Oh The Douchebaggery

The posts have been sparse lately.

My bad.

The easy explanation is that I have been doing nothing of note lately.

I have been wrangling with my bills, going to the Y, talking on the phone and---
watching far too much T.V.

I don't have an actual functioning television so I have been watching HULU online.
Those who have never heard of HULU, forget I ever mentioned it.
That shit is crack.

And because television in general sucks, I have been forced to watch such gems as The Bachelor, Momma's Boys, and Hell's Kitchen.
"Reality T.V."

I'm positively catatonic.

Promise to return to vitriol spewing when I can manage to unhook the i.v.

In the meantime, it's my birthday on Sunday and the beautiful and talented Jess is hosting a party this Saturday.
If you'd like to come and haven't already heard from me, gimme' your email address and I'll send details.

I have it on good authority that there will be bean dip.

I find I attract lunatics into my nexus quite frequently.

It might have something to do with the fact that my blood is thick with the crazy juice.

But holy nut job!

I finally acquiesced and went to the doctor yesterday to get myself right after having suffered with smarmy bitch Influenza far too long.
And because mama lacks insurance at the moment, I had to go to the ghetto clinic.

It's rarely very busy, but because it's cold and flu season, the joint was packed to the rafters with ailing freaks.

Words won't do justice here, and I didn't have a pen handy, so I will have to rely on my memory.

First there was a woman whose butt you could have stacked 5 or 6 martinis on. No hate...'cept' that her actual butt, sans underwear, was in all it's glory.
She was talking on her cell phone the entire time about some chick who, "'Gonna get her face slapped if she don't stop talkin' to my man".

You go,sista.

But then it got kind of scary.

She went into detail. I swear I was looking for the candid camera.

She proceeded to describe the ways in which she would cut/shoot/set on fire, said offender.

Oh my.

I was wondering if my cough was really bad enough to wait around and see what would happen next.

Fortunately she was the first one called in.

Whew.

I was waiting far past my scheduled appointment and had the urge to pee, so decided to get up and use the facilities.
But just before I stood up, I heard the loudest, wettest, most blatant fart I had ever heard in my life.
I looked over to see a man walking, ever so slowly, in the direction of the restroom.
And he made one continual fart the entire way there.
Did I mention he was walking very, very, slowly?

Needless to say, I held my sauce in until after I left the clinic.

There was one dude just standing in the corner grimacing at me.
And he looked like a dead ringer for Ernest Borgnine, complete with three-piece suit.

But, ladies and gents, I save the best for last.

I always manage to choose the wrong seat.

The woman sitting next to me was sporting a do that had clearly not been combed in years.

Pigpen called. He wants the critters swarming around his head back!

And she was wearing an entire tube of blood red lipstick on both her lips, and her teeth.

When I first came in she was listening to a head set.
There was no need for the head seat.
It was like Studio 54 up in there...shit was so loud.
And it was bad, bad slow jams.

I turned and looked at her shyly, so as not to arouse her crazy to come out.
Surprisingly she turned the volume down.

Aaah, silence.

Not!

In the wake of her sweet jams' absence, she began to talk...to no one in particular.

It started out innocently enough.

"Did you see that" (keep in mind, there is nothing to see).
"I said, I know!"

But then it turned to...
"What the fuck!?!"
"I will not take that, you fool"
"You better get the fuck away from me"

Uhhhh.

And as much as I joke about my ability to fit in with the mentally deranged, I know I am not, in fact, certifiable.

When I am around the kind of people I described above, I politely pretend that I have no idea that they are acting a fool.

Nope, just another day in the neighborhood here.

But what is so funny about crazy people is that they have no qualms staring at each other. It's like they have some special pact.
For instance, fartman was looking at butt-lady like she was crazy, and headphone lady was looking at fartman like he was crazy, etal.

Maybe none of them were looking at me because my silence and total lack of interesting quirks and/or outbursts seemed nutso to them.

Who knows?

All I know is I need to get me some of that fine, fine insurance.

That title serves two purposes.

First of all, I have the flu.
That's wack.

And my birthday's coming up.
That, in and of itself, doesn't piss me off.

I have never been one who is afraid of aging.

Hell, I was telling bouncers all over the clubs of Tampa that I was 21 when I was a mere sixteen.

And I started rounding up to thirty when I was 28.

The point is, and I have mentioned this before, that I tend to get sick around the holidays.

And last year on my birthday, there was no exception to the rule.
Happy Birthday to me!

I suppose it could be stress, or, ahem, pre-gaming, that lowers our immune system's ability to defend itself.

There have been multiple times I claimed to be sick just to get out of a party.
My dance card is chock full, folks! You can't all have a piece of this!

Point is, my excuses inevitably turn out to be self-fulfilling prophesies.

I am reminded of way back when....
I must have been seven or eight and I was staying at my dad and step-mom's house for the weekend.

I would never want to go home to my mom's on Monday because the pops had cable, CABLE!

This was big.
This was when MTV still played music...and it was good.

So in order to bow out of going back home to my mom's and back to my hellish elementary school existence, I feigned illness.

I was rolling around, claiming I was dying, the whole spiel.
And, folks...Even when I am ordering a coffee, I am dramatic.

This shit was Liza Minelli over the top.

And what happened next?

I came down with a hardcore case of the chicken pox within hours.

Turns out you shouldn't fuck with deceit.

All this talk about my youth brings me to the second reason for said title.

I just watched The Wackness.

Totally dope!
I doped it right there cause it is set in the mid-nineties and has an awesome soundtrack, relevant props (hello! prototype Nintendo) and straight-up,nostalgia-inducing references.

Seriously one of the best movies I have seen in a while.

Word.

That title has nothing to do with this blog, but I had an awful day and had to come home to smiley holly home-maker on my fucking t.v.

If I have said it once (and, yes, I know I have said it more than once), I need to get the heck
out of Rhode Island.

The day started out well enough.
I went to the Y, got my groove on via the elliptical machine...
went home, made a few phone calls.

My sister and my wonderful baby-angel nieces came over.

I got hungry and decided to hot-foot it over to my favorite sandwich place, Meeting St. Cafe.

I ran a few errands on the way while my cuisine was prepared.

I squeeze into the lot...and, Jesus H., guys, you know parking is do or die on Thayer...I avoid it at all costs.

But I needed me a Meeting St. Veggie, so I was prepared for hell.

Well, come hither, high water!

Some douchebag rammed my car while I was inside.
He totally T-boned it and took out my left side window.

Fucking-A!
My vehicle is my sole remaining source of commodity given the times.

I mean, when times get rough (and it has been mother-effin' rough lately) I can always look at my car and say, "Your blue book value is decent enough...Let's sell!"

Never no more, my friends.

My car has been haranguing me with it's absolute need for upkeep.
It seems all my major bills are somehow tied to Ms. Honda.

Fortunately (and I must give shout outs where shout outs are due) the owner of (my still fave sandwich shop) the Meeting St. Cafe offered to pay the damages.

Aaaah....the veggies taste that much sweeter.

So I am busy doing my best impression of traction up in my bedroom.

My back kills.
I am bored.
And I get two lousy stations (three on a clear day) on my artifact of a television.

So I turn the tube to "Superstars of Dance".

And the first group up is representing Ireland.
Oh Danny Boy! Am I excited!?!

I am Irish.
I don't have an accent or anything...no, I'm third generation.
But, close enough.

I love when I meet a fellow person of Irish descent...
It's like kismet.
We are all about our Irish-ness.

Then I watch the "Superstars of Dance" and realize that the Irish manage to turn everything so, well, gay.

It's airing live now, so I can't provide a clip.

But in it's absence, let me offer you this proof...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HW3fhWegNuw&feature=related

*UPDATE* Ireland won.
My bid was on the monks of the Shaolin Temple...cue the Wu Tang...those guys were on fire!

The results are evidence that lame has gone global.

Go raibh maith agaibh!

So I promised I'd kick this blog off on the good foot at the dawn of 09'.

My bad.
My foot seems okay, my back not so much, and my computer....

AAAARGH!

I had to give my thinkin' machine up to the Mac gods to resurrect,once again, for, who knows, what particular ailment. NOT ME!

I am of decent intelligence and yet every time I bring the thing into Apple and get told the diagnostics, all my ears hear is Charlie Brown's teacher talking.

"Whah, Whah, Whah, Whah", What the fuck?

And I feel stupid because I am a slave to this machine.
But I was born well before the advent of the internet.

So all these "geniuses" half my age know what they are talking about without regard to the fact that I was introduced much later in life to computin'.

Give me a break!

I hate it when I have to preface every question with, "Okay, this might sound dumb, but..."

Bratty know-it-alls'

I could school you in Trivial Pursuit so hard your whole being would ache.

But I got the thing back.

So we are on, bitches!

It's another year...aaaahhhh.

New Years blew pretty hard but it always does.
I mean I went out (and mad props, Sandrine and Al, for taking me along for the ride---you were stellar company) but all the events that seemed mildly intriguing were cancelled per the fact that we inhabit a windy, Nordic, frosty, snow globe.

That, and I got no kisses.
Or at least, I don't think I did???

It just seems that we always get our hopes up that our particular New Year's revelry and/or, it's total suckage, will be the acid test for the rest of the year.

And though I was lucky enough to have been accompanied by lovely peeps, we ended up being the only people who showed up to the party unaware that we were not,in fact, auditioning for the Mambo version of So You Think You Can Dance.

From now on, I think we should all celebrate New Year's on a more auspicious, less pressure-inducing, date.

I propose February First.

It's the first day of the month of love.
The shortest (yet only changeable month of the year).
It's the underdog to January First's all high and mighty, "we are number one" attitude.

February First is number one in the number two business...(and, yes, I know how that sounds)...

After all, It is the birthday of a very radical person I happen to know very well!