phone going “WAWA-WA-WA-WAWA.” All the others sounded like the b@stard step-children of the originals. Not that there’s anything wrong with b@stard step-children, but… just don’t go stickin’ your voice in my Peanuts characters, got it?

 B) It’s amazing how soap opera world only progresses about one day in two months’ time, yet tabloid world seems to progress two months in one day’s time. Case in point: just yesterday I pogged about Heidi & Spencer eloping in Cabo. Then, this morning I wake up to Perez spouting sh*t about Speidi setting the whole thing up with US Weekly in typical fame whore fashion, and that they’re not technically married at all. Dude, whatever. I give you 6 months, regardless.

III) My scalp’s ridiculously dry. Like, way past Head-’n-Shoulders dry. Maybe approaching Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club dry. OK, I just grossed myself out again.

D) Who are these nutjobs that go to Kohl’s at 4am the day after Thanksgiving?!? (A.K.A., Black Friday) Well, OK, in the past, my sister has been one of those nutjobs. But then she came to her senses. 

5) I just got done watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta, the Reunion Special” on Bravo, and I have to say that it totally met all cracked-out expectations. But don’t worry, I switched between Atlanta pseudo-reality and CNN in a (vain?) attempt to reach some sort of mixed medium utopia world — half fake, half “real”…. I don’t know. But it’s pretty d@mn funny to hear “Oh, HELLLLL no!” juxtaposed with Wolf Blitzer’s mind-numbing “uhh”s. John King and his Magic Wall sort of clinch that psychedelic otherworld deal. ps) Nene’s cropped haircut looks annoyingly good. I wish I could pull that sh*t off.

VI) My students and I are now discussing The Bell Jar. It’s either my fourth or fifth time reading it. But, amazingly, the increasing number of reads doesn’t make it any less potent for my psyche. We’ll see how this goes. I don’t think I’ve ever read it around Christmas before. Maybe egg nog will help to sideline the SP-induced crazies (*note: I’m referring to Sylvia Plath, though Sarah Palin does still drive me crazy in an entirely other capacity).

G) What’s the deal with the vampire bullsh*t?

8 ) I really miss Paris. I really miss WALKING in Paris. I miss the smell of the metro, which wasn’t even pleasant. But it was the metro. And it was mine for a time. And I miss the aroma of freshly baked baguettes at 6am, wafting out of the boulangerie below my studio. And I’m not even a morning person. But baguettes can wake me up any day.

IX) OK, I guess I’m done for now. Except I really wish I could find some part-time employment. It’s driving me bonkers. I’ve done freelance writing, I’ve done translations, I’ve done tutoring, I can calligraphy, I can type super freakin’ fast… it would be really lovely if somebody hired me and offered me more than $6/hour to do something. But, you know, not the whole Ashley Dupré “something.” OK, shameless plug over.

Say goodbye to the random thoughts for now.

Goodbye, random thoughts.

3 unfortunate things I am unable to eject from my brain right now

1) Heidi and Spencer eloped in Cabo San Lucas over the weekend. The blonde bandits exchanged “personalized” vows, and I hear that Heidi even managed to squirt some tears down her plastictastic face. My BFF Perez Hilton tells me (and only me) that Spencer’s “self-penned” vows went a little somethin’ like this:

Heidi, from the moment you came into my life, I knew my life would never be the same without you. You are the light in my life like the sun to the earth! Your loving warmth makes me want to be a better person. Being with you, I feel complete. I’m honored to even be able to call you my wife. You are the most amazing, loving and caring woman on this planet. I will love you forever and always. (Source: PerezHilton.com)

Ohhhhhhh, Spencie… Spence-the-Dense… I’m sure you’re probably not really used to writing. Or thinking, for that matter. I mean…seriously, do you even work? WHAT DO YOU DO? WHAT DO YOU DO BESIDES GROW STUBBLE, PROMOTE GUN USE, AND WHORE YOURSELF TO THE PAPARAZZI?!?

Sorry, tangent. My point is that Spencer’s ridiculousness shouldn’t surprise me, but… for some reason, I feel compelled to comment. Couple things:

a) so… your life “would never be the same” WITHOUT HER? Umm… but you’re WITH her. You’re NOT without her. So, are you saying your life *IS* the same WITH her? like, she didn’t affect you in any capacity whatsoever, good or bad? Or are you already foreshadowing your relationship’s end and imagining that your life would not be the same if she left your sorry A? Which, no offense, Spence, but, I mean, DUH. CLEARLY your life wouldn’t be the same without her. Because then you wouldn’t have anyone to act like a stalker-obsessed-childish freak around… and around her bosses, who would then fire her because of what an A-hole you are.

b) are you implying that Heidi’s lovelight does not exist nocturnally? Or, like, when it rains? I mean, what happens when the sun goes bye-bye? Because it DOES, you know. What happens when the moon comes out? 

c) I’m not sure if wedding vows can be brought up on plagiarism charges but, if they could, I’d slam Spencer’s stubbly @ss with charges of knocking off both As Good As It Gets and Jerry Maguire in an attempt to present his betrothed with some personal words never uttered to another human soul. ”You make me want to be a better man” and “You complete me”?!? REALLY?!? REALLY, SPENCER?!? Is that REALLY as good as it gets with your sorry A?!?!?!? 

Anyway, the first photo above (of the happy couple ‘o gun toters) was found here: VideoGum.com. The last photo of the US Weekly cover is courtesy of PH, of course.

OK, next…

2) I know I should be better than this, and I swearSwearSWEAR that I am generally a positive educator and rarely EVER “complain” or talk negatively about students, but… BUT… there’s this one student who has been making my skin crawl lately. Like, just in the past few weeks. Let’s call him Winston. Winston has been challenging me both via e-mail and in the middle of class, in front of everyone. Challenging my intelligence, asking me to give concrete examples of certain theories I mention, criticizing my writing assignments and, just today, he essentially told me that my entire course has been a sham (not in so many words, but…the intent was there. I felt it. I’m very intuitive.). So, yeah… it’s been getting to me. It’s especially been getting to me because I’m not the most confident, assertive person in the world. My skills of self-defense have been inwardly honed (I’m a big internalizer and often emotionally/psychologically protect myself), but… when it comes to confrontation, I pretty much run for the mountains. Preferably the Alps. So… I guess, what’s really bothering me about this is that I actually feel like Winston’s winning. Only, I’m not really sure what the prize is or what we’re even racing for? Control? Ego? I think we’re each fighting for different things. But, whatever it may be, I feel like he’s winning. And that sucks. Because… I should be winning, shouldn’t I?

3) I had to make some photocopies before class today, so I was all “ma-kin’ co-pies” for about 15 minutes when, suddenly, out of my peripheral I noticed that someone else had sidled up to the copier to my left. So, I turned my head to see what colleague it might be, prepared to offer a friendly greeting, when, suddenly, WHOOSH!!!!!!! My head snapped back as if I were one of those unfortunate canine victims of electric fencing. The aforementioned “colleague” just so happened to be my dissertation adviser, whose contact I have successfully managed to avoid THIS ENTIRE SEMESTER. You could definitely say I feel guilty about this fact, and it would not be incorrect. You could also say that I think about writing her daily, but that I ultimately reach wuss status and never click “send.” You could also say that the approach of Thanksgiving means that only about 3 weeks remain in the semester, and I still haven’t made a pen length’s of progress on my dissertation. Have I mentioned that you could also say I feel guilty? Yeah. Lovely.

 

Another Monday, another list. Check out Anna’s list and others here:

ps) One Monday — one Monday soon – I’m gonna do a listy pog all about the mind-boggling universe-’o-estrogen-induced-madness known as: THE BABY SHOWER.

2 things that would give me ROAD RAGE if I weren’t rage-ophobic.

oston remains masterfully notorious for its sucky ways of the road. And, trust me, it is with very good reason: Boston earned second place this year on the list of US Cities With the Worst Road Rage. And you know what else? Last year, we ranked third on the same list, which means that we’re only getting “better” in our crazy-mofo-driving-etiquette-from-hell. Which is kind of scary. And which means that the land of baked beans and tea parties and green monstahs just ain’t as festive as you might think. Well, unless you choose to define “festive” as “cutting people off in traffic and then making the person you cut off think it’s his/her fault for being a shmuck for letting you cut him/her off.” And, you have to admit, that is kinda fun, but… festive? Not so much.

And I do sometimes let a vestige of road rage squeak by and, like, honk my horn at someone before they bash into me (which would be my fault for letting them, see how it works?). But, generally, I just tend to yell things to myself, question the date of a driver’s last eye exam, assume that most Bostonians with cars have somehow cheated on their drivers’ exams,  and then maybe I’ll top it all off with a “What The F*ck?!?” hand gesture to the guy who just grazed my bumper while making a left turn on red.

But there are a couple head-scratchers that make me question the local Boston driving psyche. And I would like to list some of them for you, in the hopes that maybe you could shed light on whether or not these vehicular enigmas represent Boston-specific phenomena, or whether they’re on their way to becoming a nationwide epidemic.

Un) At the tolls, there are generally three types of lane possibilities: 1) lanes for “EZ Pass/Fast Lane” users (annoying phonetic use of the letter “z”, which is a whole other source of rage for me), 2) “CASH ONLY” lanes for non-EZ Pass users, and then 3) what appears to be a mysterious, psycho-bizarro hybrid of types 1 and 2, thereby forming freakish “EZ Pass or Cash” lanes that force the majority of Bostonians to slip into a catatonic state. It would seem that, for Bostonians, the mere mention of “EZ Pass” for non-EZ Pass users results in plague-like avoidance, as though non-EZ Passers-by believe that EZ Passers-by belong to an elite MassPike Country Club whose members’ gas don’t stank or something. Now, I’m not an EZ Pass holder (my gas certainly does ”stank”), so you’d think that I’d be stoked that the scary “EZ Pass or Cash” lanes rest barren and wide open for my fearless ‘97 Civic to barrel up to.  But here’s the thing: non-EZ Passers-by become so freakin’ entranced by the “EZ Pass or Cash” sign that they are somehow incapable of reacting and turning their d@mn wheel until they’re almost on top of the freakin’ toll booth, thereby almost causing a bajillion accidents, usually involving ME. GRR.

Deux) I think my #Deux actually ties in with #Un, because it’s another example of the avoid-like-the-plague mentality. So, there are some busy 4-lane intersections around town and, thankfully, the traffic masters were nice enough to post some very clear signage that prohibits left turns during rush hour, generally from 7-9am and 4-6pm. Of course, we still get some morons who have a He-Man complex and think they can become less effeminate by holding a sword up to the sky and screaming “By the power of Grey Skull!” Only, in Boston, that kinda thing doesn’t jive. The cars behind them will be ramming their @sses before they can finish saying the word “the.” But it’s not those losers that bug me. The losers that bug me are the ones who, between the hours of 7-9am and 4-6pm, STILL refuse to drive in the left lane, petrified of discovering that the Satanmobile in front of them might pull a He-Man and switch a left-turn-blinker at the last minute, thus causing massive back-up and heinous attempts to filter into the right line (if you get hit, it’s your fault — don’t forget). So, instead, the right lane backs up for miles, and the left lane pretty much stays barren, just like the “EZ Pass or Cash” lane.

Curious, right? I’m convinced that the terror of a POTENTIAL game-changer (whether the fear of someone potentially prepping for an illegal left turn, or the fear of an “EZ Pass or Cash” toll booth operator potentially chastising a non-EZ Pass holder for having the audacity to enter into such a sacred lane) reveals a sh*tload about the Bostonian/American psyche. I’m just not really feelin’ the motivation to conduct the necessary research. But it’s a huge deal, I swear.

    

ps) It’s another Listless Monday, baby.

592.5-and-a-third bajillion ways to ensure blog traffic jams at intersections of boob flashing and Oprah appearances. Also: make money!

1)  Spotted: doggies taking dumps on lawns that are not theirs. Owners looking at their cellphones, pretending not to notice.

Discuss.

17.4) Why, when we want to stand up for something, do we stage sit-ins?

Discuss.

648 ÷ 3) If “Joe the Plumber” had plumber’s butt (which, let’s face it, he does. ALL plumbers do. It’s like a pre-requisite), then would McPalin call him “Joe the Plumber’s Butt”? Because that would create grammatical confusion, causing the listening public to think that McPalin were talking specifically about “Joe the Plumber”’s posterior… rather than generally about “Joe the Plumber,” who just so happens to suffer from plumber’s butt. See what I’m sayin’? And I know that Palin isn’t exactly a fan of grammar (not ENGLISH grammar anyway, as far as I can tell), but I still can’t help but wonder if maybe they’d change the reference to “Joe Plumber-Butt.”

Discuss.

578 + ∏) Chew on this: In his Intimate Journals, the nineteenth-century French poet Charles Baudelaire (arguably the first “modern poet” of our time) questioned: “What is Love?” Clearly not a fan of rhetorical questions, Baudelaire then supplied the answer, which he then amended with a thoughtful syllogism:

What is Love?
The need to emerge from oneself.
Man is an animal which adores.
To adore is to sacrifice and prostitute oneself.
Thus all Love is prostitution.

That’s right: we are all prostitutes. Which leads me to ask: WHERE THE HELL’S MY MONEY, B*TCH?!? But… I *am* a fan of rhetorical questions. So, let’s move on, shall we? (don’t answer that — it’s rhetorical)

Just in case you weren’t sufficiently shocked-and-awed by that little Love=Prostitution equation, my dear Baudie chose to go one step further by stating:

The most prostitute of all beings is the Supreme Being, God Himself, since for each man he is the friend above all others; since he is the common, inexhaustible found of Love.

Discuss.

Wait, before you discuss, please allow me to share that I freakin’ LOVE Baudelaire, and throwing a few uncontextualized lines at you essentially equates to a crime of poetics, but… hey, I’m already a prostitute and on the road to eternal hell-fire, so… I don’t give a sh*t.

OK. Now discuss.

∜177,410,282,401) If McPalin wins tomorrow, and if I decide to find a job in Canada and/or Europe (as a direct result of the McPalin win), would that make me a quitter/ex-patriot, or just really freakin’ smart?

(*Note: if you are questioning my smarts re: becoming an émigrée, I’d like to point very strongly — as strongly as a finger can point — to the movie Sicko, which basically proves that the American healthcare system blows chunks and rapes us any chance it gets. Meanwhile, Frenchies are getting free nannies and a bajillion months off from work and free laundry service and free classes for sophisticatedly tying scarves and free pastry-making workshops and… the list goes on. I mean, seriously, Michael Moore might as well have called the movie Why Americans Are F*cking R*tarded For Still Living in America. I say this with the utmost amount of love and respect for my country. Which George W. has f*cked.)

Discuss.

592.5-and-a-third bajillion) I know a guy whose favorite flavor Starburst Fruit Chew is pink. OK, wait, that’s a color, not a flavor. What flavor is pink in the original Starburst pack? Strawberry, right? And then the red Starburst is cherry? Which I don’t really get, because, I mean, if you compare strawberries and cherries, couldn’t you make the argument that sometimes strawberries are a darker shade of red than cherries? I mean, strawberries aren’t PINK, right? So why’d they get the shaft and have to have the sucky pink wrapper, huh? Though, I guess strawberry yogurt and strawberry ice cream are pink rather than red. Whatever. I just don’t like pink. It’s, like, my LEAST-favorite Starburst, actually. Also, I’ve never heard of ANYONE who privileged the pink Starburst. I’d say the most common preference is for Red/Cherry. And this general Red/Cherry predilection has suited me very well — particularly when snacking on the ‘Bursts at a movie theatre — because my personal favorites are Orange and Yellow, preferably together (oh yeah, I am WILD with the fruit chews, baby. STEP. OFF.). 

Discuss.

And, oh yeah, this is another listless Monday. Anna, represent. Word.

6 reasons why the 80s are truly, truly, truly outrageous

ot only do I love the 80s, but the 80s loves me back. How do I know that ours is a reciprocal relationship, you might ask? I know this because 80’s music, TV shows, and children’s toys continue to provide endless amounts of support and devotion to me throughout any and all aspects of my life. 

Dude, I’m totally serious.

Proof: George “Father Figure” Michael appeared as my dance partner in a dream I had the other night, which I couldn’t help but pog (on and on) about yesterday. Also, Georgie graciously offered me two majorly invaluable pieces of info: a) when you shake your ass, people notice fast, and b) I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me.

So you see, the 80s continuously informs my life and my approach to it. Here are some more examples — you know, just in case G-diddy doesn’t do it for you.

1) When I was in the second grade, I had a dream that Lionel Richie came to school with me for Show-’N-Tell. Everyone was jealous. Especially when we started dancing on the ceiling together. It ruled.

2) “Jem and the Holograms.” Enough said.

Showtime, Synergy!

OK OK, not enough said. Jem and her alter-ego Jerrica were, in no uncertain terms, my savior(s) throughout the 6th grade, when my mom was… well… exploring the most effective multi-faceted instruments of psychological torture to use on her three daughters. One of her favorites was the dating/support group known as “Parents Without Partners” (or P.W.O.P., as our mom trendily referred to it). Yes, P.W.O.P. was as pathetic as it sounds. Parents brought their kids to the dances. I’m not kidding. Within 60 minutes’ time, I had experienced enough trauma to last a lifetime. Needless to say, Jem and the Holograms’ daily 30-minute-therapy-session-via-strange-conversations-turned-into-songs basically granted me the serenity to accept that just because my mom was a co-dependent freak didn’t mean that I couldn’t function semi-”normally” or be truly, truly, truly outrageous. Even the b*tchy Misfits (who, let’s face it, had cooler make-up and more interesting clothing options than Jem & her cronies) provided a major sense of release and comfort each morning — especially the mornings after a mind-numbing evening spent observing flirty divorcées with lipstick on their teeth. 

Also, I really liked the name Kimber. 

3) Spirograph. How to relay my undying appreciation for the swirly, psychedelic stupendousness of the Spirograph??? I’m pretty sure that Spirograph and its rings taught me more about geometry and life’s calculatable outcomes than Donald Duck playing pool ever could have.

4) The Baby-sitter’s Club books. Holy cr@p. Ann M. Martin was pretty much my hero, particularly because the baby-sitters and I were both in middle school at the same time. We related, those baby-sitters and I. I got into the Sweet Valley High books for a while, but I found them annoyingly catty and somewhat predictable. The overwhelming majority of rude and unintelligent students at Sweet Valley High proved a bit discouraging for me. Plus, it was high school, and they were a bit advanced. Stoneybrook Middle School, on the other hand… WHOLE other story. Dawn, Kristy, Mary Ann, Claudia, and Stacey? Those were girls on a serious mission to create awesome activities and crafts to enrich children’s lives… and make some pocket money to buy even MORE supplies for even MORE awesome activities and crafts.  It was a good mission, and I was a good girl. And I was also a baby-sitter. So I kind of liked to think of myself as an honorary member of the B-sC. (I was also delusional) Oh, and the first book I ever read in French was a French version of a Baby-sitter’s Club book (called, L’erreur de Sophie) that I got on a trip to Toronto, Canada, with my dad. In French, the Baby-sitters Club conveniently translates into Les Baby-Sitters. I know. It’s mind-blowing. 

5) “Three’s Company.” Arguably the best situational comedy EVER. Not only did Jack Tripper break all societal conventions (OK, I wasn’t aware of that when I was a zygote, but still), but his sense of humor and certain facial expressions reminded me of my dad. So… once my papa was out of the house, JT was sort of like a surrogate dad for me. A really odd-ball, effed-up dad who pretended to be gay, and whose best friend was a hairy perv/drunk named Larry who basically lived at the Regal Beagle.I wrote a fan letter to the show when I was about 7 or 8 years-old, and Terri (Priscilla Barnes — the Suzanne Somers replacement in later episodes) sent me back a signed postcard picture of her that was rather “Glamour Shots”-ish and definitely NOT Jack Tripper, but I still tacked it to my bulletin board and paid homage to it daily.

6) “Solid Gold.” Who didn’t love Marilyn McCoo? Or gold lamé pants?!? That show was rad before RAD was rad. Not only were the Solid Gold Dancers phenomenal as they choreographically counted down the top ten hits, but my entire week culminated in the unveiling of Solid Gold’s weekly special guest performer, which I always hoped was Lionel Richie. Or Billy Ocean.

Clearly I watched too much TV as a child.

Oh wait… I still do.

There are a bajillion more reasons why I love the 80s and why the 80s loves me back, but I’ll save them for a future list.

In the meantime, this is another Monday list inspired by Ms. Anna at abdpbt.com.

Sometimes I’m not a *total* loser.

nna e-mailed me this morning to inform me that I was voted the winner of her Sucky Sweepstakes contest! I won the $100 American Express Gift-Card!!!!! 

Needless to say, my gratitude stretches for miles, and I could bounce with joy…if I weren’t kind of, you know, NOT a bouncer. Anyway… this makes me very excited because I can now afford to buy my sister a baby shower gift, among other things. Yay!! Thanks to any and all of you who may have voted for me. Oh, and thanks to that Japanese chick for wacking her virtual husband. 

PS) Canine update: Lucy, my canine niece, is now healed and officially cone-less… and VERY happy about it.

PSS) I think I’m going to add a little entry in my right column where I display the book(s) I’m currently reading. I become so affected by the texts — whether they’re being read for the course I teach or otherwise — so… I don’t know… rather than rambling on about the books (though I can’t promise I still won’t do that on occasion), I figured I might as well just list those bad-boys on my page so you know what I’m dealing with… But do any of you even really care? Will you be tempted to leak the titles to Sarah Palin and her cronies, thereby endangering the books’ future presence in Alaskan libraries? Just curious.