Double Damn!

One of my favorite comedians of all time has passed away.

Goodbye, Mitchell. I hope you enjoy that big Quadruple Tree hotel in the sky.

Damn!

Okay, I don't know what horrible disfiguring disease Priscilla Presley has contracted, or perhaps I missed the news story detailing her encounter with an acid-tossing Elvis devotee, but she looks like the gawddamned Joker. Yeesh!


Damn! 

All Your Eggs Are Belong To Us

Last night, while watching Mothra and buzzing on Benadryl, I came up with a song to the tune of "Barbie Girl."

I'm a little Mothra girl
Livin' in my Mothra world
My moth's gigantic
My pleading's frantic

My sister is my twin
and we will repeat again
"Give us our egg back,
or grubs will attack."

They are irradiated
and never ever sated
we do a favor
we are your savior

Then here Godzilla comes
and Japan is really bummed.
"Please Mothra, kill him.
He's such a villain."

So Mothra does the deed
and the grubs they do succeed
they are the gods now
to them we kowtow.

So now Mothra's dead
and this song's stuck in my head
and it's stuck
and it's stuck
and it's stuck
and, and, and oooh, time for more Benadryl. Thank you.

Idolatry

I voted for Bo Bice four times tonight.

I just want rock n' roll to win, ya'll. The guy sounds like the singer from the Screaming Trees, for Christ's sake.

Go Bo!

Scrote-burger in Paradise

I wish I had balls so I could tell Jimmy Buffet to suck them.

I despise him.

The Stick

I was passed the stick, so now I will wave it madly in your face like an aborigine on fire.

You're stuck inside Farenheit 451, which book do you want to be?

"Kama Sutra." That should keep the Dr. Suess kids outta my hair.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Indiana Jones, and now, oddly, Dr. House.

Last book you bought is:

"Easy Indian Cooking."

Last book you read is:

"Simulations" by Jean Baudrillard.

What are you currently reading?

"The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand.

5 books I would take to a deserted island:

"Primitive Wilderness Living & Survival Skills: Naked into the Wilderness" by John McPherson.

"Encyclopedia of Natural Medicine" by Michael Murray and Joseph Pizzorno.

"Very Naughty Origami" by Nick Robinson.

"Camping & Cooking With The Bare Essentials: Your Complete Guide To Easier Camping And Gourmet Outdoor Cooking" by Tony Kellar.

"Bartlett's Familiar Quotations: A Collection of Passages, Phrases, and Proverbs Traced to Their Sources in Ancient and Modern Literature (17th Edition)" by John Bartlett.

I pass this here stick to Carrie and Cissy. Have fun, ya'll!

The Boobah is a Syphilitic Freak and Other Diabolical Debacles

If you do not have a small child in your life, you may not know of the Boobah. I, too, was unaware of this violation of God’s law until I happened upon one during a recent jaunt to Toys R Us to buy a gift for a bereaved child at church. As I headed down the aisle toward all things cute and comforting, my eyes fell upon this thing what crept up from the very mouth of hell – The Boobah. My first reaction was to say, out loud, in front of a woman with an infant, “That thing looks like it has syphilis!” Late stage syphilis at that, but the look on the mother’s face seemed to indicate that she disagreed. In fact, she stared at me as if I said the fucking keyword to make her baby’s brain boil inside its mushy little skull. I dismissed her, because 1) infants don’t speak English and 2) I have the right as an American to say “syphilis” in public if I so choose, baby or no baby. Perhaps her baby needs to know about syphilis. If they can talk about herpes treatment on daytime TV, I am sure that syphilis is only a short step behind.

All syphilitics aside, allow me to report to you of a diabolical debacle involving the women’s restroom at my current place o’bidness. After lunch earlier this week, I dropped by my second office for a bit of paperwork. When I went to wash my hands, I noticed that on the counter by the sink were three pairs of satiny women’s undies, size large. One pair was purple, one was beige, and one was chocolate brown. They were sitting in a loose pile by the tray that holds the bathroom freebies, such as hairspray and lotion. Surely someone did not think it a good idea to bring in emergency undies, and likewise, I doubt that someone would knowingly place a pile of dirties on the counter for all to know their intimates. I left the pile, undisturbed, and began a quest to find the perpetrator of this fanny faux-pas. I talked to several other ladies who had noticed the indiscretion, but had no information. As the day wore on, the men on the floor began to look a little nervous as they grew aware of how the women on the floor would giggle and smirk when they made eye contact with one another, without saying a word. The women had a secret, fueled by the Gatorade-like mix of intrigue and disgust. The panties eventually disappeared just as mysteriously as they arrived. No one has yet to unravel this mystery, and probably never will. Can we go back to living normal lives after such an event? Will the specter of the funny foundation garments ever dissipate in the shadows of our consciousness? Who is that masked man? How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?

837. G’night, ya’ll.

I Am Not An Animal

But I play one on T.V.

Actually, this post is about the mild mutiny my muts decided to stage today. It all started around noon when I called Heather to see if she wanted to go out for coffee. After making plans, I began to play with my small dog, Devo, who was perched on my lap like the little bitch that he is. With one quick swipe of his prissy paw, he split my lips from just above the lip line of the upper lip down to midway through the lower lip. Just a scratch, but now I can't laugh, talk, or eat, and these are all things I need to do in order to be happy.

Once the bleeding stopped and I got acquainted with the truly foul taste of neosporin, I went on about my lazy day. That night, after taking my big dog, Happy, to the park, I let her and Devo out the back door to do their paperwork. As I was letting them back in, Happy bolted at the metal security door instead of neatly skirting it as she usually does. This action equalled 70 pounds of dog hitting 40 pounds of security door hitting me square in the face. I now have a shiny goose egg over my right eye to show for my kindness in adopting this leviathan. Not only that, but now my hubby fears he will be charged with spouse abuse do to how weird the truth actually is. Ain't that a bitch?

This only happens to me.

Of Birds and Jars

Yesterday, I had the extreme pleasure of flipping off President Bush. It was a brilliant stroke of luck that Eek and I happened to be walking down Main Street just as El Presidente’s motorcade rambled past. My arms instantly flew into the air, almost as if by instinct, and my middle fingers sprang forth in a glorious and pert display of my extreme displeasure. I looked a bit like an irate Nixon for a few seconds, and then he was gone. I was absolutely giddy for the next several minutes, thinking that I had finally communicated with him in a way that even he could understand. Cheers!

Irate Nixons would be a good name for a band.

And now, of jars. Do any of you drink from jars? The Old Man and I noticed the other day that we quite often drink from jars. This is a practice both of us grew up with, but are not sure if it is common. Basically, if something comes in a decent jar, you keep the jar, not to jar something else, but for use as a drinking glass. As a child I also often ate cereal from old margarine and cool-whip tubs. We don’t so much find ourselves saving the butter tubs, but we religiously keep the jars. It has reached the point now where the jars outnumber proper drinking glasses. Mind you, we never schlep the jars off on company. They are just daily use glasses for the family. Do you guys drink from jars?

Weehaw!

iPlod

I hate the way I walk.

There is nary a bit of grace, sex appeal, nor style in my gait. I doubt there’s much I can do about it, other than surgery and bitching, so I have opted for the cheaper of the two. Basically, since I was old enough to ambulate, my knees have always caved somewhat inward due to my completely flat feet. I am not even joking about completely flat, there is no arch at all. Thanks to this inward turn of the knees, my legs from the knee down tend to kick outward, as if my calves are trying to escape in opposite directions. Thusly, my gait resembles the way a seal may walk if one were so inclined to walk upright. Ain’t purty, ya’ll.

I have also been told that my husband has a “distinctive” walk, and not distinctive in a good way. I guess we’re both shitty walkers, but at least we’re smoove talkers.

Speaking of smoove, I need some help with a dated, yet enduring, pop culture reference. When the Hollies sang, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” what EXACTLY did they mean? I guess it would help if I were able to listen to the song all the way through, but it’s kinda dull. Is it a statement against racism? A call to world peace and brotherhood? Is this how they used to say, “He’s not a NARC?” I am befuddled.

I wanna know what “He ain’t heavy” is, and I want you to show me.

Shitty Time

shitty time
Originally uploaded by mshellion.

I knew I was onto something when I discovered that weird shitter situation in Ohio. I have found the o-fficial timer used to judge these events! Laugh your mad giggle now!

Moly Ghost!

Holy Molesting Mishapens, Batman!

This guy is officially whiter than I am.

He also looks eerily like a cheap paint by number of a sad clown from the 70's. Yeesh!


Moly Ghost! 

Netrospective

In celebration of Yahoo!'s birthday, a netrospective has been assembled which chronicles some of the highlights of the last ten years of the web. If you're a geek like me, you'll get a kick out of it.

Netrospective.

Member's Only Plan for World Domination

Somehow, perhaps via pod intrusion, a Member's Only jacket made its way into our lives. This particular offender joined our family disguised as a fashionable hoodless parka. We were unaware of the manufacturer at the time of purchase, we just bought it because it was a nice fit on the Old Man. For years this abomination went undetected in our home, until this week when I noticed the label tucked away inside. As I recoiled in horror and screeched the name, the Old Man's face flushed with overwhelming embarrassment. It seems that these MO people have an intricate plan laid out to sneak into the closets of the same folks who loved them so dearly in the '80's, but whose taste has come of age. I assume the next logical step involves mind-control circuitry and sperm demotivating electrodes to enforce eugenics. Plans are underway to replace the offending garment, and we hope that all other unsuspecting victims and acknowledged offenders can find the means to do the same.