Attack Of The Fecal Spores 

or don't be dropping deuce in my neighborhood  

Okay, so at work we have two sets each of women's and men's rooms in our newsroom. The first two are for general po(o)pulace use. The other two (besides housing a toilet and a shower...yes, a shower. who takes a shower at work?) each contain a ginormous mirror surrounded by big ole lights so the talent can put their faces on. And trust me...some of them NEED to put their faces on. One in particular is so downright frightening without make up, she could scare dingos away. Seriously. If Zombies saw her in the morning, sans face goop they would scream and run for their very lives as if they were being chased by...well Zombies!! 

But I digress...

Anyhoo, this one blonde, chippie talent who hosts our little dog and pony morning entertainment show, without fail, drops a big, stinky deuce in our general bathroom. And then scurries off to her "talent" bathroom to fix her face, leaving us to fend off her fecal spore invasion. 

That. Ain't. Right. 

You know those spores adhere to the fibers of your sweater and then you end up smelling like whatever road kill she ate the night before. Seriously, what the hell is this chick eating?!? She's as thin as a toothpick, but she must be masticating on some major malignant meats to produce such a stench. Yiicccch! 

Honey, do us all a favor and drop those friends off at your home lake before you come to work. At least do a mercy flush half way through pinching a loaf to cut down on the seismic stank.

A little courtesy, Chip. That's all I'm saying.

A Saturday Night Live Gem 

or who knew an entire show could be funny... 

Okay, so if you've read my blah blah blog, you know how much I love Paul Rudd. (That in no way means I'm cheating on Rhett) This past Saturday, SNL replayed the episode in which Paul hosted. Surprisingly, there were a lot of funny skits. Usually the humor only lasts for about 35 minutes, then the rest is just... painful. Not so for this show. In fact, one of the funniest things I've seen them do in a long time aired toward the back end of the program after Weekend Update. 

You know I never liked Justin Timberlake, but between this and the "Dick in a Box" bit, I've really grown to enjoy him and his sense of humor. And that Adam Sandberg guy is a stitch. Plus, come on...Few things are funnier than straight Dudes in heels and frocks. Seriously. It's hilarious. 

My only question is...where'd they stash their junk?

Would The Homo Sapien Please Stand Up

or how to go from an Australopithecus to Homo Erectus in five minutes...or longer

(Okay, so I'm only into the blogging thang three months and I'm already cheating...sort of. I know this post and the last should have been one, but in my defense, one posting would have been a long, rambling mess and I would have lost you half way through--you're eyes glazed over from sheer boredom. How that's different from any other entry, I'm not sure. But I'm only thinking of you. Seriously. That's my story. So sue me.)

Anyway....

So (as mentioned) I had lunch with my best friend from college the other day. A mutual college buddy of ours has gotten all nostalgic lately scanning and emailing old photos from various stages of our past. On the way home, we stopped at my house to look through some old photo albums for him to scan and send along.

OHMIGOD!! These pictures are hilarious! We thought we were so styling. Big hair, long side burns, big-assed glasses (trust me, there are photos of big-assed glasses). Seriously. My hair had it's own zip code!?! I actually PAID for that volume. *shudder*

Anyway, after being amused for some time, it was time to get up off the floor.

Holy Crap!

He had a difficult time straightening his pegs from a crossed-legged position. I had trouble unfolding myself from a pretzel shape. When we finally got off the floor, it took a good couple of minutes to straighten from a simian, knuckle-dragging hunch to the full upright homo sapiens we were when we sat down. When the hell did this happen?

Not funny, advancing age. Not funny at all. Wise ass.

Noshing With An Old Chum 

or oh my, look at the time...

Okay, so I had lunch the other afternoon with my best friend from college. He actually was my first friend at PP College. We met eons ago in July of 1979 standing in a long line at orientation. You do the math. All I know is I've known him longer than I haven't. It's curious when you realize you've known someone so long, you can't remember when they weren't around.

I remember he was about six inches shorter than me and looked like he was about 15 years old. He sorta insinuated himself into my conversation, but he was so entertaining we ended up having lunch together. He wrote me the funniest letters all summer. They were hilarious. I still have them...somewhere in the wreckage I call my home. When we caught up with each other again in September, I almost didn't recognize him. He'd grown at least seven inches and was now able to look me square in the eye.

Anyway, we started talking about how we don't feel old mentally, but have developed old-person syndrome crap like my crazy-crunchy lower back issue and his need for Lipitor. I'm going to start calling him Mean Old Mr. Wilson though, because he does absurd things now like argue at length with the teenaged video store clerk about why the original version of Goodbye Mr. Chips is filed in the musical section when it clearly is not a musical. Duh.

Best Friend From College: Do you realize this is not a musical?

Teen Video Dude: Wha?

BFFC: This is not a musical, but it's labelled a musical. This should be in the drama section.

TVD: So.

BFFC: You need to change the label so it doesn't get filed back with the musicals.

TVD: --?

BFFC: No one will be able to find it if it's in musicals.

TVD: They're labeled by the corporate office.

BFFC: So change it.

TVD: They're labeled by the corporate office.

BFFC: But it's incorrect.

TVD: (pause) Are you going to rent it?

BFFC: Well..no.

OMG. Ha Ha Ha! What the eff? When did this happen?

He kills me. Pretty soon he's going to be yelling "Hey you kids. get outta my yard!", firing off angry letters to cereal companies, wearing funny hats and hiking his pants up to his armpits.

Oh-Oh... Too late.

I kid, my friend. I kid because I love.

Friday Photo #8

kissing off '08... or Sayonara Sucker!! 

Taking a photo of us flipping off the old year has been a tradition since college. I don't know how or why it began (excessive alcohol consumption was a huge factor, natch), but it certainly has stuck. There's something so completely satisfying about that singular action. It appeals to the cave woman in me. And this year it is particularly satisfying as we all get to say "hit the road" to that fecal-flinging, monkey-twatter, W. Don't let the door kick you in the ass on your way out, jagoff.

So, FU 2008. Welcome 2009. Here's wishing us all better days.

Setting Yourself Up For Failure

or how I resolve to avoid the sticky web of resolutions this year...

Okay, so I was never big on resolutions. Very few are ever kept past...I don't know... January 3rd and it just seems like another soulless, societally dictated action whose entire purpose is intended to make you feel like a total loser by the end of the year since you haven't accomplished SQUAT except the realization that you're just one huge Asshat.

Ooo...I like that word, "asshat". That word reminds me of this guy at work who uses the term "like ass" to describe pretty much anything that is vile and disgusting. You know, like, "OMG! That smells like ASS!" or "Wow...that tastes like ASS." or "That show sucked like ASS." which doesn't even make sense, but..whatever. The question remains, exactly how much ass has he smelled or sampled to make him such an expert? No, wait. Don't reeeeeeally want to know. Really. No thank you.

Moving on...

So this year instead of making a list of serious resolutions I should actually keep, I'm choosing to make a list of resolutions I have no chance in Hell of keeping. Sort of a reverse psychology resolution list. This way at the end of the year my lack of ambition will actually be an accomplishment for which I can take pride. Get it? It's kinda like that game "I Never" we used to play at parties. You make a declaration that is actually true, but you put the phrase "I Never" before it and everyone else has to raise their hand if they also did the same stupid thing, and then take a drink. (of course it was a drinking game. we were in our 20s. sha!) For example, someone might say "I never smoked pot" or "I never threw up on your shoes" or "I never motorboated your girlfriend's naked breasts while you were passed out on the couch" ...and that's when the fistfight would start...and the party would be over.

So here goes. I "resolve" to...

1. stop swearing in f*cking general, and at work in f*cking particular.

2. stop using the phrase "that's what she said"

3. stop buying shoes

4. pay a bit more attention at work (well, okay, this one I probably should actually do)

5. stop chewing my lip and/or nails

6. stop using the phrase "in your pants" after titles (i.e. Big Bang Theory... in your pants)

7. start acting more lady like (snort! yeah, right! who would recognize me?)

8. write more entertaining blogs

9. end the dirty talk with my co-workers

and finally...

10. quit obsessing over my fantasy husband, Rhett Miller AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! SNORT!

I couldn't even keep a straight face for that one. Like that would EVER happen without the aid of a twelve-step program! Pa-Lease!!?!

Anyway, best wishes to all for an economically upturned, top-shelf liquor laced, resolution free new year filled with more of the folks you love and adore and far less of those who give you shit.

And just because it's the end of the year and I can, here's one of my favorite tunes from the Rhett concert at Hoboken. So bite me.

Bits And Pieces  

or random thoughts from an untidy mind 

Non-Sequitur #1:

Okay, so over the last week, several of my work friends have been saying all these nice things to me...about me. You know things like how much they appreciate my sense of humor, how they admire the way I relate to my co-workers and make our PTL guests feel at home, how I'm "always upbeat and fun to be around"...

Seriously. 

Like just today I had lunch with a bud who's hoping to retire early next year. He wanted me to know how much he appreciated all I'd done for him and how much he enjoyed working with me. 

While it's always lovely to know people care about you and don't think you suck to be around, I have to wonder...do I have a brain tumor (or as Arnold Schwarzenegger would say...tumah) or some other such ailment I don't know about? Really. What's up with this?

Non-Sequitur #2:

Okay, so let me start out by saying I'm not a buxom lass. Pretty average, truth be told. Anyway, we have this medicine cabinet with two doors, the larger of which is three times the size of the smaller one. I open this larger door at least...I don't know...seven times a day. Last night when I went to close the door, it was like my right boob suddenly became possessed by Pam Anderson's plastic surgeon, magically expanded to twice its size and leapt forward to get caught in the door. 

Damn!?

Kinda like one of those squeezy stress toys where the eyes pop out, except it was a mammary magnification. Weird. 

Non-Sequitur #3:

So I was reading FU, Penguin yesterday, opened the comments and stumbled upon an entry from another blogger FU, FU Penguin. It's a blog where the animals pictured in the original FU, Penguin trash talk back. You can check it out here. You may also notice it is a new listing on my sidebar. Naturally, I fell in love with this site and became a follower...because excessive  swearing and absurdity is apparently how I roll these days. 

Checking out the list of nine followers on FU, FU Penguin, I stumbled upon a blogger whose name piqued my interest, Hey Lola. Turns out she's a pretty hilarious and clever writer. Hey, anyone who's subtitle is "It's just chaos" has got to be fun, right? Well, she is. I'm following her, too. You can find her in the sidebar as well. 

You know, between Hey Lola, Hola Isabel and Innocent Bystander, I'm starting to feel pretty inadequate in this whole blogging arena. Perhaps I should stop searching out better bloggers before I end up in the corner, tucked in a fetal position, rocking myself back and forth crying out for the comfort of my blue blankey. As someone's boozy Mom might say, "Oh Honey! Pull down your skirt. Your insecurity is showing." 

Ah, but then again, who the hell reads this shit anyway.