What I Did On Halloween Night

or hanging with the freaks on the South Side of town

(I know. I know. This is waaaay late. I was busy, a'ight. Okay. I was too lazy to write. Shut up already.)

Okay, so every year for the past 17 an assortment of musicians, singers and humorous media types get together and put on a tribute show around Halloween called The Night of the Singing Dead. It's not your usual tribute show. The irreverent evening skewers.. er, pays homage via song to celebrities, politicians and other notables who have died over the past year or 40.

Two of the funniest guys I know-Lars and Steve-write this thing and it is so lame at times that it is hilarious! No celebrity is taboo.

This year's theme was a Reunion Show. The show started with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze messing around a potter's wheel a la Ghost. However, being that Demi isn't dead, they kicked her off stage and traded up for... Chris Farley. So this HUGE dude in a Chris Farley fat suit proceeds to work his magic as Demi, then Baby from Dirty Dancing and finally himself from the classic Chipendale dance off from SNL.

The show also included hosts Billy Mays, Ed McMahon and Johnny Carson; a Fantasy Island Reunion: Tatou and Mr. Roarke; a Batman Villans Reunion: The Joker, The Riddler, The Penguin and Catwoman; a Woodstock Reunion: Hendrix, Garcia, Joplin and Morrison and of course Michael Jackson(s)-plural.

By far though, the best was the Kennedy Family Reunion complete with a "Special Guest":

and Mary Travers played by the delightful Carol Lee Espy:

When the show was over we headed out into the streets to mingle with the masses of masked mortals. I don't know what was more entertaining, the show we just exited or the freaks-on-parade happening on the streets.

I swear Halloween is every thin-framed, full-busted girl's excuse to dress like a Super Hootchie. Seriously. I saw more naughty nurses, bosom-baring Bavarian barmaids and loose-moraled Catholic school girls than hookers in Vegas when the fleet's in.

To my delight, there were a couple of men in frocks sprinkled in for my own personal enjoyment. One lumbering hulk of a guy was in a blue-sequined, micro-mini and sporting big ole tranny pumps. Another cheerleader gent flashed me his big, plastic girl boobies.

Ha Ha Ha!!

If I had had beads, I would have thrown them at him. As it is I could only convey my approval by hooking the horn.

Have I shared how amusing I find straight dudes in girl duds? I do. Really. To me it's one of the funniest things on earth. Never fails to Crack.Me.Up!!

And then there were these two sitting in the window of Mario's.

A foamy stripper with pasties, g-string and dead sexy... orthopedic shoes?!? Yeah...

Oh Look! My date's here!

Where do you suppose you put the batteries in that thing?

Hey! I Resemble That Remark...

Okay, so last night on the brilliantly irreverent Family Guy, the story line centered around Brian, the dog (yes, the dog) dating a woman who was 50 years old. Lois and Peter launched into this whole slam about her being decrepit and as ancient as Jessica Tandy. And then they were all--

You: Wait... The dog talks?

Me: *Sigh* Yes. The dog talks and drinks and dates bipedal women. That's not the point. The point is they were going on and on about how old, feeble and grandma-like this chick is and how Lois would have to cook dinner with more fiber for her since she is so elderly and has no teeth and so on and so forth, yadda yadda yadda...bite me.

Then later on when she and Brian are doing the nasty (I know..ewww, but just roll with it), she snaps a hip in two like a brittle twig in mid winter!?

COME ON!! She's only 50 for God's sake!!

I'm all for off-color humor and un-pc remarks, but this whole 50-is-like-dating-the-Crypt-Keeper thang hit a bit too close to my Mesozoic mandible. I'm mere months away from the big 5-0 and I take umbrage to the entire notion that I'm less than youthful or a kick to be around or need to wear a Medic Alert button around my neck for frelling sake.

I'm still vital, I tell ya. Vital!!

But I'm not bitter. No. Do I sound bitter? Because I'm not. Really. Not much anyway.

Why you be hating on us slightly beyond middle agers, Seth?

All I can say is you're killing me. Seriously. You, Seth MacFarland, are stabbing me in my very soul. I swear to God, when I get out of this chair I'm going to shoot you square in the head. I'm going to kick you so hard in your dingle-berries your Peter Griffin voice will sound like Tiny Tim singing one of those lame-ass, ukulele pieces of shit tunes. I'll show you...

(angrily gets up from chair...back stooped, knees crackling, hip popping)

dammit... I need a nap.

Here's a link to the hulu.com feed of the episode:

http://www.hulu.com/watch/105846/family-guy-brians-got-a-brand-new-bag#s-p1-so-i0

Here's a YouTube link to the segment discussed above:

Oh and for the record, I have no idea what a fucking davenport is.

Sometimes It's The Little Things That Mean The Most

or cheering up a old friend

Okay, so one of my dearest friends in the entire universe was diagnosed with cervical cancer this summer. We were all floored. This news came completely out of the blue.

She was having no pains, just excessive bleeding which generally is cleared up with a D & C. You go into the hospital, get hooked up to some really amazing drugs, take a nap, the doc scrapes the offending tissue away...5 hours later, you're up and on your way home. Simple, right?

Wrong.

Poor Jude had to have an hysterectomy. That's bad enough, but then she had to carry around a wound-vac, vacuum cleaner kinda thingie attached to her gut for a couple of weeks to aid the healing of a 2 inch deep incision.

No lie. A.Vacuum.Cleaner.

It sucks...literally.

The good news is the surgeon removed all of the cancer.

Thank you God. We all owe you one.

The bad news is she has to endure five solid weeks of radiation--that's 25 days worth--and five three-hour long chemo sessions. She's a little more than half way through.

Jude's endured so much over the last five weeks. We decided to try to cheer her up like only her bestest, classiest, loving friends can. So what do you do for one of your beloved twisted sisters to bring a smile (and hopefully a belly laugh) to her world-weary face?

Why you send her a series of irreverent cards signed by some of her favorite off-colored names, of course! The first "hope your vajayjay is feeling better" greeting was from Erin McCooter.

Jude opened this aberrant acknowledgement this morning and immediately called, crying with laughter. Seems we were able to help start her day off in the proper frame of mind.

Mission accomplished. For realz.

Hopefully she'll be equally happy to hear from our good friends Howie Feltersnatch, Anita Cox and that lovely Greek tycoon, Harry Paratestes. They (whoever the hell "they" are) always say laughter is the best medicine. We're shooting for a triple dose for our BFF.

Nothing but the best for you, Judes. We love you!!

The Bug World Is STILL Out To Get Me, Y'All

Seriously. WTF?!

Okay, so yesterday me and Geo were outside trimming hedges and other greenery which we ignored all summer, which ended up being all gargantuan and out of control. Seriously. The branches of the willow bushes in front of the deck were about 20 feet long... and saucy, too. Every time I'd walk by they'd whistle and grab my ass.

Cheeky shrubbery. (pun intended)

Anywho, Geo was machete-ing (is that even a word? probably not. I make crap up.) his way through the Weigelia when out popped a spider with the biggest ASS I HAVE EVER SEEN!!

As you all are aware, I'm a fan of the hyperbole, but honest to GAWD this critter's derriere was at least the size of a nickel. It was down right bootylicious! Even Beyonce would be humbled by the girth of this gluteus maximus.

It farging FREAKED ME OUT!! Take a look. That thing should have its own zip code. I hope you all realize the sacrifice I made searching for a picture of this aberration. My skin is still crawling. Eeewwwww!!? *shudder*

Both repulsed and fascinated by this eight-legged anomaly, I asked my wonderfully wise Geo if I should stomp the very life out of this hideous creepy-crawly. On the advice of said hubby and against my better judgement, I spared Betty Big Butt here a date with the sole of my Doc Marten.

Sucker.

Fast forward to this afternoon.

So I come home from a pleasant day at the Special K all cheery and singing. The sun shining, chipmunks dancing at my feet, blue birds hovering around my head, chirping like they do for freaking Cinderella. I innocently reach into the mail box to collect our various correspondence of the day when...

Big Butt Bertha leaps out from the stack of mail in my arms and nails me into the railing with her Shakira hips.

Stunned by the sudden bump on my noggin, I look up to see Helen Hindquarters dancing over me, her beady eyes narrowing to a glare, badonka-donk wagging back and forth, taunting me Keanu Reeves style from the Matrix--the original not those crappy sequels.

Me: "Oh. This is how you repay me for not crushing you yesterday, Be-yatch? Really. This is you thanking me?"

She let out an evil laugh, and I swear I smelled sulfur.

Me: "You want at me? Well have at it. Let's do this thing, you dirty whore."

I sprung up. She slid her back spiny leg across my ankles and sent me down hard, but not before I grabbed the snow shovel. (Yeah. We still have the snow shovel out. What of it? We get easily distracted, like a seasonal distracted disorder. Don't judge us.) As my head cracked on the concrete, I swung wildly, connecting with her man-sized pinchers, sending her rolling onto the sidewalk. Dazed and running on instinct alone, I was able to finish her off with a succession of crushing hits with the cricket bat I just happened to have in my back pocket.

Exhausted, sweat dripping from my nose I watched as the last twitch of life left my malicious marauder.

WTF?!?!

Seriously. I let her live and this is how she repays me? That's it. All you disgusting dirt dwellers are on notice. No more Mrs. Nice-Nice. You're all on my list.

In my search for the visage of this villaness, I stumbled upon this video which may explain why she was so... cranky.

Happy Freaking First Anniversary

or the greatest way EVAH to celebrate baby's first year blogging

Okay, so believe it or not I've been rambling, ranting and running on incessantly here in the blog-o-sphere for one year.

You, my throngs of adoring readers (well, okay all three of you anyway): Get OUT!!

Me: I know, right? The year sped along like the Road Runner after the Coyote bungles, like

the simplest of schemes only to have a ginormous Acme Anvil fall on his head because, you know he's not the brightest bulb in the pack. In fact I think maybe he has dyslexia or ADD or dementia or something because he is totally the SLOWEST of learners. Seriously. He's constantly standing around with a singed face or shot off hand from holding onto TNT too long or a...

Yinz guys: Get to the point, round eye.

Me: I...I don't remember. Wait. What were we talking about?

YG: *sigh* You were mentioning how quickly the year has passed. Which, you know, maybe for you. Reading your crap...er, thoughts have honestly dragged the universe down by a few years.

Me: Wha? Come on. There were a couple that were entertaining, right?

Yinz: Meh. Maybe a few.

Me: You guys are mean. I'm crushed. Really. You suck. Wait, don't leave. I love you... *flutters eye lashes*

You: Whatever, Dude.

Moving on...

So what does one do in celebration of a milestone such as this? Me? I hop on over to the nearest hospital for a ceremonial core sampling of my girls.

Hooo Doggie! It's a regular Hootenanny! Good times had by... NONE!

(Side Note: Speaking of "None", I just read the infamous OctoMom is dressing up as a Nun for Halloween. Yeah. Ponder that for a minute. Okay, it is sorta funny.) But I digress...

You may recall from one of my last posts that I have to go through the same mammary mambo every year. My less-than-bodacious lady berries get smashed then further photographed using ultrasound. My girls have been snapped so much, they're like the Christie Brinkley of boobage. They even have a good side and an agent. Work it, girls. Work it!

This year's added bonus for playing along is a... biopsy! But wait! If you act now you'll get two for the price of one! Don't let this offer pass you by. Call now 1-800-DRL-MYBOOB!

So, yeah. Do I know how to party, or what?

Last time my girl pillows got this kind of special attention, I had no idea what to expect. I went it alone, which I have to admit kinda sucked. This time my ever-loving Geo came along for the moral-support ride. I will always love him for this. I really needed his big, fat, rib-crushing hug afterwards. Besides, Geo has a vested interest in making sure his little buddies are healthy. If you know what I mean, and I think you do. :D

Anywho....

So I get into the procedure room, dawn the lovely, high-fashion gown and meet the woman of the hour, Dr. Chaffing, as in dish. Luckily for me, she has a great sense of humor and an even greater sense of professional skill. Dr. Chaffing-Dish preps my tender TaTa, whips out a 12-inch needle and proceeds to numb that puppy up. That done, she then turns around, rifles through her Sear's Craftsmen tool chest and whips out a Makita power drill with a hollow bit.

Aaaaaaand .... that's when I closed my eyes.

Okay, it wasn't exactly a power drill, but it sure sounded and felt like it. Seriously. There was whirring and circular vibrating like she was installing a molly bolt to hang a 300 pound mirror on the living room wall. I swear there was more drilling going on below the surface of my fun bags than a John Holmes film fest.

Six core samples later, I got to flip over and do it all again on the OTHER SIDE.

Thank you sir. May I have another.

Yay me!! Apparently the tissue in my right yabo is made of teflon, because Dr. Dish had to open the vault to the Medieval Interrogation Tools and pull out the gun-powder charged pistol to break through that tough candy coated tissue to get to the creamy chocolate center of the cyst. Thank goodness that worked, because I swear I saw her prepping a stick of dynamite to toss in as a back up. "Fire in the hole!!"

(I said hole. he he)

Now I get to spend the day cradling my cleavage with bags of frozen peas. Mmmmm. Dead Sexy.

This is why I drink.

But seriously. Do I know how to party, or what?

Friday Photo #33

In Memoriam...

Twenty years ago today, the phone rang at 3am. Even before I answered it, I knew my Dad was dead. The ring actually sounded different. Sadder. Final. And I just...knew.

I'm not a big proponent of visiting the dead at cemeteries. I used to make the rounds with my parents (the unofficial family crypt keepers) to the various familial resting places to pay respects to a number of relatives, most of whom I'd never met. As a child I thought it was kind of interesting, but mainly it was just an excuse to get out of the house and explore unfamiliar areas of town.

Yesterday Big Mar and I took flowers to my Father's grave site. I felt compelled to go. Twenty years is a big number. It seemed appropriate, necessary. It was a beautiful day, much like the day he died. A gorgeous, balmy October afternoon filled with sunshine and long shadows.

We lovingly arranged bouquets of mums and lilies, washed the built up dirt from the marker and stood there, each of us silently remembering him in our own private way.

As I've written in a posting not long ago here, my Dad wasn't always the easiest to love, but he did have a spark, a charm and a big heart.

You know why I like this photo? It's my old man at his favorite place: perched on a bar stool, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, drinking a shot and beer, waiting for his fried smelts. A sincerely unguarded moment of happiness.

Twenty years is a long time. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday...

So today, in honor of my Dad, I will raise a glass of hootch and toast his memory. Salut!

I miss him still.

Subverting the Dominant Paradigm

or some days you just have to cut loose

Okay, so I've been really sucky with this blogging thang lately, because quite honestly I have not had anything fun to talk about. My life is deadly dull and boring, boring, boring.

Until today.

Today was like a free-for-all of fun and games at work. Really. It felt like when your regular, strict teacher was out sick and the mousy substitute completely lost control of the class, but was still trying to soldier on even as students stood on desks and threw spit balls at her hair.

That kind of big-time fun.

First of all, much to my surprise and glee (you can watch America's favorite new "feel good" hit Glee every Wednesday night at 9pm on FOX.) my best friend Beets-my cohort in crime and co-queen of irreverent behavior-was scheduled to share the robotics/prompter platform with me this morning!

The delightful downward spiral of decorum started early on with the First Birthday Baby pictures. Proud parents and grandparents send in pictures of the little nippers which we broadcast as the final element of a news block around 5:15am. The relatives set their VCRs to record their progeny for posterity. As long as the names are spelled correctly, everyone is happy. Under the baby photos we play this God-awful repetitive music that kinda goes "Da Da Da DA...DaDaDaDA" over and over and over and over...in obnoxious infinity. It's pretty gay, and reminds us of bad 70s Go-Go music. Come to think of it, isn't all Go-Go music wretched?

Anywho-years ago Beets and I started jumping up and Go-Go dancing, doing our best Frug, Swim and Bat-tusi, every morning when the little darlins are on. She and I rarely get to be in the studio together so today it was ON! I mean FULL ON, Baby. Even the new anchor team (whom I love! more on this later.) got in the act. The best was little Jimmy McParkway bounding around the corner from his Traffic cave busting a groove. I almost soiled myself. Seriously.

This outbreak encouraged our audiophile Dave, to crack open the Irish music to which Jimmy and the weather dude channeled their inner Michael Flatley and straight-arm River Danced in the chroma key, ala Mary Catherine/Molly Shannon for an entire minute, leaving the Weather guy gasping for air when he did his hit at the top of the block. Aaaah. Good times.

But wait, there's more...dancing that is. Today was all about the dancing.

During the long commercial break, Beets and I leaped off the platform to join Jimmy McP in front of the big beam for more frivolity. At this point the director's knickers were in a royal twist because we normally tape promos during this three minute gap and we were totally eating up the allotted time with our infantile shenanigans.

But, come on. Look at us. Are we not the grooviest? It's Traffic A-Go-Go, for God's sake. You can't stop us. Besides I was wearing the perfect shirt for cage dancing. And no, it's not a moth-balled 70s relic from my cedar chest. It's current, Baby!

Other acts of mayhem ensued. At one point a small, rubbery, lime green disc that looked like Shrek's wife's diaphragm was being flung about haphazardly, jokes were flying, songs were being sung off key (okay that would have been me). Whatever. It was chaos. Pure, unadulterated, free-spirited chaos.

I absolutely LOVE the madness of today!

Side Note:

It has been so much fun the last few weeks since the new anchor team came on board. Jen, who had left about four years ago to pursue other opportunities, is back and has added a lightness and wit missing since the departure of my dear Sonya. And Rick (from here on out referred to as "The New Guy" or TNG) fits right in. He's professional, warm, funny as hell, easy going and twisted just like the rest of us. Not unlike my beloved KJo, whom I miss every day. They're a good team, and we are having a blast.

Hey, let's face it, you gotta to have fun that early in the morning. Otherwise it is just a Zombie death march. Braaaaaaaaaains....

I swear if we aired the crap that goes on during the breaks, our ratings would go through the roof.

But I digress...

The best of this morning's happening by far, centers around our much loved Traffic reporter. He was running a little late for his hit. In his haste to get on set he rounded the corner a little too sharply, caught his knee on a set piece which went flying and crashed and... oh just watch this video*. It tells the whole story.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahah!

Okay, that makes me cry every time I watch that. I don't know what I find funnier, the re-enactment, Beets screeching "Holy CRAP, Marie!" from the wings or Jimmy McP snorting. But seriously. It was THAT loud on the air.

So to recap our day:

Dancing like morons: free

Getting hit in the face with Shrek's wife's green diaphragm: free

Scaring the Weather man into thinking he was shot on the air: Priceless

Yeah. Some days just call for cutting loose at the Special K. Now if we could only talk our boss into buying that Margarita slushy machine for the Studio...

*Note: no actual anchors or union members were harmed in this re-enactment. However, the set piece was rushed to the hospital to repair a number of fractures. We expect it to return after a few weeks of physical therapy. Thanks for asking.