Deja Vu All Over Again

Okay, so we're getting a new morning anchor team come Monday. The female half of this new and improved, Good-Lord-let-these-people-be-the-ones-to-boost-ratings-and-get-us-out-of-the-crapper set is an anchor on her second time through.

Jen-Jen was the 5pm anchor for roughly 14 years before she decided she had a chance to bust out and go national. She did, but she didn't. So now she's back where she started, but this time working the "Shift of the Damned" with the rest of us peons.

Whether her return will be embraced overwhelmingly by the public at large as to create a seismic jump in our numbers is the proverbial $64,000 question. I wouldn't want that kind of pressure which is why I sit in my cushy chair, pushing buttons. No Atlas I.

Anywho, the new Tom Cat in the scenario is a middle-aged fellow who came to us via West Virgina. Turns out he replaced my beloved KJo in WV when Keith moved to Pittsburgh...and now he's going to be warming the very seat upon which KJo's buttocks had nestled. Okay, not literally the same chair. We actually got new ones. For realz. The tight wads in charge actually ponied up the dough for comfortable seating. Wha? That's madness, you say. I know, right?

Moving on...

And so starts yet another round of changes, which if you've been reading my crap for a while you know how much I hate change especially in personnel I adore. (catch up here)

I have to admit, however I'm going to sorta miss our temporary anchoress. Sure she was a little neurotic and obsessive at times, but you never knew what unintentional gem was going to escape her lips. Without her we would not have such classics as:

"Police still looking for a missing BONER..." (instead of boater)

and

"I don't want feces in my hair..."

That last one she uttered because she was unaware we were back from break and she was on. Live. On the air. Yeah.

Aaaaaa... Good times. Good times.

Who knows what the climate will be like come Monday. Although Jen-squared is rather witty at times, new guy Rick is a wild card. I have no idea what to expect. I hope he's quick with the clever come backs because Lord knows we could use the levity. Humor's a good thing, especially hours before the crack of dawn when it's pretty much just us watching. Somethings though things go horribly, huh wrong...

Let's hope our new male co-anchor won't bust out a similar mishap right out of the gate this week causing our Jen Jen to react with horror like that poor lass. Although wouldn't that be just awesome? Secretly, I would soooo heart that. Hey, it might even help the ratings.

Friday Photo #32

She's on the deck with me, polishing off her third cocktail. Duh. She can still hear the little rug rats...I mean, darlings. Time for another...

I Think There's A Bounty On My Head

or why the insect world be hatin' on me?

Okay, so about a month ago I was driving to my Mom, Big Mar's house when something on the driver's side window caught my eye. It was a...

SPIDER!!!??!?!!!

For those of you who know me well, you understand what an issue this is for me. I don't dig bugs in general, but Spiders.Freak.Me.OUT!! Seriously. I hatehateHATE them! Mainly I hate how they just...appear. Suddenly and without warning. They're like stealthy, furry eight-legged ninjas on a string. EEeeewww! *shudder*

Usually they choose the shower in which to ambush me during the wee wee hours of the morn. I'm minding my own business, rinsing the shampoo from my hair, open my eyes and--

WHAM!

Spider in the FACE...dangling a farging inch from my severely myopic eyes! Of course I try to make it scurry back up its silky thread by blowing on it. Logical, right?

WRONG!

The jagoff doesn't go up, but out--its hideous arachnid form swinging towards me at what seems like light speed, forcing me to bend backwards in a Neo/Matrix move. I've got shivers up my spine just thinking about it.

Wait...what was I talking about? Oh yeah. The spider on my car window. Correction. The spider on the INSIDE of my car window. Panicked, I roll down the window (thank you to whomever created auto windows) gathering the biggest, deepest breath an asthmatic can muster and blow the bastard out the window.

Relieved, I start to roll the window back up and BOING! The little f*cker flings back inside the car as if it's on a spring!?!

Holy CRAP!

Totally freaked I gathered breath from the bottom of my toes and shot the blast at the little freak, knocking him back out, zooming the window shut and leaving him hanging on the outside of the glass. All this while driving.

Asshole.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I was walking to the garage entrance at work when I was confronted by the Beast. A cockroach the size of a Smart Car was poised between me and the door...his antenna waving defensively.

He pulled a knife and lunged forward. I countered with a Kung fu drop-kick to his ribbed thorax, knocking the knife loose. The nimble minx sprung back up and charged. We wrestled. I finally pulled a gun and shot him. Exhausted, I left his oozing, lifeless hull on the concrete as a warning to the others.

Fast forward to this morning.

I'm driving to work hours before the crack of dawn when I notice something big fluttering in my rear view mirror. What the f..?? What?

At first I thought the critter in question was outside the car. Yeah, right. I should be so lucky. Clearly my winged nemesis was inside. I figured if I rolled the windows down I could blow his ginormous ass out. So down come all four windows. Now I drive slightly above the speed limit. *snort* Who am I kidding. I drive like a bat out of hell as evidenced in a past post here.

So now the gale-force winds blowing through the car are so powerful they're practically blowing my hair out by the roots and making my cheeks flap like an astronaut in a G-Force chamber. Surely that sucked the intruder out into the morning mist. I roll the windows up and try to flatten my tresses from their upright and locked position. Crisis averted.

Suddenly Mothra dive bombs my head, bouncing into the windshield. I'm not ashamed to say I let out a huge, girlie scream and swerved left. Not a good idea since I was in the left lane which is lined with Jersey barriers and, you know, I'm driving fast.

Mothra tries to grab the wheel. There's a struggle. Sparks are flying as we bounce off the Jersey barriers. I manage to elbow him in his dingly-dangs, shove his crumpled thorax out the window at 50 mph and watch his white-winged carcass get smaller in my rear view mirror.

"Yeah you're getting smaller in my rear view mirror..." (sorry. love that Old 97's song)

I'm starting to take these assaults personally. What is with all the juiced up bugs lately. Holy Crud. They're all hopped up on the roids and looking for a fight. Well I got news for you, Creepy Crawlers. Just cause I'm a girl y'all think you can take me. I may be uber squeamish and scream like a girl, but when push comes to shove and it's you or me...I'm bringing the hurt. It's ON!

Oh... it's ON, BABY!!

And Another Thing...

or somedays there's a lot to share

Okay, so lately I've had to stretch to find something to write about--hence the infrequency of posts. Then some days a pile of stuff happens each of which is screaming to be shared. Today (or yesterday, or last week, or last month depending on whenever the Hell I publish this) is that day.

So I get summoned into the control room this morning to have a book thrust at me titled "The Alphabet of Manliness" written by visionary author (his words) Maddox, a 27 year old, ex telemarketing programmer who happens to also have a website thebestpageintheuniverse.com. The subtitle of which reads "This page is about me and why everything I like is great. If you disagree with anything you find on this page, you are wrong."

OhMiGod! This tome is completely off-color and entirely un-PC. With a capital U-N. It is also flipping HILARIOUS!!

Our hours-before-the-crack-of-dawn show producer, Kelly claims she didn't buy this lovely bit of literature, but it was sent to her. Right. Whatever. It is a treasure of the most juvenile kind. There are so many great terms (pork sword and ass bouquet) and euphemisms I swear to Jehovah it was penned by my dearly-defected-to-the-nation's-wang buddy, KJo. It is soooo up his proverbial alley. It is replete with fractured factoids and elicit illustrations guaranteed to make fluids fly out your nose.

I'd like to read from this missive. (I realize I run the risk of some readers not finding the humor in this as I. So be it. You know me by now. This should be no surprise.)

"B is for Boners"

A chapter imparting a wealth of knowledge of all things stiff, not flacid. Besides including helpful tips (pun intended) about concealing one's boner--always cover it up with something i.e. a newspaper, book, family pet because bending over just calls attention to ones saluting soldier--he lists a handy-dandy trouser snake reference guide:

Sporting wood while shopping for a gun: straight

Sporting wood while shopping for a gun with your buddy: Straight

Sporting wood while shopping for a gun with your buddy while holding each others willy: Gay

"G is for Gas"

Apparently internal pressure is essential in the fine art of flatulence. The author believes the reason women can't sound off trailing bottom burps is we ladies can't shut our traps long enough to store up the proper pressure for epic tush tootelage. Contained Pressure = greater frequency of "fart ripples" or "fripples" = elongated braaaaapping = hours of enjoyment for your friends.

He identifies some classic farts:

Resident Evil- a fart so hideous no amount of fanning or deodorizers will make it go away. It clings to your clothes, hair, carpet. I think I wrote about that here.

A Fart from the Heart- Letting one fly in a romantic setting after uttering "There's something I've been meaning to tell you"

Dutch Oven-trapping your loved one under the covers after cutting an odiferous doozy in bed. That one's for you, Tooooooodd.

"H is for Hot Sauce"

All men like spicy food. The statement "I don't like spicy food" is a more verbose way of saying "I have a vagina".

"U is for Urinal Etiquette"

Rule #1: "Don't speak unless spoken to, and even then don't speak. In other words: hold your peace while you hold your piece."

Rule #2:

"No peeking or don't gawk at the cock. After a subject has witnessed the penis of another man standing at a urinal, things that once tasted good will taste bitter, video games will start to suck and he will eventually develop a taste for women's literature."

HaHaHaHaHaHa --*SNORT*

Alright...I'm not doing it justice. There's just too much juvenile humor packed into its 200 pages for me to process and share properly. Do your inner 12-year-old a favor and thumb through this tome. Don't make me unleash the "Scratch for Justice" on your keyboard.

"I Own You, Mother Plucker!"

or getting powned by Mother Nature

Okay, so last week Geo and I packed up the car with enough crap to survive on a desert island for six months, and headed to the Jersey shore for our annual beach vacation. The journey started out beautifully.

Couldn't have been better. The sun was shining. The roads were dry. The conversation civilized.

Well... mostly civilized. There was this lovely exchange of travel talk in response to me "mumbling" in the car, which I wasn't. I swear. He's just old and infirm. (I kid. I love you, honey. *flutters eyelashes coyly*)

Geo: I'm going to get a hearing check, buy a hearing aid and then turn it OFF when you talk to me.

Me: What?!? ...*snort* hahahahahaha

Okay. That was funny. One for Geo.

Anywho, the first stop on the way to our annual sun-drenched respite was lovely, Malvern, PA for a house concert with our other favorite musician, Francis Dunnery. While it's always a pleasure to attend one of his house concerts, this one was extra special because it was held at his booker, Kate's house. She and I have been conversing back and forth for the last five years, but had never met. We were stoked about finally having a face-to-face with Kate, plus our pal, Tony the merch guy was going to be there as well as Francis' better half, Erica.

(How weird is it that the two musicians I heart most are both living with women named Erica... but I digress.)

The evening was spectacular. We met a lot of really nice people. The music was great. The food was tasty. The bonding afterward was satisfying. All in all an evening well spent.

The next morning, sufficiently fed and watered, we set off for the shore. We got on the correct road, just the wrong direction. In our defense, there was no clear signage and we don't have a compass in our car or on our iTouch. But, yeah, we were heading West instead of East. In hindsight I think the cosmos was trying to tell us something. Clearly we weren't listening.

After 15 minutes of feeling like we weren't in Kansas anymore, I pulled out my phone and called upon the Navigator feature to guide us. Help us Obi Wan Kenobi.

Funny thing...the voice for the navigator is this boozy broad who slurs the names of roads a LOT. Seriously. I keep expecting her to belch or hiccup. It's hysterical. We named her "Babs" after a friend of a friend who was this crazy, in-your-face, I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass, I-love-you-man drunk at a bar crawl.

Half an hour later, with the distinct scent of gin hanging heavy in the air, we were heading eastward thanks to Boozy Babs, the barfly.

The overcast skies didn't dampen the warm greeting we received from our family members. We cracked open the Ritas, went to lunch, strolled through an art show, tapped the liquor box, hung on the dock, got a refill, cooked dinner, corked the wine... you get the idea.

The forecast called for breaks of sunshine, but everyone knows weathermen are LIARS!! By the third grey day, I was convinced the Sun, knowing we were beach bound, took a holiday to the South Seas.

Bastard. I was starting to take it personally.

Still we had fun. In between cocktails, we braved the winds and actually made it to the ocean.

...and stuck our feet in the surf.

The water was surprisingly warm. Determined to wear my bathing suit, I dove into the lagoon at the house.

Holy F..F..F..FARG!!!!??!

Are you kidding me?!? It was so cold (how cold was it?) It was so cold that if I had gonads, they would have totally retreated up into my colon.

After I got enough feeling back in my limbs to hold a fresh cocktail, we spent the afternoon kibitzing and feeding the birds off the dock.

See that bathing suit. That's the one I had on when I ran into my fantasy hubby, Rhett at Dewey beach. Yeah. Scary. But look, he's still thinking about that encounter and how hawt I looked with my crazy-ass beach blown hair. And yes, I shamelessly worked him into this post just so I could put his oh-so-yummy face here.

*swoon*

Moving on...

Things got epically worse. Apparently Mother Nature surprised the Sun at his hotel in Thailand and caught him canoodling some nimble, young Thai chippie. She got pissed, came home early and decided to trash his summer home on LBI.

I mean she brought it!

She unleashed her wrath in the form of 50 mph winds, torrential rain and spotty power outages. The perfect storm of vacation suck.

*sigh* You know the beach party's over when you don't even bother to shave your Simian armpits.

By Friday we cried "Uncle". You win. We're out. We got the message: "Here's your hat. What's your hurry. Now get off my damn island, Monkey Girl!!"

If that wasn't bad enough, good ole vindictive Mother Nature spanked us all the way home. Hey, it's not our fault horny Ole Sol was feeling his oats and other choice girlie bits on his vacation, Be-yatch. Sheesh! Take a valium, for God's sake.

We tried, but sometimes there's just not enough alcohol to ignore the harsh reality in front of you. At least I trashed the last two bags of "Fiendship" bread.

What The??!?
or was there some kind of time shift whilst I slept?


Okay, so last week when I left for vacation, this little ole blog 'o mine had around 2,500 hits. Not a bad showing for someone of no notoriety. Most of the clicks came from a few family members (thanks Geo and Weez) and a small but loyal collection of friends. (By the way, your "thank-you-for-not-making-me-look-like-a-loser" checks will be in the mail. Promise.)


So imagine my surprise when I got home seven days later, logged on to read the head count (What? I like to see if anyone checks in on me. I know it's queer. I'm kinda vain that way...Shut up!) and was greeted with the astronomical number of 11,900 clicks!!?!

Holy Crap!

What the hell happened while I was away? Did I fall into some sort of Rip Van Winkle time warp thingie and it's really, like 3 years later? (Let's see ... 11,900 divided by 3 = 3,633 hits/year...not a bad showing for a schlub) Or perhaps it's just some sort of George W, cocaine-fueled, fuzzy math. Like the counter went on a gin-soaked, lost weekend while I was away and decided to be magnanimous by multiplying each hit by a thousand just to stroke my ego... or dick with me.

Whatever. I'll take it.

My thanks to those readers (either phantom or real) for the outstanding week. You guys rock!

Wait a minute... Now I guess this means I have to get cracking and write something actually entertaining.

*crap*

Happy Birthday to You...

or guess who's turning 39 today?

Okay, so today is my fantasy husband's birthday. Yes the blue-eyed lovely turns 39 today.

Imagine my surprise when I got an invitation to the birthday shindig at his Hudson Valley home.

But what to get the King-of-all-my-things?? He's got a bit of money so he can buy pretty much what he wants.

Hmmmm...

It would have to be something memorable. Something most men cherish. Something straight me can't resist. And in his case, something that goes well with Jameson.

I've got it!

Boobs! Fluffy, sweet, Marsha Mallow boobs. That oughta bring a little life to the party. He is sooo gonna be all over me for this.