Archive for the ‘Rants’ Category

“Why is it that when men get older and buy a Jeep or a sportscar or something of this nature, it’s called a mid-life crisis and when women of the same age spend the same amount on hair extensions, implants, facelifts, etc., they are considered just trying to look young. ”

In all honesty, I wouldn’t say that high ticket item purchases are enough to declare a mid-life crisis.  You have to consider the behavior that surrounds the purchase.  If a man purchases a sports car, he may just have the money to blow on luxury or he’s trying to recapture the feeling he had when he was younger.  That, to me, is no big deal.  It’s understandable.  But when he goes and buys a flashy car, dumps his wife and starts dating 20 something, bubble-headed arm candy…that’s a mid-life crisis.  The possibility that a 40 year old man and a 22 year old girl having anything real in common is utterly ridiculous.  It just doesn’t work for anything but sex and sooner or later the sex will fall flat because there’s no way that a 40 year old can keep up with a 22 year old.  And don’t go spouting about Viagra to me because that’s just bullshit.  If it’s bullshit for a woman to fake an orgasm, then it’s bullshit for a guy to take Viagra.  Besides, a 22 year old woman can’t appreciate a Viagra hard-on the way a 40 year old woman can.  40 is our prime!  If you’re gonna pop the little blue pill, give it to someone who can appreciate the hell out of it!

The reason that a new set of boobs or a face lift isn’t the same?  Think of a woman as you would your house.  There’s routine maintenance that has to be done on the house for it to remain livable.  Those, with a woman, are manicures, pedicures, Brazilian wax, makeup, etc.  And then sometimes, there needs to be major maintenance, like foundation repair, or you have to remodel.  Those are the face lifts and boob jobs.  Yes, we’re trying to look young.  We don’t want to look as experienced as we are.  And graceful aging?  That’s men, not women.  Get it right.

Minute to Win It has convinced me that people will do the silliest stuff to win money. What would you be willing to do in front of a live, studio audience for $1000, $2500, $5000, and $1,000,000?

I have to say that I’ve never taken the time to watch Minute to Win It, but it looks funny.  And for me, it’s kind of hard to think of silly stuff that someone would have to pay me for.  It never occurred to me to charge for my silliness.  So basically, I’m being screwed because I can’t get on this show to be a total ass, which I’ve pretty much been all my life.  It’s making me think that I’m an idiot.  Gee.  Thanks, Karen.  My life is totally fucked now because I can’t be a dumb ass on a TV show.

I’m morally flexible when cash comes into play, but it’d have to be a hefty amount of cash.  Now, for a million dollars, I’d take it in the mouth from a *gulp* politician.  Did I just type that?


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Last week, I decided to ask my friend Karen for a question to post on my Ask Amy Friday entry. As usual, she gave me an essay question to end all essay questions. She’s about to get her Associate’s degree. And for some reason, she thinks I’d be good to help her with her homework. I’m thinking she may be wrong since I aspire to write humor most of the time. But hey, anything for a friend.

Her request was for me to discuss the phenomenon of white people who adopt a black persona and why they do this.

Bitch. I seriously can’t believe she didn’t just say, “write about wiggers because I want to see you get your ass kicked.” It would have been closer to the truth. Probably.

We talked about the fact that wiggers may be motivated to adopt a stereotypical urban persona because they feel marginalized by their social status, financial situation, environment where they grew up, etc. But, that pretty much only applies to white people who live in the ghetto. Those people, I understand. They grew up that way and that is their norm.

What I want to talk about is the 17 year old middle class white kid who listens to gansta rap, wears FUBU, and speaks ebonics to gain the appearance of being “hard.” They’re not. If these tragic trust fund babies ever came face to face with real hardship they would summarily shit their Tommys and curl into the fetal position until Mommy could show up to save them. Hard they ain’t.

Of course, these are the same teen brain trusts who think the Boxer Rebellion was all about underwear. Music, slang and clothes don’t make you cool and tough. They just allow the really cool, tough kids to identify you as an imposter.

Face it, urban romanticism is alive and well in the ‘burbs. Kids wax all kinds of trendy if they think it’ll make them appear cool. And the lack of self-awareness for teens always happens when the pendulum swings far from what was. What was for my generation was hard, broody rock, Aquanet, and skin tight jeans. Now is the age of hip-hop and baggy pants and the “thug life.”. Label it any way you want but it’s still a collective generational identity crisis.

Hippies were marginalized because they opposed Viet Nam. And the blatant drug use. But that WAS before Leary got busted for excessive experimentation. Metal heads were marginalized. Punk rockers were marginalized. We all were marginalized at some point! It’s called being a teenager! But the adoption of different personas is what it is all about. It takes a certain mature humility to admit that we are full of shit and don’t know who or what we are and where we are in the grand scheme. It takes soul searching and admission of culpability in our own lives to find that place.

Fact is, wiggers will come to terms with themselves eventually. And there’s a high probability that someone will call them on their choice of cultural identification. They will be ridiculed for their choices and learn to cope as we did. In the meantime, play a little Van Halen and wear some parachute pants and remember when you were on the cusp of belonging.

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Another St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone and I did nothing to mark the occasion.  Of course, I’m not Irish or Catholic, so I didn’t see much point.  I did find it odd that Brian didn’t pinch the shit out of me today.  He does it every day, but not today and I don’t think the fact that I was wearing green is what stopped him.  Maybe it was the snot.  He and I both caught colds from my son.  Josh curled up on the couch with me multiple times and cuddled with me because that’s what he does when he feels like shit and no one else will suffice.  I kind of like the whole “I want Mom” thing because I totally understand it.  When I get sick, I want my mom.  When Josh gets sick, he wants me.  That’s why I love being a mom.  So, anyway, Josh curled up with me while he was here and gave me cold cooties.  I, in turn, passed them on to Brian.

I hate having a cold, but I loved having Josh here.  I finally held him down and removed the caterpillar from his upper lip, which was bugging me to no end.  I don’t mind facial hair on grown men, but on my son it’s disconcerting.  I’m not old enough to have a kid who has facial hair, dammit!  Okay, I am, but still!  His mustache is too thin and makes him look like his mouth is just dirty.  It’s not.  It’s just that he’s got a puny mustache.  So, I got after his upper lip with an electric razor.  I really need to get on his dad about buying him his own electric razor because he got physical custody of our son and he’s supposed to be teaching him all that manly stuff, like shaving and appropriate ball adjusting strategies.

I really wish the cold medicine would kick in because I’m just rambling here.  Cold medicine would facilitate much more hilarity.  Oh, yeah, I was gonna talk about St. Patrick’s Day and drinking.  So, I have some Irish Cream in the fridge, but I don’t drink it because I think it’s wrong to drink Irish coffee in the morning.  Who decided that you should mix a liqueur with coffee?  I’m not saying it doesn’t taste good.  It just doesn’t make a lot of sense to get shit-faced and still be awake.  I’ve got insomnia, so I don’t drink coffee late at night.  That’s why I drink Malibu and pineapple juice.  After about 10 of them, I can sleep like a baby.  And it makes Robot Chicken that much funnier.  I’m 40 and I still watch Robot Chicken.  Does that explain anything?  It should.  I’m disturbed.

I’m also starting to think that I really need to push people to start asking me questions for my Ask Amy Friday blog.  It’s not good to have my own questions answered.  It’s not that challenging and I can’t be nearly as funny.  Who wants to read nothing but a bunch of questions about clown porn and what condiments can be used as lube?  I’m guessing someone.  I’d really like my blog to blow up and become something special that would attract people who want to pay me to write.  So do me a favor and share my blog!

I’ve got to go because Destination Truth is doing a piece on leprechauns and I gotta see if they find evidence of the little fuckers.  This should be interesting since I just took more cold meds.

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Last week was an absolute cluster-fuck, as weeks go.  What I thought was a bladder infection turned out to be something completely different.  I may have had a touch of a bladder infection, but that was the least of my worries.

I’ll try to use clinical terms as much as possible to confuse the people who are thrill seekers or just flat stupid and won’t go look shit up on Google because they don’t know how to Google anything.  If you happen to be in the medical field, please don’t fill in the details for the dipshits because they really don’t need to know more gory details than they get from just reading my blog.

For some bizarre reason, I had a labial abscess crop up on Wednesday.  It’s not like I don’t take care of myself.  I do.  I’m meticulous about cleaning all my parts.  So, Thursday, when this abscess had grown to the size of a ping-pong ball, I called Brian and said “it’s out of hand, I’m going to Urgent Care to get it looked at.”

I headed for the Urgent Care clinic over at JPS and got hustled through pretty quickly.  I get to see the doc and she’s all like “that looks like it hurts.”  I said, “Yeah, it hurts like hell.  Could you please just drain it, gimme some antibiotics and send me packing?”  She measured it because it was so fucking huge and then suddenly she was all “well, I don’t think I’m the right person to be doing this because of its location.”  So, she sends me up to OB Triage, which is where they send women when they have bizarre shit going on with their girly parts.

So, they send me upstairs and I begin my ordeal.  I feel like crap and I have this labial abscess that’s the size of a fucking ping-pong ball, which makes sitting, standing, and walking a bitch.  I wait.  I wait some more.  Then Leah comes in and she’s all “so, lenme see it.”  She sees it and then tells me she’s gotta go get the doctors so that they can evaluate and formulate a plan of action.  So, obviously this thing is a fucking freak of nature and I start thinking that I’ve grown a testicle or something because she’s calling everyone in to look at it.  Dr. C comes in.  He looks at it.  He feels it.  Then he says he doesn’t think he’ll “get anything out of it.”  I start wondering if he expects there to be a prize inside it like I sprouted a Cracker Jack box or some shit.  He leaves and goes somewhere for a while.  Tammy comes in and tells me that they’re working on a plan.

A little while later, I hear Dr. C standing outside my little room and he’s talking about how he could try to drain it, but he doesn’t think he’ll get anything out of it.  I start crying thinking that I’m stuck in pain for God knows how long because the doctor is some prize junkie asshole who doesn’t want to help me.  Tammy comes back in and is really sweet.  She tells me they’re waiting for another doctor to answer his page.  I lay there, totally defeated, wishing I could shoot a real ping-pong ball outta my snatch just so Dr. C can at least say he got hit in the head with a ping-pong ball to all his colleagues since he seems bent on walking away with some sort of novelty.

Later, Dr. C brings Dr. M, Leah, and Tammy into my little room for my consult.  I realized that they weren’t anxious to help me, so I did the only thing that any self-respecting girl who was hurting down there could do: I cried my ass off to win their sympathy.  I mentioned pain.  I mentioned pressure.  I mentioned not being able to walk or sit comfortably.  All of which was the absolute truth, but they didn’t give a shit about until I was crying.  Finally, Dr. C relents and says that he’ll do an Incise & Drain to relieve the pressure and some of the pain, despite the fact that he doesn’t think he’s going to get anything out of it.  Seriously?  I’m bawling my eyes out and he’s still looking for a fucking prize?

Everyone but Tammy leaves my little room.  She tells me that they have to share Dr. C with Labor & Delivery, which is why I’m still laying there. Then she leaves to go prep for my procedure.  I call Brian and tell him what’s going on.  He tells me he’s on his way back to the shop so he can get a ride and come up to be with me.  I relax a little thinking that Dr. C will be a while.  He’s an ass hat and I really don’t like him, but I’m in no mood to fight to get someone else who isn’t a total prize whore.  A few minutes later, Tammy is back, laying out all the goodies to drain my monster abscess.  While she’s doing that, Dr. C shows back up looking all butt hurt about the lack of a prize from me.  They inject lidocaine into the surrounding area and Dr. C gives my abscess a squeeze to see if I’m numb.  I was pretty numb.  He made the incision, which only hurt a tiny bit.  Then, he starts poking around and I’m okay until…WTF! I FUCKING FELT THAT, YOU PRICK!  I scream and let them know that I can feel him digging around for whatever fucking prize he thought would be there but isn’t there because I’m not a fucking Cracker Jack box.  He injects a little more lidocaine and then waits for a few seconds.  This time he got all the nerves and I couldn’t feel a thing. Much better, Dr. Ass Hat.  He fondled my abscess for about 5 minutes before he looked me in the eye and said, “I was right, I didn’t really get anything out of it, but I think it was caused by an ingrown hair.” (HA!  Nothing like a doctor’s excuse to get you out of shaving the non-essentials.)  He doesn’t put a drain in because he swears there was no pus, as is expected with an abscess.  So, he tells me that he’s going to treat this like MRSA just to be sure and I’ll have to be ever so diligent with my antibiotics.  Also, I have to shower with special soap and shove ointment up my nose for the next week.  Brian showed up after Dr. C was done with his sadistic groping, but got to hear the part about the possible MRSA.

They finally cut me loose from the hospital and we went to drop off my prescriptions at the pharmacy.  I also got Vicodin for the pain, which is still present, but not quite as bad.  I’m a ball of fun when I’m taking Vicodin, so that’s when I try to write.  I started my first dose of the antibiotic that night and kept the pain pills in my system to minimize the pain when the lidocaine wore off.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I started running a fever.  What woke me up was a violent case of the shivers.  I was so cold that I really didn’t want to get out of bed.  I knew I needed to take my temp and take something for the fever, but I couldn’t make myself get up outta bed.  So, I managed to wake up Brian and he went to get the thermometer, some Vicodin, and a drink.  He brought me water, which I didn’t mean to complain about, but ewwwww.  I hate water.  I went back to sleep.

Around 7:00, I woke up and moved to the couch because the dogs were crowding me in bed.  At 8:00, I took my antibiotic and another Vicodin.  I fell asleep watching something on TV, still running a fever.  I woke up around 11, took my temp and it was 102.9.  I felt like a couple of Mack trucks had run over me repeatedly.  Then, I called my mom.  It’s what I do when I feel like shit.  I’m talking to her, telling her about how I feel like crap, and there in front of me is the after-care sheet they gave me from the hospital.  It says that if I start running a fever over 101.2, I should immediately return to OB Triage so I can be seen.  I told Mom and she’s all “so go back to the hospital and get yourself taken care of.”  I didn’t wanna.  I didn’t want to see Dr. C again because he didn’t wanna help me the first time around.  She convinces me to call and, of course, I do. Leah tells me I should come in.  I explain to her that I really don’t want to go back up there.  She said that was understandable, but made a deal with me that if I could get my fever down by the time my next dose of antibiotic rolled around; I didn’t have to go back in.  So, I took a few ibuprofens and made sure that I drank plenty of fluids.  Luckily, my temp was back to normal by the time 8:00 rolled around.

Now, things are getting back to normal with the exception of having to take antibiotics, shove ointment up my nose twice a day, and shower with special soap for the next week.  But I feel better.  I’m still kind of achy, but it’s getting better every day.

I realize that not everyone will have enjoyed this post.  I didn’t have much else to write about and frankly, I can only take so much Vicodin to make things interesting.  Seriously, I debated for a long time about whether or not to actually publish this because of the simple fact that it’s so personal.  But I’ve always been prone to over-sharing.  The actual message I wanted to convey in this blog is that anyone can have MRSA and they need to take it seriously.

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I’ve had 10 mg of Vicodin, so I cannot be held responsible for the coherency of this particular blog.  Just hang on for the ride and giggle at the end.

“Why do woman tend to get heavier with age, while men look more distinguished?” – Tracey

I wish I had a clever answer for this one, but I’ll be honest.  This one stumped me a bit.  Leave it to my best friend to fuck me up on a Q&A  session.  But here comes my best attempt at answering this age old question.

I think it’s because they don’t have a uterus or a decent pair of tits.  What is required of a man?  In the grand scheme of things, not a whole helluva lot when it comes to the physical.  We women are required to bleed one week a month; birth all the children; find shit men misplaced because, of course, our uterus is a homing device for all the stuff they require to function daily; breastfeed; and top all that off with attempting to be sexy so they don’t lose interest.  We’re tired by the time we hit 40.  I know I am.

Guys, don’t get all butt hurt over the fact that I said men don’t have a lot of physical demands.  Shoot a kid outta your ass and I’ll retract my statement.

Why do we park in a “driveway” and drive on a “parkway”? – Mark

Because the person who made up those words was smoking Acapulco Gold at the time.  I wasn’t there when those words were first used.  If I had been, I would have said something along the lines of “that must be some epic shit you’re smoking because that makes no sense at all.”  Most of the English language is questionable.  If marijuana was legal, it would make a lot more sense.

Should the USA adopt a flat tax on good and services and abolish the payroll tax?  This way there’d be no tax loopholes or tax returns to file, we’d save money on not having the IRS bothering the people of the country and everyone would pay based on what we buy.  Thoughts? – John G

Hell yes, we should abolish payroll tax and go to a flat tax on goods and services!  Can you imagine the hilarity that would ensue if all those IRS auditors had to find something else to do?  Like, I dunno, a real job?  A lot of them are just big sadistic assholes who get their jollies intimidating people. It’s like they aspire to be the Marquis de Sade of accounting.  Can you imagine them selling ball gags and riding crops at some sex shop?  I can.  Okay, Vicodin is a beautiful thing.  *insert maniacal giggling here*`

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What could possibly make a relatively intelligent, 40-year-old woman feel utterly stupid?  Let’s see.  Maybe it’s the fact that I know better than to drink nothing but cokes.  Maybe it’s the fact that, at 40, I’m running a fever.  It’s not a big fever, but it’s a fever nonetheless.  Why am I running a fever?  Oh, it’s probably a kidney infection because I drank all those stupid cokes.

Sunday night, right around 7:00, I went to pee.  It felt like someone was grabbing the back side of my c-section scar and trying to turn me inside out.  Needless to say, the mission to turn me inside out was a failure.  However, the mission to turn me into a sobbing wuss was a sparkling success.  And of course, I had to pee constantly, so it was torture.  Freddy Kruger would have been proud of my bladder.  In fact, he may have been in my bladder at that point.  To get some relief, I drank water.  Lots and lots of water.  Over a gallon of it.

Now, I’m not a fan of water.  Why?  It has little or no flavor whatsoever.  Unless it’s raining and then there’s that subtle hint of stirred sediment.  It was raining Sunday.  There was a hint of sediment.  Yuck.  On top of the flavor, there’s the whole issue of what fish do in water.  Yes, I know.  Fish don’t fuck in water treatment plants.  But at some point, that water has been somewhere around fish and I don’t know that they can filter out fish jizz.  I haven’t ever asked the guys at the water treatment plant.  I live close to a water treatment plant.  The place smells like dirty ass.  Seriously.  Dirty, rank ass.  So, the stirred up sediment is dirty, rank ass-scented sediment and I hate it.  But, I had to deal with drinking over a gallon of it.  And just so you know, there’s no amount of lemon juice that will cover up ass-scented sediment.

At the end of my water drinking binge, I was nauseated, dizzy, and putting out more urine.  Yeah!  The water worked…for a while.

Monday morning, I tried tea.  Ah, non-ass-scented watery stuff!  But, my left side started to hurt.  It wasn’t decaf, but it was all I had that wasn’t carbonated.  Besides, I just couldn’t choke down any more plain water.  I had to have something that had flavor.  I went to the store and bought cranberry grape juice.  Now, I know cranberry juice is tart and a lot of people like it because it’s got a light, crisp flavor.  Fuck that!  I wanted sweet.  I love grape, so I paired the cranberry with pre-fermentation wine.  It tasted great!  But I didn’t drink enough.  Monday night, my side felt like I’d been sparring with Mike Tyson.  He won, in case you were wondering.  And then the burning sensation of getting felt up by Freddy Kruger returned.  I cried.  And I swore.  A lot.

Tuesday morning, I woke up at 4:47 and wanted to die.  My left side felt like every guy from the UFC had taken a turn beating my left kidney just for shits and giggles.  It’s hard to wake me normally.  But Pain snatched me out of a dead sleep and slapped me like a pimp who didn’t get his cut.  Pain demanded that I flood my kidneys again to pay for the sin of not enough fluids.  I gave in and drank 3 32-ounce cups of water and started drinking juice after I flooded my kidneys.  My output volume was back up and Pain and Freddy were gone.  But then my side got worse. I’d lay on one end of the couch and then, every 15 minutes, roll over and move to the other end.

The fever showed up a little after noon.  It was 100.7.  And I’d had Tylenol an hour before I took my temp.  My fever hasn’t gone above 100.7, but it’s not exactly going down unless I take Tylenol or Advil.  The pain in my side is manageable.  I just have to keep my body pumped full of drugs.  And persuade the UFC guys that I haven’t called them names.  I just drank too many cokes.

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Here are some things I hate.  It’s not a complete list, but it’s a start.  You can be sure that from time to time when things piss me off I’ll point my finger at the offending group and say my peace.

Politics.  I fucking hate politics.  I think all politicians have sold their souls to Satan for a quarter and a Tic Tac, but that’s me.  I don’t want to talk politics unless I can be witty and clever in my statements.  If politicians actually did their fucking jobs instead of rallying around the latest trending topic on Twitter, maybe I’d have a little more respect for them.  But since they rarely do, I reserve the right to think they’re all self-serving assholes.  ‘Nough said, I think.

Stupid people.  While it should be pretty obvious why I hate stupid people, I’ll elaborate on it for the benefit of you, my readers.  Stupid people do stupid shit all the fucking time.  They don’t drive worth a shit and they’re incapable of counting back the correct change without a computer telling them how much to give me back.  They commit stupid acts ad nauseum and just can’t fucking help themselves.    Their mother should have swallowed, but she was stupid, too.  I’m not saying that intelligent people don’t have stupid moments.  We all do.  We’ve all had that “I should have done that differently” moments.  But the truly stupid ones who can’t even engage their brains for more than a millisecond just piss me right off.  Oh.  And if you meet all the criteria for being declared clinically insane (you know, you do the same fucking thing over and over expecting to get different results), I will lump you into my stupid category and talk shit about you behind your back.  Yes, I talk to my intelligent friends about you and they all laugh because you’re fucking stupid.  We giggle about your latest cycle of stupid shit that you think is so great and we think is downright retarded.  You make mentally challenged people look like fucking Einstein and I hate you because your IQ belies the fact that plankton has a leg up on your mental capacity.  Please remember: friends don’t let stupid friends breed.  You have my permission to cock block them at every turn.

Stereotypes.  I can only speak to one stereotype: fat people.  No, I don’t eat all the fucking time.  I like salads.  And no, I don’t need you to point out that I’m fat.  Believe me, I’m well aware of my weight.  And yes, I know who the fuck Jenny Craig is.  If you knew who that bitch was, you’d know that her food costs a shit ton of money and you’d understand why I’m not buying her fucking food.  Get off my fucking back about my weight.  I don’t give you shit about the fact that your self-esteem is so far down the toilet that you have to constantly give us fat chicks shit because it’s the only way you can feel better about yourself.  Shut the fuck up and go to a yoga class.  My losing 1-2 pounds a week is way better than you forcing your fingers down your throat to purge that Twinkie you ate in your closet last night.  And just because you’re a “reformed fat chick” (had gastric bypass/lap band) doesn’t mean you’re better than me.  It just means your insurance covered the surgery.  And if you’ve had surgery and talk shit about fat chicks, fuck you.  That surgery didn’t do anything but allow you to be a skinnier insecure asshole. What you need is a personality implant.

Anti-abortion activists.  I have always held that everyone is entitled to their opinion.  I’ve also always held that I cannot and will not make decisions for anyone else about their body.  I’m pro-choice.  Not because I believe abortion is a fantastic form of birth control.  It’s not.  I think we need to educate our children to the point that they make decisions about sex that are smart.  Abstinence is the best form of birth control, bar none.  I couldn’t ever have an abortion.  I was raised to believe it’s wrong.  And since I’m not exactly the most fertile field on the farm, I would never give up a chance at having a child.    What I’m unwilling to do is make decisions for anyone else.  Yes, I believe adoption is always a better choice, but I can’t make that call for another woman.  It’s their body, their relationship with God.  Who am I to throw my two cents in?  The activists who are willing to blow up clinics and kill doctors are not activists.  They’re murderers.  And they deserve to go to jail.  They’re not martyrs for the cause either.  They’re just another sick fuck who killed someone because they didn’t like what their victim was doing.  Leave the judging to God.  He trumps your puny little opinion.

Bad remakes.  Okay, there are certain things that should never be remade, re-recorded, or redone in any way, shape or form.  They’re either too good or too bad to do it over.  Led Zeppelin.  Pink Floyd.  A Clockwork Orange.  Let’s face it.  Led Zeppelin is so classic that it’s just sacrilegious to try to remake Kashmir or Stairway to Heaven or anything else they’ve done.  It’s wrong to sully Paige and Plant that way.  It’s time transcendent so just play the original for your kids and if they think they can do it better, slap them and tell them “no, you can’t.”  Pink Floyd?  Everyone does The Wall, but nothing sounds as good as the original.  Shut up.  No, it doesn’t sound the same when Korn does it.  Believe me, I know.  You cannot beat Malcolm McDowell at A Clockwork Orange.  There is no greater evil. It’s his absolute absence of remorse for his crimes that made him fantabulous in the role.  He was an all too believable sociopath.  What makes the movie so frightening is the fact that there are people walking on the planet who are capable of that type of violence without remorse.  God forbid anyone try to rework that script and modernize it.  It would be a travesty. I can deal with Rob Zombie’s version of Halloween, but I don’t think it’s as good as the original.  The original wasn’t as gory, but it had more suspense.  There’s something to be said for the original in anything.  It’s groundbreaking and new.  It’s not always great, but it’s different.  George Romero gave us cheesy zombies.  John Carpenter gave us The Shape aka Michael Myers.  Belushi and Aykroyd gave us Jake and Elwood.  And I prefer Gene Wilder to Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka.  Sometimes it is possible to improve upon the original, but certain things are sacred.

People who assume I’m a Cowboys fan.  Frankly, I don’t care about sports.  Get over it.  I’m a girl.

People who expect me to cover their asses but don’t consult with me beforehand.  C’mon.  This is basic shit.  If you want me to lie for you and cover your ass, you gotta tell me that’s what I’m doing.  If you don’t consult with me first, I’m not going to do you any fucking favors.  In fact…oh, shit…sorry the bus hit you.  Of course, that hearty pat on the back as it was approaching was probably a bad idea, huh?

People who assume that, since I didn’t finish college, I don’t understand psychology.  Ahh.  You should never underestimate my understanding of the human psyche.  Yes, I know lots about Freud and Jung.  I’ve been people watching for a long time.

For now, that’s it.  I’m sure I’ll add more as it comes to me.  It’s pessimistic of me to write like this, but sometimes the rage takes over and I have to let it out.

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