In Which I Share One Of The Funniest Blogs About Misfit Toys

Okay, so there's this blogger I love known as The Bloggess. She's demented, delirious and I love her. She's hilarious. 


This week she posted a blog pondering the realities of The Island of Misfit Toys. The kind of stuff we've all questioned, except for maybe that last bit about the dolly. 


If you can't enlarge this post to read it, a link is here. Enjoy!
  

In Which I Place The Hazmat Number On Speed Dial 

Okay, so I'm not the greatest housekeeper. 


Stop laughing. 


I'm just throwing that out there. I admit if there is any kind of diversion to distract me from cleaning, I take it and then promptly blame it later for my shortcomings in the house beautiful category. I can't help it. I'm lame like that.


Take the refrigerator, for example. 


I have seen some things... some horrible, HORRIBLE things festering in the dark corners of our Frigidaire, but even I was immobilized by the abomination homesteading in the veggie drawer. 


All I wanted was some peppers to make pepper steak. I innocently opened the crisper to find this Demonic Denizen dripping like an Amityville inhabitant, spewing forth its sickly spores into my airways.

What the???! GAG!?!! ICK!!?! CHOKE!! HACK! 


MOMMYYYYYY!!!!!!!  

Hands down one of the grossest things to surprise me in a long time. This stuff was so dead, even that adorable Pie Man from Pushing Daisies couldn't reanimate them. 

I said a few Hail Marys, donned the head-to-toe yellow Hazmat jumpsuit and grabbed that 10 foot pole we have lying around for just such an occasion in order to extract the offending former life form. 


After pouring enough bleach on that drawer to turn Michael Jackson into a white woman (what...too soon?), I promptly fixed myself a double tall boy for medicinal reasons. 


Yeah, medicinal reasons. That's the ticket. 


The sad thing is, in my cold and twisted heart I know this is not an isolated incident. It will happen again. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. No Martha Stewart am I. She stopped by once to show me a trick or two, but I haven't seen her since. 


Come to think of it...what is that blond thing behind the meat keeper... 

And Unto Us This Day Is Born... a Cocktail Weenie.


Okay, so this Munchables Nativity scene is so wrong in so many ways, but come on! Bacon roof, sauerkraut hay, pickle loaf Wise Guy robes... whatever the hell that blobby thing is on the right. Hilarious! Even the Baby Jesus himself would belly laugh at this ridiculously brilliant meat-lovers tableaux constructed in his honor because, you know, it's funny. 


As the crusty Sargent says in Stripes, "Lighten up, Francis." 


On this irreverent note, may your holiday be filled with love, laughter and only the amount of family you can tolerate with or without medication. 


Merry Christmas and pass the mustard!

Another Senseless Holiday Crime Spree

Great. Now I'm never going to get that effing pony.

In Which I Sit On My Butt At The Computer Instead Of Getting On With The Business of Christmas

Okay, so it's December 23, (What?! Already?!?) the tree doesn't even have lights on let alone decorations, the house is so messed up we're waiting for FEMA to deliver a signature white disaster trailer in the drive, and I have not addressed one single Christmas greeting card. Yet here I sit at the computer wasting time.


And guess what? I don't really care.


I'm not depressed or even the least bit sad. On the contrary, I have this unusual sense of calm...and freshly waxed, baby-bottom-smooth armpits. 


Hey my Holiday prep is in a shambles, but come on! Priorities, people. I may not have checked anything off my "To Do, You Lazy Bee-Yatch" list which mocks me at every turn, or taken time to clean or bake or write cards, but having my Simian armpits hairless is way up there on the food-chain of priorities. And for those who know me... Yeti + hairless = huge feat.


Anywho, the bear trap of holiday trappings has been replaced with the preference to socialize. I don't need, nor want anything really. Like we need more crap to clutter our already stacked to the max dwelling. What's more important now isn't whether the house is decorated, but getting together with those equally irreverent like-mind, lovable lunatics I call friends and family. On that front I can say I've been rather successful.


And as Linus says, "that's what (this) Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."


You can take this stress and shove it. I'm going to lunch. 

So This One Time At the Bowery Ballroom...

Okay, so last week Geo and I were vacationing with family in Northern New Jersey at the same time Old 97's just happened to be performing in New York City not once, but three times. How serendipitous!! I love synchronicity. Synchronicity ROCKS! I jumped online and was lucky enough to buy tickets to the back-to-back shows (Wednesday and Thursday) at the Bowery Ballroom in the lower east side.

The guys had driven all night to the Big Apple from their gig the night before in Baltimore. Over the next two days, they did one presser after another in between energetic shows that ran into the early morning. Rhett and Murry had the unenviable task of performing bright and early Wednesday on Good Day Fox 5. They were visibly scruffy and road weary in a completely Rock 'n Roll way, but still managed to belt out a terrific version of Champagn, IL for the morning folks. After only two hours sleep, Thursday morning pulled out its task-master whip and had the entire band up and in Don Imus' studio at the inhumane hour of 5am for four top-of-the-hour performances, then off to WNYC radio to play "A State of Texas" for Soundcheck before they could remotely think about a cat nap. Whew! Hardcore, man. Most bands would wilt under that kind of grueling schedule, but I’m here to tell you what we witnessed was the polar opposite

Wednesday's show was classic Old 97's. Interspersed amongst old crowd favorites, Won't Be Home, Rollerskate Skinny, and Big Brown Eyes, we were treated to a couple of new tunes like the lovely "Love Is What You Are", the chugging "Please Hold On..." and even  a growling version of "I'll Cry Instead" in honor of John Lennon.



The sold out gathering was all aglow as they exited the steamy venue into the cool street for home.

But Thursday night's performance was On. Its. HEAD!

From the first chord of The Grand Theatre until the long, lingering, last note of Time Bomb the energy was pegging at eleven!! Outside of Love is What You Are and Question, they never let up. EVER. Ken's grinding guitar, Rhett's bellowing vocals and brain-bruising head bangs, Murry's heart-thumping bass punk stance, Philip's signature cadence... we were puddy in their hands. They played the audience to perfection, whipping us into a whisky-soaked, sing-along frenzy. The packed house willingly filled in the vocals for Barrier Reef, Big Brown Eyes, Stoned and Rhett's acoustic set of Niteclub and Our Love. Seriously, how cool is it to step away from the mic and listen to hundreds of people sing your words back to you unprompted?

They all looked like they were having a blast chatting to each other on stage, Ken and Murry playing to the crowd as well as each other.



Several times Ken perched precariously at the end of the stage, teasing the crowd while his telecaster sizzled.

But Dude. The set closing "If My Heart Was a Car".

Holy Mary, Mother of God!

It was completely off the charts INSANE! I've never seen this live before. It started off slowly with Ken literally sitting on the edge of the stage plucking the opening, then it just exploded with a balls-to-wall energy generally reserved for Time Bomb. The front row was anointed with Rhett sweat from his fevered head bobs. This was Rock 'n Roll, Baby!!



All of that and they STILL put in a high octane performance of Time Bomb. Aaaa Time Bomb. The first chord strike of that song is always bittersweet for me. I love it because they all play it with such abandon, squeezing every bit of energy they have left into the performance, but it signifies the end of the evening and I'm never ready for the doors to close. Like an insatiable child, I want to stand up and say "Do it again!"

If this is how they play after walking through the Valley of Exhaustion. Clearly sleep deprivation works for them.

Initially I was bummed not to be able to go to Brooklyn for day three of Old 97's Take Manhattan, but after Thursday's incredible show I was satisfied. I couldn't imagine how they could have topped that one.

In hindsight, I wish I would have recorded more but honestly I just wanted to drink it all in and sing at the top of my lungs.

Friday Photo: Holiday Edition
or Big Mar vs. the TSA


Yeah. This is how we treat our 89 year-old mother of five. But hey, in our defense, she doesn't fly anymore so, what the Hell. We didn't want to deny her the thrill of a government sanctioned grope. Is that so wrong? Besides, I think she liked it...perhaps a little too much. Sick! ;-) 


Love you, Mumsie!

So December. We Meet Again...

You just got here. You can't even take off your coat first before dumping white shite all over us? What the ef?!? What? Did your little boyfriend, Fall run off with the hot chick at the end of the bar Thanksgiving night when you were in the bathroom barfing up the sushi and six martinis you devoured leaving you stranded holding your hair out of your chunk-covered face?

Boo frickin' Hoo! Get over yourself. Four solid months of this crap ain't gonna fly. Have a Xanax with your gin and take a nap. Sheesh!

Crazy Bee-yatch.

To Chia Or Not To Chia
or getting all presidential on your cheesy, gift-giving ass

Okay, so the other day I was at Big Mar's desperately attempting to stave off a food coma when that ever-so-familiar jingle broke through my overindulger-induced fog.


Ch- Ch- Ch- Chia!


That's right. Nothing signals the start of the holiday melee like a barrage of commercials for that ubiquitous holiday kitch gift, the Chia Pet. There's nothing unusual about the televised assault of clay animals and their green manes. It's expected. In fact, I believe the absence of these ads on the airwaves might just initiate the end of days. Wouldn't that be a ginormous kick in the nut sack if the salvation of humanity lies in the existence of an innocent looking clay ram with goofy-ass grass wool. We all better pray there's an onslaught of Chia commercials broadcasting in 2012, or else the Mayans will have won.


But I digress...


What jolted me from my hypoglycemic haze wasn't the irritating earworm jingle, but the offering. This year you can plant not one, but three Presidents AND ... Lady Liberty with actual glowing lamp!! I'm not even kidding. You can choose from Il Duce numero uno, George or Honest-to-goodness Abester or No Drama Obama.

P.S.: since when is Lady Liberty-with or without a green mop top-considered an American (Hello, she's French.) or even a person for that matter?

I can get behind Georgie and Abe, although I think they totally missed the boat by not giving him a chia beard, or was that Mary Todd? Hey-Oooo! (Get it? Some think he was gay and MT was his beard...No? Okay it's just me). I think it's funny as hell, but there's just something that ain't right about our current Prez immortalized in rough, unglazed clay, sporting a day-glo fro.

But wait!! There's more! Like all things American, you have a choice. You can choose either Happy pose Obama (you know, the idealistic, can't we all just get along, Yes we Can!, pre-election Barak) 

or determined pose ("WTF was I thinking trying to fix this shithole, Good Gawd I need a drink, I picked the wrong year to stop sniffing glue") Obama. 

Plus on Amazon you can also throw in a Clinton "Hey-my-penis-is-a-Corkscrew!" for one low price. Sweet!

Yes We Can!!


Of course the biggest question I have scrolling down the Amazon this search page for Chia Obama is how the Hell does a book titled "How to Live With a Huge Penis" end up in this grouping and why only as item #7?

Say what?!?


And you can look inside, too! Go ahead. You know you want to. I double dog dare you. It's right here.


I used to have a chia pet long ago. Never was very good about keeping it watered. My l'il critter was more of a Mexican hairless than woolly ewe, so don't waste your hard-earned dough-re-me buying me one. It will just end up being regifted, probably to you, then your feelings will get all hurt because I didn't treasure your little piece of shit afterthought gift even though you'll pretend to laugh and think it's funny, but we both know things will get awkward and you'll die a little inside. 


If it was a Rhett Miller Chia, hmmmmm. No who am I kidding. I still wouldn't water it and you'd still secretly hate me. 


Now the Clinton corkscrew on the other hand... That's gold, Jerry! Gold!