Um...What??

I Managed To Write This Despite The Fact I Have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder AND I DIED

This post took way longer to publish than I originally expected because I got completely hung up on my friend Lori's illo. I just went to dinner and the movies with her and yet I still couldn't remember if she currently had bangs or didn't have bangs because that's the kind of totally attentive friend I am: the kind who pays absolutely zero attention! So then I asked Maureen if Lori currently had bangs or didn't have bangs and guess what? Maureen had no idea either AND MAUREEN WORKS WITH HER FIVE DAYS A WEEK. Very helpful. Maureen. So then I went back and forth and back and forth and finally decided on some half-bang thing that would sort of work either way because this small detail was very, very important on account of the way it had absolutely nothing whatsoever at all to do with this post.

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This is my lovely friend, Lori:

Because I have only the best-looking friends! And Chris.

I recently ruined Lori's life went to the movies with Lori to see District 9. And by recently I mean two weeks ago and wow! Compared to how things normally go around this blog, that IS recent. I have totally focused my blogging chi!*

*Yeah, yeah. So it's really been three weeks now. Sue me. (You: Okay!!) You could win this blog in the settlement! (You: Oooh. Forget it.) That's exactly what I thought.

Lori and I try to catch dinner and a movie together semi-regularly because we like movies and we like dinner and we like each other and oh, hey! Friends are like flowers in the garden of life. Or whatever. ANYWAY. I chose the movie this time around, and I had several reasons for deciding on District 9: like how it was being touted as forever changing the face of science fiction and how Chris highly recommended it, telling me it was "great!" (OMG why did I use this as a reason?? TACTICAL ERROR FORESHADOWING) and how it had a very important and relevant social message which I assumed at the time as anyone would have was probably something like "YAY! Aliens are awesome!!" Or whatever. Because really: Who doesn't love aliens? Right??

Wrong.

WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG-ITY WRONG WRONG.

Listen: Before I go on, I know: District 9 is an exceptional movie with seamless visual effects and an inspired documentary shooting style and top-notch acting and a hauntingly delivered commentary on the darker instincts of human nature and SO WHAT NONE OF THIS IS ENOUGH TO TRUMP THE HORRIFIC, HUMAN-INFLICTED ALIEN BABY MURDERS AND AWFUL ALIEN TORTURE AND ABUSE AND RAMPANT XENOPHOBIA AND PEELING FINGERNAILS OFF ROTTING FLESH AND HAHA, who am I kidding?! The part where the main human character starts peeling off his fingernails from his rotting fingers was awesome! As a matter of fact, I can't think of a single movie in history that couldn't be made better by adding a fingernail peeling scene. Or Dwayne Johnson.

District 9's plot, in a nutshell, is this (Warning –– Spoiler Alert!): A big spaceship full of aliens gets marooned over earth blah blah no one knows why just go with it, then humans make first contact in sort of a Welcome-Wagon-meets-Home-Invasion-Robbery kind of a way and determine said aliens are low-life, bottom-dwelling "prawns" that must be imprisoned into a horrible, slum-like internment camp despite the fact they're already sick and suffering and need kindness and mercy and then something, something human-dude-who-looks-like-Hitler-this and something, something alien-father-guy-who-is-ugly-but-beautiful-that and then a whole bunch of other stuff happens who cares and then TA DA! It turns out it's the human race that's filled with the most miserable and vile bottom-dwelling creatures who ever lived THE DESPAIR-FILLED, GOD-AWFUL, SUICIDE-INDUCING END. Popcorn, anyone?

So. If I was a professional movie reviewer –– which I'm not although I think we all agree I totally could be –– I would give this movie two thumbs down  stuck up my butt because that's how uncomfortable I was JABBED VIOLENTLY AND REPEATEDLY INTO MY EYEBALLS UNTIL I'M RENDERED TOTALLY BLIND AND OH DEAR HOLY GAHHH WHAT I WOULD'VE GIVEN AT THE TIME TO BE RENDERED TOTALLY BLIND. Or dead.

OMG WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO WATCH THIS CRAP?! OH. OOPSIE!
(Heh. Butter Face. "Everything looks good but her fa...oh, never mind.)

I knew I was in serious trouble when a few minutes into the movie, a teeny-tiny, empathy-inducing alien boy appeared on the screen at the exact same moment my brain chose to register the fact that Chris loved this movie and all of Chris's favorite movies are the ones where everybody totally and completely dies. Gahhhh. I turned to Lori at this point and whispered something that began with some profanity followed closely by a very famous Han Solo/Luke Skywalker/Princess Leia/C-3PO quote. (Oh dear god why was I not at home watching my Star Wars DVD box set instead?? WELCOME TO MY BIG, FAT TACTICAL ERROR.) Now, what Lori said was that she also had a bad feeling about this. But the horrified look on her face told me what she really meant was "I rue the day I ever met you." Which seems pretty bad but was actually kind of awesome because do you even know how much longer it took her than most everyone else I know to arrive at this conclusion?!

 
OH, IF ONLY.

In the end it should be noted (and this would be a real spoiler alert except for the fact it's totally irrelevant just trust me since you should never, EVER see this movie) that none of the souls at the center of the story dies. This is good news when it comes to the father alien and his son who manage to escape the clutches of "humanity" –– both of whom you'll find yourself beyond emotionally invested in unless, of course, you have no heart and then oh, hey! This is the perfect movie for you and also? You're Chris. This news is disappointing, however, when it comes to the main human character, who –– I don't care how much redemption he finds in the last 37 seconds –– has done so many awful and sickening things leading up to that point (Hello One Man As Symbol For The History Of Humanity) that all I could think the entire time was DIE A$$HOLE. He did end up turning into an alien though (don't even ask) which, in my opinion, just adds further insult to injury because haven't the aliens suffered enough indignities already??

Anyway.

Speaking of suffering enough indignities, all I can say to my dear friend Lori –– who told me she was up until 4:00 in the morning after the movie because she couldn't turn off her brain FROM THE HORROR –– is I am so sorry. But it really wasn't my fault. Because if you think about it, besides being sort of the fault of all of the rest of humanity, it was mostly TOTALLY CHRIS'S FAULT. Which, if you think about it further, is pretty much the explanation for every other horrible thing that's ever happened around here. Like this post.

THE END.
And this explains the OTHER reason it took me so long to get this posted: I DIED.

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P.S.: THIS:

Just another example of why I spend so much time wondering why my blog doesn't have its own wing in The Louvre. BLOGGING AS FINE ART.

P.S.S. Also: For anyone who may have noticed that blog regular MC has been conspicuously absent as of late, don't worry: He's still around, he's just been temporarily banned from this blog due to a little thing I like to call punishment.

RUDE.

I'm not going to get into the details here (shunned me on Facebook) but suffice it to say (specifically shunned this blog on Facebook) I was extremely hurt (untagged himself in all blog-related illustrations posted on my Facebook page so other people wouldn't know of his involvement here) because I've never done one thing to warrant this kind of behavior (JERKTARD) except for accidentally being the kind of person people totally rue meeting. Something I cannot do anything about. Obviously. Which reminds me: I keep e-mailing the Facebook developers to suggest they change their motto to "FACEBOOK: No Good Can Ever Come Of It" but for whatever reason I can't get anyone answer me. No wonder they're only the second biggest site on the interwebs. No vision. ("Um...What??" is number one. I'm guessing.)

Anyway, no matter! Because my friend Chris, on the other hand, is totally proud of his involvement here.

Chris: Proof that there truly is no more hope for humanity.
IT'S JUST SAD.

Because For All I Know I Might Be A Mars Rover (Which Is Totally Possible Considering How Cute I Am) (AND YES IT TOOK ME LIKE EIGHT DAYS TO WRITE THIS CRAP – SO WHAT?!)

The NASA Space Program is very exciting! Just ask the Mars Spirit Rover: Thanks to the NASA Space Program, Spirit has spent five long, tedious years totally marooned on Mars.

If you do the math, that's more than EIGHTEEN HUNDRED days stuck on a mission that –– by the way –– was originally slated to last only 90 days. So Spirit has been there more than TWENTY TIMES longer than expected which, if you stop and think about it, means I have done two complicated math equations in one paragraph, or I am basically a NASA scientist now.

Spirit's mission –– as part of the overall NASA Mars Exploration Rover Mission –– has been to study the history of water on Mars. Well, of course. What else would you look for if you were on Mars?

"Um...What??": Wildly popular everywhere in the universe!*

(*excluding Earth)

But honestly? Ninety days? To study the water on a barren, desert planet that almost doesn't have any? Shouldn't that take like zero time at most? OH, WHAT DO I KNOW? I've only been a NASA scientist for a few minutes so far.

Unfortunately, the answer to the little rover's question was the same then as it is today: NO. Because Spirit still had a 90-day 1800-day totally long-a$$ mission to complete! (OH WHATEVER. EVEN NASA SCIENTISTS CAN ONLY COUNT SO HIGH.) So all these years later Spirit is still left wandering around on the Martian landscape which, according to abcnews.com is "a cold, hostile place, far away from home."

Huh. I hadn't really thought of it that way until now.

 

What's next, ABC News? Online videos of baby seals being bludgeoned?

At first I was all, I CANNOT FUNCTION I AM WAY TOO SAD and then I was all OH MY GOD HOW CUTE IS THE SPIRIT ROVER WAS HE DESIGNED BY DISNEY and then I was all FOCUS, LESLEY, REMEMBER THE SAD and then I was all WAIT A DAMN MINUTE because of the way I suddenly realized just how similar Spirit and I are, where similar equals I think I might be a part of the NASA rover program? And no one bothered to tell me? THAT IS TOTALLY MESSED UP. NASA.

And so was born this brief overview of Spirit's mission thus far, as compared and contrasted with my own personal effort to survive my current predicament, or Mission OMGWTF:

       

MISSION BEGINNINGS:

 

The Spirit Rover Mission:

 Officially began when Spirit first landed on Mars January 4th, 2004.

Mission OMGWTF:

Began on December 5th, 2005, back when The Porcupine first officially lost his mind. MORE THAN ELEVEN HUNDRED DAYS AGO. Is also taking place on barren, desolate, uninviting, freezing cold Mars. Apparently.

   

MAIN MISSION OBJECTIVES:

 

The Spirit Rover Mission:

To look for water on Mars –– which is, if you ask me AND I AM A SCIENTIST SO I TOTALLY KNOW THINGS –– another way of actually looking for proof of life on Mars. Its original goal to last at least three months in the hostile Mars environment has been replaced with its current goal to last as long as it possibly can.

Mission OMGWTF:

To look for proof of life, you know, pretty much anywhere. I don't usually have much luck, to be perfectly honest with you. Most days I'm fairly sure I'm wandering around out here all by my pathetic scientific self. My original goal to spend about two years helping The Porcupine through A Super Tough Time has been replaced by my new goal of trying to find the way out of this desert wasteland we've somehow landed ourselves in BEFORE EVERYBODY ENDS UP TOTALLY DEAD. You know. As opposed to the current way we're only kind of dead.

Also: Notice how there's a empty line of space above "To look for proof of life...?" This is called as hard as I try and try, I can't figure out how to override the damn auto-formatting that keeps randomly popping up here or science is obviously useless.

       

MISSION TEAM MEMBERS:

The Spirit Rover Mission:
     

    

     

       
Spirit has hundreds of people back here on earth supporting its mission on Mars including scientists and professors and drivers and navigation managers and robotic engineers and orbital engineers and even a Knowledge Engineer. (I am totally one of these myself.) (Like I even have to explain this.)

Mission OMGWTF:
    I've got people supporting me too, you know –– helping me do things like navigating around tough terrain, cleaning off some of the sh*t dust that lands on me on a daily basis and prompting me to perform various diagnostic tests on my many systems, such as when Chris says things to me like, "What the hell is WRONG with you??" Oh! I'm not sure...let me check! Just because I'm sometimes 100% certain I'm totally alone, doesn't mean I actually am. I guess. Or so people tell me. I don't really know for sure though. OH WHATEVER.

Me: "If you love me you will all put on these glasses."
Team OMGWTF:  [Collective blank staring.]
Me: "But I've seen scientists wear these. SCIENTISTS."
Team OMGWTF:  [More collective blank staring.]
Me: "OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I HAVE NO IDEA BUT JUST PUT THE DAMN THINGS ON."
        
     

MISSION CHALLENGES SO FAR:

The Spirit Rover Mission:

Poor little Spirit has had nothing but trouble throughout its mission, where nothing but trouble equals "HEY I THOUGHT I WAS DESIGNED BY WORLD-RENOWNED SCIENTISTS AND NOT MRS. POOLE'S THIRD GRADE CLASS??" There have been the problems with the unrelenting dust storms that no decent rover has ever been expected to endure. (Spirit is solar powered and just like paper covers rock, MARTIAN DUST COVERS SOLAR PANELS.) Then there's the broken right front wheel that stopped working entirely on day #779 of the mission and has forced Spirit to navigate backwards ever since, essentially dragging its bum limb behind it. And there have been several computer glitches, including the most severe instance yet where just over a week ago Spirit abruptly and spectacularly lost its mind. In people-speak? Spirit suddenly had no idea where it was, and no memory of what it had been doing. Have I mentioned lately that this was while it was all alone? In a cold, hostile place, far away from home??
      

   
But Spirit –– the little rover that could –– has since regained its faculties and after a series of successful diagnostic tests is once again moving around normally, where normally equals "OHMYGOD I AM SO LONELY CAN I PLEASE COME HOME NOW HAAAALLLLLLP!!!???"
    

             

Mission OMGWTF:
Also fraught with difficulties and setbacks. My navigation controls are clearly broken as I all I seem to do is constantly go in circles until I'm just this side of vomiting. Also broken? EVERYTHING ELSE. My reserves are low (energy, endurance, resolve, vodka) and my outlook is even lower. Just like Spirit, I've also lost my mind, but that was somewhere back around day #568 and big fat deal: I've been functioning just fine without it ever since. Obviously, BECAUSE DID I MENTION I'M A NASA SCIENTIST NOW?!

Oh. And by the way? This:

BUT MOSTLY VODKA.

       

MISSION OUTLOOK:

The Spirit Rover Mission:
  

Because all of the smart, sciencey people follow NASA on Twitter.
      

Considering I just received the above tweet, I'd say things in the immediate future are looking up for Spirit. Long term is another story, however, since –– in case no one here has figured this out yet –– there's no way to get Spirit back home once it's done with its mission.

 

It's the elephant in the living room nobody really talks about: Spirit has been sent on a one-way trip to (you know what's coming, right??) a cold, hostile place, far away from home. In the end –– after all it's endured and after all the challenges it's risen above and after all of the pictures it's taken and data it's collected and work that it's done for all of us –– it will be left to slowly shut down and eventually disintegrate into the Martian landscape.

 

Actually, I may not completely understand the details of the mission's end since I can't find them spelled out anywhere. Not to mention I have no idea if shut-down robots left on Mars actually disintegrate. As disintegration is not my scientific specialty and whatnot. But you know I'm right because have you ever heard of even ONE Robot Rescue Mission anywhere? And I would TOTALLY pay more taxes for that kind of thing because, you know, SAD. And even if I'm wrong about all of this JUST NEVER MIND because that would only ruin this part of my post and I can do that kind of thing without anyone's help.

SEE???

Mission OMGWTF:

DOOMED. Duh.

Yeah. Just like Spirit, I was pretty much jettisoned to my current locale without any kind of plan to get me safely back out either. OOPSIE! But, you know, it seemed like a good idea at the time. OH OF COURSE IT DIDN'T.

Anyway. Against all odds –– because against all odds is WHAT I DO –– I'm not giving up. And besides: The whole landscape could change soon since President Obama is set to appoint a new head of NASA any day now. A few key names are being bandied about, but I think we all know who the obvious choice is here:

 

Because William Shatner was an admiral in Starfleet, people. I mean do I really have to explain this?

Help get Spirit and me safely home, Admiral William Shatner. You're our only hope.

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. Exciting!!

P.S.S. Yesterday when Mo and I were talking about this post (YES I SUBJECT HER TO THAT KIND OF CRAP ALL THE TIME), she said, "A dead porcupine belly-up with XX's in his eyes? On Mars? I know it all now. You don't have to finish." For those of you who wish I'd listened to her, TOO BAD I apologize.

This Is Not A Political Blog...But His Name Looks Like "Boner" So, You Know, What Do You People Want From Me??

Hey, Um What-ers! Are you all familiar with our House Minority Leader?:

No. Seriously. It's pronounced "Bayner."
And his first name is pronounced "Steve."
        

The above photo was taken during Mr. Boner's Bayner's Boehner's recent appearance on Meet The Press. And trust me when I say it was just as bad as it looks, where just as bad equals one hundred gagillion times worse and where one hundred gagillion times worse equals I had an aneurysm and died.

Mr. Boehner (pronounced "Stuffed Shirt With A Head") (Boner? Head? That's right.) was there to discuss President Obama's stimulus package. (Boner? Discussing Obama's package? OH LIKE I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO THOUGHT OF THIS.) And by discuss I mean he was there to say, "This package is no good" and "this is never, ever going to work at all" and "we should keep doing it the way we've always done it because that's the way we've always done it." The implication being –– obviously –– that the way we're doing it is working. Because although Mr. Boehner (pronounced "wah wah wah") is a United States Congressman, he actually doesn't LIVE in the United States. Or so it seems.)

 
Boehner: It's pronounced BONER.
    

By the way? This:

Famous Boners Throughout The Ages!:
  

Remember? Mike Seaver's friend? From Growing Pains?
       
Oh. I guess there was only one previously famous Boner? That seems like a waste. Might have to start calling Chris "Boner" in an attempt to remedy this.

Look. I am not a politician. Or an economist. Or a gold medal-winning Olympic figure skater. And can I tell you how much this last one sucks? I WAS ROBBED. Anyway. But I know our economy is in the crapper (case in point: my wallet only has a nickel and two pennies and a $986 Starbucks card in it) and that this stimulus package is designed to, you know, stimulate things. Do I really have to explain it?? Okay, fine: Obama's plan aims to invest in things like renewable energies and infrastructure to both create millions of jobs and address our country's sustainability problems, where sustainability problems equals I can't get to my mom's house because the world is out of gas for my car and three bridges are broke down in between her house and mine, which also means I guess I can't eat because hello? Who here doesn't already know Lesley can't cook for herself? The stimulus plan also includes tax breaks for both businesses and individuals as well as extensions of state benefits like Medicaid and unemployment. And in case you haven't noticed, I am VERY, VERY SMART where very, very smart equals I can't understand sh*t without CNN's Ali Velshi explaining it to me fifteen times.

Of course Mr. Boehner (pronounced "Boner-I-don't-even-know-her!") doesn't seem to like any of these things. He says the stimulus plan is too far reaching and will take way too long to implement. I don't pretend to understand any of this (HAHA! Of course I do! See previous paragraph), but I do know that yes –– chances are it's going to take a long, long, long time to do anything if all people do is sit around arguing every single fine point.

So, I say let's stop looking backward and, instead, let's try looking forward with some vision, shall we Mr. Boney McBonerpants Boehner? And then maybe your NEXT appearance on Meet The Press won't cause viewers everywhere to drop dead and die. Since dropping dead usually causes death. AND DON'T EXPECT ME TO EXPLAIN THIS TOO AS I AM NOT A DOCTOR THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

And in conclusion? This:
     

And this is only partly because of his package stimulus package OH NEVER MIND.

    
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P.S. My mom is totally proud of this post.
   
P.S.S. This isn't the real post previously scheduled for today, by the way. That one is about the space program and should be released very shortly. Or tomorrow. Or next week. Because, you know, again, WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME???
  
P.S.S.S. to MC: 
M.C. (after I mentioned this post):  That reminds me: What is a minority whip?
Me (thinking):  WTF does that have to do with anything I just said? Doesn't anyone ever listen to me? And what do I look like? Wikipedia?

FINE:

A minority whip is the second-ranking highest person in the minority party, whose main job is to ensure control of the formal decision-making process in a parliamentary legislature. Blah blah blah, boring. Whips are party enforcers who typically offer both inducements (like inducing labor?) (I have no idea) and punishments to party members. In modern times, most whips are concerned primarily with ensuring a desired attendance for an important vote. All of which would be made slightly more interesting by introducing the use of actual whips into the process. Or guns. I'm guessing.

This Post Has Slopestyle Snowboarding, A Poopy Diaper, Really Confusing Fashion and An Awesome Drinking Game I Played All By Myself

Welcome, everyone! Today at "Um...What??" we will be getting educational, with an introductory lesson on the sport of snowboarding –– slopestyle snowboarding, to be exact. And I am just the perfect person to teach you because I know absolutely nothing at all about it I am totally an expert!

I recently discovered how much I love slopestyle snowboarding when one night last week I unexpectedly found my television tuned in to the Winter Dew Tour.

Andy by I love slopestyle snowboarding, I mean:

HELLO! I love a man with a name I can't spell by myself.

The moment we met, I knew Torsteen Torstien Tore (OH WHATEVER) he was meant for me. Because his athletic skills were like nothing I'd ever seen before and involved being immune to gravity as well as spinning over and over without barfing on himself or other people. And let's face it: The qualities that come with being an elite athlete –– discipline, drive, passion, dedication, a traffic-stopping butt –– ARE HOT. I also knew we were meant to be because of the way he was totally adorable.

Plus? Do you know what else is totally adorable? The fact that Torrstine (sp?) was born in 1987. The year I graduated from high school.

Awesome.

       

Also awesome? THIS:

Toarstein (sp??), sometime last year.

SO WHAT?! Age is just a number blah, blah, plus I don't look a day over 25!!! As far as you know.

Anyway. The original Dew Tour (sponsored by Mountain Dew or maybe invented by the makers of Mountain Dew or –– no! ––I think the Mountain Dew people actually invented snowboarding or something? OH, I DON'T KNOW) debuted in June 2005 and included only non-snow related action sports like BMX and skateboarding and motocross. Then something something this and then blah blah blah another thing that and then something else yadda yadda (nobody really knows for sure) and then ta-da! This year's inaugural winter version of the Dew Tour was born! One hundred gagillion years after I graduated from high school.

The particular Winter Dew Tour event I happened to watch was called the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event. I'm guessing it was called this because the competitors were men. With snowboards. And there was this gigantic snow-covered slope they kept going down. All while dressed in the style of people working in a very, very cold forensics lab:

Oh! And speaking of style:

 

Really, Tourstiin? (sp?)

And as an FYI:

I didn't watch the Superpipe event, however. Because at the time I didn't know anything about it. Because at the time I didn't even know anything about the event I WAS watching. Because I was born tenteen bazillion years ago when they didn't even HAVE snowboards. Or electricity. Or upright walking.

In the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event, –– which involves a form of snowboarding known as freestyle –– Toarstyne (sp?) and a bunch of other people I don't care about the other competitors went up against each other on two separate runs down the slope, which is also called the course. Although, it's possible it was nine runs or maybe five or OH WHO KNOWS. Because let's be honest: It's way easy to lose count when you're taking a shot of Disaronno every time one of the on-screen announcers yells, "BIG AIR!!"

During a slopestyle run, there is no clock and snowboarders are awarded points for style and difficulty while performing a wide variety of tricks on their way down the course –– moving around, over, across or down various terrain features like boxes, rails, jumps and jibs. These tricks include things like a switch backside 1260 and a boardslide 270 out and a nose/front board combo and a cab 900 and a 50-50 to backside rodeo 5 off the canon and a cab 270 to frontside boardslide and a switch backside 900 and a frontside 1080 stalefish. See?? This paragraph, by the way, is called totally clearing up all the details for you or you are welcome.

This is one of the previously mentioned tricks. Luckily, it's totally obvious which one, so I don't have to waste my time or yours explaining it.

And now, more slope style!:

 

Why, Torrstynne? (sp?)

Toerstiene (sp?), who is from Norway which means he is Norwayian, or –– more accurately –– a Viking, really only had one true competitor in the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event, the reportedly very popular, crazy-talented (OH, I DOUBT IT) and far, far less adorable snowboarder, Shaun White. Shaun was actually favored to win this event, but that's mostly because he's basically favored to win every single snowboarding event, even the ones he doesn't enter.

Nevermind Shaun White. ALL TORSTEIN (!!) ALL THE TIME!

In what were described as near-perfect runs –– not by me, of course, since I had NO idea at the time WTF was going on EXCEPT THAT IT WAS AWESOME –– Torstein (SP!!) threw big (snow) balls in the face of his no-competition competition by doing things like this:

  

And also this:

 

Plus some of this:

HOW CAN SOMETHING SO COLD BE SO HOT??

And by combining these moves with, you know, even more moves, and then combining these combined moves with an equally amazing move known as adorability, rising mega-pro Torstein took first place in the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event and won the much-coveted Dew Cup! One hundred bazillion trillion years after I graduated from high school. Congratulations, Torstein!!

I don't even get it.

(I have a PhD in Photoshop. As if I even need to point this out.)

      

 

Torstein's Dew Tour victory ceremony! Oh, honestly. It could be anybody under there.

And this winning moment brings us to the conclusion of today's informative and entertaining post on slopestyle snowboarding. I think we can all agree that we've learned the most important basics of the sport, which are Torstein Horgmo IS slopestyle snowboarding and I am old.

And on that note, this also brings us, sadly, to the end of mine and Torstein's love affair. Alas, I just don't think it's going to work out between us, on account of how I just found this...which is sliiiiightly more slope style than I can handle in my advanced years:

Torstein Horgmo: Norway's answer to Flavor Flav??

Somebody pass me the Mountain Dew. And please put a lot of vodka in it.

Don't worry, Torstein. At least we'll always have the Winter Dew Tour Men's Slopestyle Snowboard Event:

Lesley and Torstein: True Love Forever For A Few Minutes.

STOP CRYING, TORSTEIN.

THE END

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P.S. The amount of research I did for this post is amazing! This blog has reached a new level of greatness, where greatness equals oh my god no one is even reading this far down anymore.

P.S.S. Take a minute and a half out of your life and watch this before you go, because the snowboarding shots I included above don't come close to doing the sport justice:

And if you don't find this at least a little awe-inspiring, well then you haven't actually hit the play button yet. Or you are slightly dead inside. But don't worry: We like that kind of thing around here. (We even have shirts for it!)

P.S.S.S. HOLY FREAKING CRAP that is HOT. Nevermind –– we're back on, Torstein! I'll just have to adapt:

Because I am totally like a chameleon. Only with a better hat.

2008: The Year In Photos (None of Which I Took Myself, Of Course, Because What Do I Look Like? A Photojournalist?) (I HAVE NO IDEA, ACTUALLY)

Welcome, "Um...What??" readers, to 2008: The Year THAT SUCKED THE BIGGEST A$$ EVER In Review! Before looking ahead toward whatever may come (ohdeargod), I thought I'd take one final look back at everything that was during this past year at "Um...What??" headquarters. Because hindsight is 20/20. And those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it. Of course neither of these things has anything to do with anything except for reminding you that I am very, very smart, where smart = I know how to look up famous sayings on Wikipedia. And also? If there's one thing I am, it's doomed.

Let us begin:

Youthful optimism! The world is my oyster! Anything is possible! Exciting, exciting, exciting!

      

Believe me when I tell you: It's way less interesting than it actually looks.

     

      

           

FYI: Warning signs are for amateurs people who actually read warning signs:

     

         

      

@#$%@#$%@#$%@#$%#$%!!!!!

      

      

 

     

   

I try to blog more often for you people. I swear, I do. But then, you know...this happens. And anyway – what do you all want from me? I'm tired. (See: January - October.)

And by the way, iStockphoto.com, when I query "run down" I do NOT want to see pictures of actual, real roadkill because WHO THE HELL WOULD WANT TO SEE PICTURES OF ACTUAL, REAL ROADKILL? Well, "Um...What??" readers, that's who, because they love dead animals. I'm not including any here though. Because that would be a downer and this post is nothing if not eternally uplifting. Or something. Whatever. Who cares. (NOBODY.)

            

     

But don't misunderstand me: I don't want any of you to lose heart! I know I'm not going to. Because I can already tell 2009 is shaping up to be that super-special kind of year where everything changes! You know –– the kind of year where everyone dies:

       

And with that, I leave you all with this one, final thought to close out 2008: Just remember anything that doesn't kill you only makes you really, really wish it did.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Happy Various Holidays, Um What-ers! Let's Celebrate With Pepper Spray, Bank-Approved Auto Theft And A Black Lace Tutu!

Today's post is dedicated to loyal (and suh-mokin' hot) "Um...What??" reader Lisa, whom I inadvertently neglected to mention in a previous post when I called out some of my favorite blogs. This is in NO WAY a reflection of Lisa's site and is instead completely reflective of the dullness of my brain. Sometimes I forget about my own site because I am busy trying to remember things like where I put the cat and also The Alamo. This one's for you, Lisa!

* * * * * * * * *

While innocently minding my own business last week something very, very deeply disturbing happened to me.

Specifically, I accidentally watched this. For three and a half hours:

 
I'm going to tell you anyway. This is called I Have A PhD In Blogging.

For those of you who are unaware (oh dear God, please tell me it's all of you) Operation Repo is a reality television program currently airing on TruTV. TruTv used to be Court TV. But, apparently, when you abruptly change half of your previously quality programming to stupid-a$$ sh*t like Speeders and Hot Pursuit and The World's Wildest Vacation Videos you also have to change the name of your network to include a misspelled word because incorrect spelling equals yore your you're stupid and so are your shows.

By the way. Did I mention this?:

Seemingly, anybody can now get a show. Hello? I WANT A SHOW.

In a nutshell, the premise of Operation Repo(hno) is that basically Southern California is filled with deadbeats who like to "have" new cars but don't like to "pay" for them, so these deadbeats need to have their cars taken away from them by people who look like even bigger deadbeats.

Enter the cast of Operation Repo(hdeargod), whose motto is "It Ain't No Joke If You Don't Pay The Note!" And trust me –– it isn't:
    

"Peek-a-boo! I'll repo you!" (This would be my motto.)
Although I'm not sure sure I look the required "deadbeat", but I do look "hot" which, obviously, is close enough. Come to think of it, why didn't anyone ask me to be a part of the Hot Blogger Calendar? Jerks. Maybe it's not too late for me to get into the Hot Repo-er Calendar? I'm assuming they have one because, well, the above picture? Sonia? Matt? Do I really have to explain it?

As far as I understand it –– and believe me, it's hard to understand much of anything when you're on sensory overload to the point you're just this side of having a moderate to severe stroke –– Lou is the father of Lyndah as well as the big brother of Froy. Froy –– who I'm guessing is named after some Middle Earth-y thing (A hobbit? A hobo?) –– either is currently or used to be married to Sonia. (What's next? THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE??) I don't really know how the hell Matt fits in, though. Some kinda repo freeloader or something. And they all do repo-y things together and live Happily Ever After! Or something. Seriously: I could be making up half of this crap for all I know. There were a lot of distractions going on. Like this one:
   

 

   And also this one:

 

Also, at one point I got seriously distracted thinking about this:

Sonia: Operation Repo(MG WTF)'s answer to Beth Chapman!
Honestly? I probably lost 20 minutes of my life all caught up in this line of thought. My days are very, very full and eventful. So in case you ever wonder why it sometimes takes a week or so for me to get up a new post, first of all, what is wrong with you people? Don't you have something more important to spend your time thinking about (??) and second of all I AM VERY BUSY. Obviously.

And now, Everything I Need To Know About Repo-ing, I learned from Operation Repo(hmahgah) and will now pass along to you:

1. The first rule of repo-ing is that to be a successful repo agent, you need to make sure you have the correct tools at your disposal: a reposession order (I'm pretty sure this is the least important part paperwork blah blah boring), a tow truck BEEP BEEP, pepper spray (more on this in a minute) and a tutu.

That's right. A tutu. It's the uniform of choice of all the most successful repo peopo. HAHA! See what I did there? Maybe I can have a show where I just do a whole bunch of rhyming and whatnot?? OH NEVER MIND. Back to this:

Trust me: If you could hear what was going on in this moment, YOU'D HAVE YOUR TV ON MUTE TOO. And yes. I actually recorded this. So I could recreate it here for you. This type of thing is called I Give And Give And Give To You People Until I Bleed.

And in case you think I'm taking creative license and the above is just Sonia stopping to do a repo on her way to a Costume Gala, IT'S NOT. Because look! Here is Sonia doing a whole DIFFERENT repo:

Because seriously? The language involved in this profession embarrasses even me, and I don't know how to say ANYTHING without using the F word at least five times. (HI MOM!) And another thing: If you're gonna repossess my car wearing this kind of getup –– fine. But you'd better perform some damn Swan Lake for me before you take my wheels because I Brake For The Arts.

2. The second important rule here is that when repo-ing, you should keep in mind the fact that for whatever reason people tend to get slightly annoyed when you try to take their cars away from them, where slightly annoyed equals they point guns at you and attempt to beat you over the head with baseball bats. (Big deal. This is exactly what happens to me every time I go into Chris's office and try to get him to look at the page bags that died on his desk hours earlier.) This is why, to be safe, you have to make sure you bring with you the pepper spray I mentioned earlier, because everybody knows that pepper spray totally beats both bullets and baseball bats and also? Paper covers rock. And of all the crazy, psychopathic, loan-defaulting deadbeats, never forget that women are the most totally insane of all and by that I mean you do not even want to know what I mean. I'm going to tell you anyway though, because I honestly cannot be expected to be the only one with the misfortune of knowing this crap.

The very first episode I saw is the perfect example of this: Matt, Froy and Sonia show up at some chick's house to repo the car she hasn't made payments on in months. Or ever. Or whatever. I'm kinda unclear on that part as I was too busy being hypnotized by Sonia's eyebrows.

 
LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BE EQUALLY SPELLBOUND.

Anyway, they all run up her driveway and start hurriedly hooking up her car to the tow truck wheel lift. (Or, you know, whatever the big hook part is called. Who knows! I found this term on line when I Googled "parts of a tow truck" because –– as it turns out –– I don't really know that much about tow trucks except for the fact that they "tow" things and they're also "trucks.") (Oh! And most of them are made by Tonka.) (Wait...right?) So the repo-ee chick catches wind of what's going on and comes running out of the house –– all 95 pounds of her –– SCREAMING HOLY HELL BLOODY MURDER and gyrating and wailing and flailing and cursing and sobbing really desperately (okay, this one was me) and slapping and kicking at anyone who tries to come near her or her car. And then suddenly she's SCREAMING HOLY HELL BLOODY MURDER while gyrating and wailing and flailing and cursing and slapping and kicking and throwing herself dramatically and messily all over the hood of her car.

At first I was all, holy crap this b*tch is batsh*t crazy, but then I was all, wow, that's actually kinda sexy in a Tawny Kitaen/Whitesnake video kind of way and then I was all OMG, WTF IS WRONG WITH ME (???) and THEN –– and even Stephen King couldn't make up this kind of horror –– she pulls out a Taser gun from even God doesn't want to know where on her person and tries to zap the hell out of Matt (which you know probably isn't a bad idea regardless), forcing Sonia to finally put a much-needed end to all of the girl's insanity not by pepper spraying her but instead BY SITTING ON HER. HARD. And at that point the room started spinning and I think I blacked out for a minute.

Oh, and by the way? Did I mention the car at the center of this repo was a 1994 Honda Civic? First of all...SERIOUSLY? Second of all, who the hell can't afford to make the payments on a 14-year-old car loan? Someone who spends all their money keeping up with the latest in stun gun technology, that's who.

3. And all of this brings us to the last important rule of repo-ing: If you've done one repo, you've pretty much done them all. You're never just going to drive up, take the car and go. And if I'm wrong about this, NEVER MIND because boring repos result in everyone being really bored and nobody wants that. It's boring. Instead, there's always going to be BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP-ING and BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMING and VERY EXCITING VIOLENCE-ING. Quick! Gather the kiddies around! OH! And there's also going to be a whole lot of "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM??"-ing, because seriously? At least three people asked this question during various repos I watched. What is this? Some kinda repo trivia game? Ooh, ooh! I think I know who you are!! A deadbeat. I do, however, need to give honorable mention to the below woman for elevating herself to a level above the every day deadbeat crowd when, in an attempt to keep the members of Operation Dumbo Drop Repo from taking her car, she made the uber-defensive, Ninja-style move of pulling out her own pepper spray and promptly pepper spraying herself:

 
To be more precise, she actually pepper sprayed both herself AND her husband which means, for those of you keeping score, that she managed to attack everyone on the scene except for every single member of Operation Repo(bi-wan Kenobi). Which –– not that I need to explain it –– is awesome. This is pretty much just like the time I tried to take a picture of the sunset but accidentally had the camera backwards and ended up taking a picture of my own eyeball instead. You know, except for the fact that I didn't need medical attention afterward.

And then, like any decent person would after experiencing more than three hours of this crap, I had an aneurysm and died. The End.

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. Sorry I couldn't find any screen shots of Crazy-A$$ Repo-ed Chick laying around all over her car. I hadn't thought to record the show yet, and then I couldn't find anything on line. (I KNOW, right??? Why even HAVE an internet?)

P.S.S. to Lisa: Sorry the post I dedicated to you turned out to be, you know, this one. You deserve so much better.  So did Jesus though, and look at what happened there.

P.S.S.S. to Maureen, who earlier today gave me certain amounts of lip for taking so long to post here. More specifically, she called me CHRIS which, as anyone who's spent any amount of time around here knows by now, is the ultimate of insults: I mean honestly, woman. That is fairly rude. You KNOW how much extensive research (none) goes into each and every post I, you know, post and how much time (none) goes into that kind of in-depth research. I forgive you, though, being that you're my best friend in all the world. Okay, a little bit for that but more so because you gave me an autographed Kathy Griffin t-shirt. SCORE!

P.S.S.S.S.:  Speaking of Chris, Happy Boxing Day, dude! In celebration of that? This:

 
See, Maureen? It's called RESEARCH and it takes TIME.

P.S.S.S.S.S.:  I wrote all of these P.S.'s before I died. Obviously.

This Post Has Door Slamming AND The Slammer! (It Also Uses the Word "Dipsh*t" Twelve Times)

This is a door:

"Um...What??" management -- that's who!

But it's not just any door. This particular door belongs to my new neighbor who just recently moved in across the hall from me. Or does it?? This is called The Setup or trying to get someone (ANYONE) not to immediately click off after waiting more than a week for a post from me and then logging on only to find a picture of a door. By the way? Here's another one:

 
This is totally true! You know, unless you count the home of The Bloggess or The Daily Snark or XUP or Wil Wheaton or Bossy or Reflecting or Maggie or Ryan (HI RYAN!) or Waltz or Lisa or Issa or any other blog on the web. Except Chris's blog, of course. BEING THAT IT'S DEAD.  Chris does have a nice Facebook page, though:

 
At least I'm assuming it's nice. I can't actually see it myself since I'm not a member of Facebook because Facebook is for people who actually do things like doing things, after which they brag about them online to people they know. Because Facebook is also for people who actually know other people. I know my cat, but that's called CATSTER and anyway I'm getting totally sidetracked at this point.

As far as I can tell, my neighbor moved in across from me about two weeks ago. At least that was when the new and festive doormat appeared. It was striped and colorful and kind of reminded me of the circus which made me think of clowns and how it would be kind of awesome to be neighbors with a clown, except for that whole part about how clowns are completely creepy. Not to mention the fact I've worried on occasion –– usually any occasion I happen to be watching Poltergeist –– that my death might end up being directly or indirectly caused by a clown. Which would be pretty embarrassing if you think about it. Way more embarrassing than, say, getting killed by a Samurai which would at least have some kind of dignity due to the fact he would have a gigantic sword. And I don't really know for sure, but I think a Samurai is a more polite version of a Ninja, and that's nice. Because if you're going to kill me, the least you can do is try to be polite about it.

Okay, honestly: Why are we on this topic? Enough about my death (You: Nooo! We love this topic!) and back to the subject of my new neighbor. Appearing next to his doormat on that first day was a cheery stone sculpture of a rabbit, which doesn't really have anything to do with anything except for how I know you guys like dead animals and whatnot and this is the closest I can come to including one in this post.

Anyway, you'd think a festive doormat and a cheery stone bunny would add up to a nice new neighbor, wouldn't you? WELL IT DIDN'T. Instead, it added up to this, where 1 + 1 = IS IT 2 LATE FOR ME TO JUST GO AHEAD AND OFF MYSELF?:

 
Meet! My! Neighbor!
"Won't you be, won't you be, won't you be...MY NEIGHBOR?!"
OH MY GOOD GOD. NO.

Also, it turns out I just found out this guy's real name. More on how I discovered this further down in the post. This is called Dramatic Suspense or THE SIX PEOPLE STILL READING THIS DO NOT CARE.

I'm not sure what issue my apartment complex has when it comes to doors, but our individual apartment doors slam just as hard as the one to our gym does. If you don't hold onto your doorknob to help guide your door closed -- and forget ever having your door stand open on its own -- you're going to knock pictures off your own walls. And this is not even a slight exaggeration since I am not exaggerating even in the slightest. All you have to do is accidentally let your door fly just once and you're not only going to realize that what results is way too loud and way too violent for civilized living, but you're also probably going to need some kind of resuscitation from your self-inflicted heart attack, but none of your neighbors are going to give this to you because you just slammed your door and, well, DIE, DOOR SLAMMER! (You'll also need a new picture frame for the picture of Moses the Cat you had hanging in your entryway that is now in two pieces on your floor.) And so for these reasons and also because you don't hate your neighbors, you're going to be careful when you close your door. Because you live in an apartment community where community equals a social group where each of you shares a certain locality with the others but you don't want to actually talk to or interact with anyone else but still want to know that someone will care enough to call the authorities should they smell something dead coming from your apartment, especially if no one has seen you go in or out of it for days.

But these rules of community do not apply if you're The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy! Because if you're The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy YOU WILL JUST KEEP SLAMMING YOUR DOOR. OVER AND OVER AND OVER. LIKE A DIPSH*T. Because, well, who cares? Because Dipsh*t Guy has nerves of steel -- you don't even know the half of it yet (this is called Foreshadowing or THE FOUR PEOPLE STILL READING THIS DO NOT CARE) -- and because Dipsh*t Guy should also have a totally different doormat -- like one with the phrase "I'm A Dipsh*t Guy" written on it. Or perhaps the slightly less poetic but equally appropriate phrase, "SCREW YOU."

Because it's one thing to slam your door every time you go in or out of your apartment. It's another thing entirely to slam your door every time you go in or out of your apartment when you have periods where you go in and out of your apartment an average of 20 times in an hour. At all hours including many times before seven in the morning and other times after midnight. Sometimes I'd have absolutely no idea what he was doing because I couldn't see where he'd go. Other times I'd have even LESS of an idea what he was doing because I could see him, and my brain simply couldn't process the information. Like, for example, when everything came to a head during last weekend's Beach Chair Incident.

(No, not this weekend that just passed. The weekend before that. Thanksgiving weekend. Because "Um...What??" is that busy. YEAH RIGHT. No one is busy here. This blog just SUCKS and it's THE BEST WE CAN DO and we consider it a miracle when we can even FIND the publish button. Or our pants.)

Anyway. The beach chair. Last Saturday afternoon, The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy slammed his door no less than 13 times in a half hour period. That's right. I took notes because I wanted to tell you all about it here because I knew you totally wouldn't care. Basically, he was moving a beach chair around. And moving his vehicles around. And did I mention he was moving a beach chair around?:

Exit apartment.

SLAM!   (This is when I ran to the peephole and then ran to my front windows and then back to the peephole and I am a VERY, VERY busy person, by the way. That time before when I said I wasn't was just creative license.)

Go downstairs. Retrieve beach chair from back of truck and bring it upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!

Go immediately back outside, still carrying beach chair.

SLAM!

Go downstairs. Put beach chair back into truck.

Go back upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!

Go back downstairs, maybe 30 seconds later at most. Retrieve beach chair from truck again, this time stuff it into back seat of BMW. Stare at handiwork for a moment, then go back upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!

Immediately open apartment door again, glance around hallway for a bit, then go back inside.

SLAM!

(Seriously. WTF?)

Wait a couple minutes, then emerge from apartment to go back downstairs again.

SLAM!

Take beach chair out of BMW (I AM NOT KIDDING) and (do I even need to tell you??) put it back into truck.

Pull truck out of parking space and move it into visitor parking. Then move BMW into space truck was in. Even though BMW already in a legal, assigned space. TAKE BEACH CHAIR OUT OF TRUCK AND BRING IT BACK UPSTAIRS INTO APARTMENT.

SLAM!

BOOM-BOOM!!!  Okay. This part actually had nothing to do with neighbor guy and everything to do with the sonic booms created by the space shuttle reentry. Only I forgot about the space shuttle reentry -- despite the fact I'd just been watching NASA TV online –– because I became momentarily distracted running around between my windows and the peephole. And since I was now certain that the booms I heard were the result of an explosion because suspicious neighbor had just BLOWN UP HIS PART OF THE BUILDING, I had a slight heart attack followed by the urgent need to breathe into a paper bag only I didn't have a paper bag because who makes brown bag lunches anymore and what else would I use a bag like that for? Oh. RIGHT. But then Wil Wheaton sent this tweet and I realized I didn't need a paper bag or a defibrillator:

Seriously: 70% of what I know is from Wikipedia, the other 30% is from Wil Wheaton. NOT REALLY!
85% is from Wil. Duh.

Until:

SLAM!

Stand out in hallway and look thoroughly concerned and perplexed. Obviously doesn't know what the sonic booms were. Clearly not enjoying LOUD, FRIGHTENING DOSE OF HIS OWN MEDICINE. Goes back into apartment.

SLAM!

Go back downstairs (NO BEACH CHAIR) and move truck into parking space where BMW was. So now (for those keeping track) both of his cars are back in his assigned spots...just reversed now. We are also at 10 slams. Get out of truck and stand and stare at it for a while. Go back upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!  (Now 11.)

At this point I have had enough and I am writing A NOTE. There's another slam (SLAM!) but I don't see what he's doing because I am busy writing A NOTE that includes the word "PLEASE" 13 times (counting the extra one in parenthesis for effect) as in "PLEASE x 13 STOP SLAMMING YOUR DOOR." And the fact that the number of times I wrote "PLEASE" and the number of times he slammed his door ended up the same is either a total coincidence or it is foreshadowing of the evil that is to come because 13 is an evil number, right one whole person who is still reading here (or: Maureen)?
 
So while he was outside doing whatever, I ran across the hall and shoved the note in his door jam. Then I ran back inside as fast as I could because I'm not an idiot (well, I mean except when it comes to blogging) and I'm fairly certain this guy is BATSH*T CRAZY. He eventually comes back up the stairs, pauses to read my note, crumples it up and goes back into his apartment.

SLAM EXTRA SUPER-HARD WITH FEELING!

By the way: When he came back up he was holding THE BEACH CHAIR. No one could make up this crap. Which means he went down with it. Again. And then immediately brought it back up. Again. And I have NO IDEA what is going on. Again. And oh yeah: JERK! Deliberately slamming his door after one of his neighbors sarcastically politely asked him if he he could maybe please (x 13) stop?

So, I did the only thing left to do: I e-mailed the apartment manager to complain. And by Monday night when I got home, there was a note on each of the doors in my building talking about "increasing complaints of door-slamming" and citing various 1.23 blah blah codes in our lease about "noise regulations." Because where I live? They take your crap seriously. That...or the fact that the one person who actually shares a wall with Dipsh*t Guy and, therefore, might be the one guy more annoyed than me is the apartment manager. HAHA, World's Dumbest Dipsh*t!

The letter stated that if the door slamming didn't cease and desist immediately management could and would evict the offender(s). First off, this is the kind of balls-to-the-wall management style I can totally get behind. "PAY YOUR RENT ON TIME OR WE'LL BURN YOUR SH*T DOWN." Second off, they were NOT kidding because shortly thereafter the police showed up, slapped the cuffs on The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy and hauled his a$$ away! Because guess what??? It turns out that slamming your door repeatedly in the Santa Clarita Valley IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE.

HAHA! Of course it isn't. But running a multi-million dollar credit card scam out of your apartment is.

To be totally honest with you, I had no idea at all about the arrest at the time it was happening. Sure, I was in my apartment and sure there were like six cops milling around in the hallway outside my door (I found out later) and sure I could see the flashing cop car lights through my front window and didn't think anything of it. Because, apparently, unless door slamming is involved I cannot be bothered. For all I know there might have even been a shootout in the hallway (I'm not totally clear on this) but I do play my TV kind of loud and sometimes Moses The Cat can get all chatty and who the hell can hear the blaze of gunfire over the sound of the meow-meow? No one, that's who. And really? The only reason I know anything about this at all has nothing to do with either Wikipedia or Wil Wheaton this time and instead has everything to do with my friend Kathy who -- for the 14 plus years I've known her -- has had an uncanny ability to remember and put together the most random of details to observe things in the world most people miss.

This is what she did last week when, after I made a very passing mention of my door slamming dipsh*t of a neighbor and his two vehicles and his unhealthy obsession with his beach chair, she came across an article in her morning paper last week that instantly caught her eye. "Hey," she said to me. "Doesn't that guy have a truck and an older BMW? And didn't you say he still had a bunch of moving boxes stacked up inside his door?"

OH. MY. GOD. Yes and yes. And as it turns out? This guy was up to a lot more than slamming his door:

 

You do realize the irony of all of this, right? The door slammer? Going to the slammer???
 
Welcome, everyone who has hung with me this far (or: Maureen), to my neighbor's NEW door(s)!:

NO.

Innocent until proven guilty and blah blah blah GUILTY!!! All I know is three dudes showed up a couple days ago and hauled away all his stuff. Now the place is all locked up and I can't get in there to snoop around RUDE. And now I am left in blessed, slam-less silence to contemplate my two remaining burning questions:

1) What the hell happened to the beach chair? And 2) WHAT IF THE DUDES WHO LIVE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF ME ARE UP TO SOMETHING, TOO?? Oh, like I even care. The fact is they NEVER slam their door so I LOVE THEM.

 

Yes, This Post Actually Has The Jonas Brothers In It (I Should Probably Just Delete Entire Blog Now) (Also: HI MOM!)

Last week, two very important people celebrated their birthdays:

This guy:                                                      And this little cutie:
                                                   

The guy on left is Nick Jonas. (You: Who?? Me: Exactly.) He is, apparently, who all the teenage girls are swooning over these days. Which of course makes me wonder what the hell has happened to teenage girls over the past 20 years.

Because hello???

THIS is who we swooned over when I was a teenage girl!

 

 

Who, by the way, looks like this now and I THINK I NEED A MOMENT.

Oh! Sorry!

I'm getting way off track here from my original point.

There's something that never happens always happens every single post.

 

 

And the cute little short-stack on the right? That's my mom. (HI MOM!) Isn't she adorable? I picked that particular photo to post for a few reasons. Because it's always been one of my favorite pictures of her. Because even though she's just a little girl, her face is still so recognizable to me as the first face I knew in life. The first love I knew. The first memories I made. The place I grew my deepest roots. Home. I also picked it because she looks so happy just to be, and that's a feeling I always associate with her and one she always worked so hard to instill in me – something that remains the source of the resiliency and determination I have today. And, oh yeah: I also picked it because there's NO WAY she can call me later and tell me she doesn't like the picture because she thinks she looks too old in it. (HI MOM!)

So my mom's birthday was this past Friday, and Nick Jonas's was Tuesday. The only reason I know anything about Nick's birthday is because I accidentally came across this story. As if I even need to clarify the "accidentally" part because who would read that kind of thing on purpose? Anyway, this news story is basically the lone source of ALL of my knowledge about Nick Jonas, including the fact that he's one of three Jonas brothers when I thought there were only two – although when I took the time to think this is beyond me – and they seem to be very into layering their clothing. After they're done stealing it from Billy Joel and Prince Charles:

      

 

 

 

 

 

Hello?

So, Nick just turned 16 (Big deal! I did that once), and for that incredible accomplishment – and because he's some kind of a heartthrob* and he gets special heartthrob* treatment where treatment equals many, many, many families with young girls give him their money – Nick got to celebrate his birthday at Dodger Stadium.

*Um...no and no:

Hello??

This guy can have MY money.

You know, if I had any.

I'm not giving him any pants though. Because, well, DUH.

 

 

According to the news story, Nick and his brothers rented out Dodger Stadium for two and a half hours so they could play some baseball with their friends. Awwww. Baseball. With their friends. Isn't that cute?? NOT WHEN THOSE TWO AND A HALF HOURS COST $30,000, IT ISN'T. $30,000? For a 16-year-old's birthday party?

Look. I'm just as in favor of kids having fun birthday parties as the next guy. Yayyyyy kids!! (Honestly, I don't really care. I'm just trying to keep all the mommy bloggers from hating me.) But this story disturbs me on several levels, the most obvious being why do these marginally-talented kids have so much money while people like teachers and nurses struggle to make ends meet in today's economy? (Okay, I admit I've never heard their music and am just assuming about the marginally talented thing. So I could be totally wrong in that they could actually have no talent whatsoever.)

And where are their parents in all of this? Do they talk to them about the value of money? Do they remind them that most people would love to have an extra $30,000 so they could do things like buy that new mattress they need (ME) or finally replace their 10-year-old couch (ME) or pay off their credit card bill (ME) or just stop scrimping so much (ME). (ME, ME, ME, ME, MAKE THE CHECK OUT TO ME.) I mean honestly: $30,000 to rent out an entire stadium? And did I mention they also invited only 15 of their friends?? (Which all other things aside is pretty impressive as I certainly don't have 15 friends. Do I even know 15 people? God, I hope not.) That few people? In a gigantic stadium? For less than three hours? For $30,000??

Hey, twit Nick Jonas! If you just want to play some baseball, they have these really cool things all over the place called PARKS, and guess what? THEY'RE FREE. Butthead But if you insist on going the whole stadium route, maybe you could also do something a little more meaningful while you're at it? Like inviting a whole bunch of sick or needy kids in desperate need of some fun to come on out and throw the ball around, too? (CHARITY!) Or maybe have some kind of a contest where you let a bunch of your fans come out with you as there's room for tens of thousands of them anyway? (KINDA CHARITY?) Since, if we want to get technical, it's pretty much their money that funded your little b-ball, b-day shindig. Or maybe you could just, you know, WRITE A CHECK TO CHARITY INSTEAD? You do know we've had some hurricanes and whatnot...right? You don't, do you?

But what also bothers me about such a display is this: My mother did NOT have her birthday celebration at Dodger Stadium. My selfless, loving, amazing, beautiful-inside-and-out mother who has been a Dodgers fan for 49 years did not get such a gift. My mom lives and breathes Dodgers baseball. She bleeds blue. She knows all of the rules of the game of baseball. The stats. The history. The teams. The players. She gets depressed come the end of a season when there are so many months before spring training. My mom loves Dodger Stadium. I swear I think it might be her happiest place on earth. (Disneyland can suck it!) No one I know deserves a fancy, $30,000 Dodgers Baseball Birthday Party more than my lovely mom.

But did she get that? No. Why? Because she didn't have an extra 30 grand lying around, and neither did I. She and my dad poured all their money into taking care of their daughter for so many years. My mom always put herself last so I didn't have to want for things. She made sure I got a college education so I could graduate and someday go on to WRITE A BLOG LIKE THIS THAT DOESN'T PAY ME EVEN ONE CENT OF REVENUE. (HI MOM!!)

And how did I pay her back? By not becoming a pop singing sensation-slash-heartthrob, that's how. By not making anyone swoon over my Musical Stylings and Stage Presence and therefore not having an extra $30,000 lying around so I could gift my mom in the manner she deserves. Yes, I know: I could've become a doctor or investment banker or something too, but that has nothing to do with the theme of this post, now does it? Please try to follow along.

Mom? In short? I suck.

What I wouldn't give to be able to throw my mom a party at Dodgers stadium. And if I did, you can bet it would last longer than two and a half hours and would include ACTUAL DODGERS PLAYERS doing things like serving her drinks and rubbing her feet. Throughout my life she's fulfilled so many of the desires of my heart – what I wouldn't give to be able to just once return the favor in totally grand style. But I know that no matter what I do, I could never repay all the invaluable gifts she's given to me over the years: Security. A defined sense of self. Strength. Confidence. The belief that as a woman, I could do anything. The belief that as her daughter, I could do anything. The freedom to fail. The tools to succeed. At once, both roots and wings.

Sigh.

Damn you, Nick Jonas!

But my mom does have one thing going for her on her birthday that little Nicky Jonas doesn't: Her birthday - September 19th – is also National Speak Like A Pirate Day! Avast, mateys!! Walk the plank, Jonas Brothers. And in honor of THAT, I have made my mom THIS:

Here? She also looks young! But in addition? PIRATEY.

Mom?

You are welcome. And I love you. A lot.

And one more thing to the person who wrote that little article:  It's DODGER Stadium - not Dodgers Stadium. The team name has an "s" but the stadium name doesn't.

Hello?? It's called a fact checker.

You are welcome, too.

 

This Post Mentions Both My Butt And My Cat's Butt

Hey, lesleykim! Twitter called and they'd like their 140 characters back. But mostly they'd like you to close your account. And lose their website address. And – oh yeah! – stick this Fail Whale up your butt!:

(Seriously: Did you know you could get a Fail Whale on a t-shirt? ME NEITHER.)

 

The image at the tippy top of this post is my Twitter Tag Cloud. It shows – via the size of the corresponding text – what I tweet about the most. And as it turns out? I tweet about pretty much the same thing I blog about: Absolutely nothing that has any point. ("Hey there!" one whole reader left who hasn't already figured this out.)

I mean what does it say about me that my most tweeted word is maybe, followed closely by would, could and should? Well, besides saying I AM A WISHY WASHY TWEETER, it also says, Never mind that – when the hell did I ever tweet about a basement? I don't even HAVE a basement.

Random basements aside (and the obvious fact I clearly must direct tweet at Chris in annoying amounts – both Chris and haliscribbler appear on the next tier SORRY DUDE), my Twitter Tag Cloud seems less of a direct representation of what I tweet about and more of a general statement about my life as a whole. (And by statement I mean those things I never make with any kind of substance whatsoever and who gives a crap what I tweet and why haven't you all just unfollowed me by now??) These days my life is completely stalled at the intersection of Maybe meets Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda and no one is directing traffic and I THINK I'M DRIVING WITH A BLINDFOLD ON. (You know, where life = car and living = driving and OH WHATEVER.)

I feel just this side of futile a lot these days. Like all my steps ahead in fact just move me around in a circle and I keep ending up back where I started. Except not only do I still have no answers, now I also have more and more questions. Maybe The Porcupine and I will get there? Maybe we'll all be okay? Or at least maybe we won't die? Okay maybe we'll die but death will be painless? OH WHAT'S THE POINT WE'RE ALL TOTALLY DOOMED. And besides my attempt to look forward, I also do a fair amount of looking back: Oh if only one of us would have...(pointless) or maybe I should have...(useless) because then maybe today we could have...(fail!). OOH! Maybe I can have another Fail Whale for this? But maybe on a cool t-shirt this time instead of up my butt?

And on some days – as hard as I try to rally against it (because other people have real problems like hurricane-ravaged homes and not enough money to pay bills and plus? Nepal is outlawing nude disco dancing and WTF are people over there supposed to do?) – these maybes kind of get me down. Maybe someday this constant panicked feeling will leave me. Maybe someday I'll sleep again at night. Maybe someday The Porcupine will be a little more the man I used to know and a little less the ghost in front of me. Maybe someday soon I will be a little more "actual" happy and a little less "fake it 'til you make it" happy. (I've used this "fake it" mentality since getting it from my skating coach back when I was learning how to do a single axel jump, which is actually a revolution and a half, and yes this is absolutely as impressive as it sounds.*  My coach would say, "Fake it 'til you make it!" and so I would smile while falling down.)

* Okay: The following is an actual conversation between a five-year-old girl and a then 33-year-old me. The five-year-old is being referred to as "Five-Year-Old" only because I'm guessing calling her "Smart-Ass Bitch Face" is probably frowned upon by various mommy bloggers and parental organizations everywhere, all of which I am totally sure could give one sh*t about read this blog:

Five-Year-Old (after watching me work on my axel for a while): We're practicing the same jump!

Me:  I know! Isn't that kind of fun?!

Five-Year-Old:  Aren't you way too old for this?

Me: (Falls.)

And in case you're wondering what this has to do with anything I'm talking about, the answer is very little. HAHA! Please. Everyone knows the answer is nothing.

ANYWAY. On the days the maybes are kicking my ass – which has been a lot of my days as of late – I do the same thing to that little "What are you doing?" Twitter box that I do to my blog: I just stare at it. What am I doing? Um, what the hell am I ever doing? (AM I EVEN AWAKE RIGHT NOW? ANYONE?) I sit here in the weird state of suspended animation my life has become, watching all the lovely people I follow tweeting all these interesting and entertaining and witty and pithy things and I'm still sitting there puzzling over what exactly it is I might be doing besides breathing. What am I doing? Am I even doing anything? Well, I am trying to think of something to tweet so does that count? Being that my last two tweets were about my cable company and my cat's shaved butt, uh, NO.

And that's when Twitter can just freak me the hell out. In 140 characters or less I'm reminded of how much life is going on around me and how even though in my own way I'm doing the best I can to participate – I'm falling down a lot but I'm smiling, dammit – I still feel a bit outside of the ebb and flow most of the time these days. I'm not adrift – I have wonderful family and friends who moor me – but I am almost weightless. Long on maybes. Short on tangibles. At times feeling almost without substance.

Clearly, this intangibility I feel comes across in my tweets: Maybe? I dunno? Could or would? Should? Basement? (Screw you Thank you for the insight, Twitter Tag Cloud!) It also comes across in this blog when there are three or four days between posts because the ugly maybes have crept in and I am far from my best and want only to bring my best to this blog. (Because I love you, Blog!) (Blog as boyfriend?)

YES, I KNOW. Begging the question: "Oh my god does she think THIS crap is her best?" Yes. I. Do.

And, oh yeah: If you'd like a Twitter Tag Cloud of your own, you can get one here. I have next to no idea what anything on this page means except for the part that says, "View Your Twitter Tag Cloud Now." PHP?  Rest Service? Zend Framework? XFN? Who cares?! The site's author's kinda cute right? And 12-ish? Am I dumber than a 12-year-old?

MAYBE.

I Am Too Damn Busy Baking Pies And Wearing Aprons And Hand-Washing Laundry To Understand "Sports"

We're sorry for taking so long between posts this week, readers! "Um...What??" has been a little uncharacteristically "Ewe...SICK??" for a few days now, thus rendering it impossible for this blog to live up to its normal standards. You know, if it actually had any.

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Oh, NutriSystem.

You make me want to stuff my face with cheese-covered fried cheese dipped in melted cheese just to spite you. You also make me want to send you a photo of myself holding a newspaper with today's date to remind you that it isn't 1954 and, oh yeah, JUNE CLEAVER IS DEAD.

This?

Is not me or any other woman I know.

And if I did know her?

I would in all likelihood put that pie in her face.

But seriously though. That's a nice oven, right? Isn't It? Oh, I have no idea. I've never even opened mine and have only a vague idea where it actually is.

As a woman, which I'm assuming is a large part of your target demographic, NutriSystem, I find the commercial you're currently airing with Jillian Barberie (and by Jillian Barberie I mean OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP) to be annoying and insulting to women at a level second only to every single commercial spot ever run by eHarmony. (WHO CAN GO BANKRUPT ANY TIME NOW, PLEASE.)

I won't go so far as to embed the clip of Jillian's commercial here because I care about you all that much and already feel guilty enough even subjecting you to the following screen shots. But the gist of story by way of introduction goes a little something like this: Girl gains weight (more on this later), girl is better than all the rest of us lesser-type girls watching the commercial because of something having to do with football (to be honest, I don't really get it but whatever) and then girl loses weight THE END.

And now? The same story in seven easy-to-follow images. It's like "Dick and Jane" (low-level reading skills) meets The Iliad (nobody knows WTF it's supposed to mean) only with really unfortunate fashion:

>

1. If you see this? THERE IS STILL TIME TO RUN OUT OF THE ROOM.

 

2. Jillian (OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP) says hello and introduces us to her "BEFORE" self and her "AFTER" self! This is even more boring just as exciting as you might think.

 

3. Here, we learn that OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP is an amazing and unique type of woman because she has gigantic boobs she likes sports:

"Listen! I know I'm not your average gal. I LOVE sports!!" Then, she catches a football tossed to her from off camera and declares, "FOOTBALL!" Just like that. Just that one word. Noun naming game? Some form of object-related Tourettes? Intelligence level of two-year-old? And as if this wasn't bad enough, she follows up her outburst with, "How many girls can do THAT??"

Seriously??? Catch something?

Listen yourself, OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP. Unless that thing was hurled at you from a hundred yards away by either Peyton Manning or Donovan McNabb...no wait. I still wouldn't give a crap. Plus, what does this have to do with anything? Nothing. LOGIC FAIL.

 

4. There are NO WORDS.

               

5. Good lord. I think there's some technical information given in here somewhere too. You know, pricing and meal plans and blah blah blah I do not care as I'm just busy staring at her ta tas. (WHO ISN'T??)

         

6. Football thrown AGAIN from, let's be honest, probably two inches off camera at most. Plus, I totally suspect at this point whoever threw it might have been "accidentally" aiming at her head. I'm guessing this football/sports thing is repeated just in case you did not understand this symbolism the first time around. The good news is you won't understand it the second time either. "Get NutriSystem and SCORE!!" What the hell does THIS mean, exactly? Some form of not-so-vague sexual reference aimed at the same group of people who laugh at armpit farts? (Which is ridiculous because any intelligent person will tell you only REAL farts are funny.) Furthermore, does it also imply only skinny girls can have sex? And anyway, who plays football in their lingerie top??? LADIES IN THE LINGERIE BOWL, THAT'S WHO. Hut hut!!

       

7. Finally, we have arrived at the bitter end, and by bitter, I mean ME.

                        

Look, NutriSystem. You annoy me. Not only are women more than collections of hot pink lingerie and vacuous expressions but, um, A LOT OF US LOVE SPORTS. And by a lot of us? I MEAN A LOT OF US. You know, that is when we can find time to sneak in watching a game or two between doing loads of laundry (BY HAND) and polishing the silver and thinking of ways to please our man and speaking only when spoken to. And Jillian ("SHADDUP" for short), I am not sure how much of this is your fault, but I'm going to try to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were following a script. Although, really? Just for doing so? Female fail.

And here's a little something else you neglected to mention, NutriSystem:

Yeah.

There's a reason Ms. Jillian felt heavier and then suddenly didn't:

It's called PUSHING SOMETHING OUT OF YOUR MOTHER NATURE AND THEN GIVING IT A BOTTLE. Or two boobs. Or...holy MOLY those are some serious boobs. And yes, I know I neglected to draw any kind of happy face on either one of them, but really? Some things just go without saying.

Who knows? Maybe this is an accidental oversight or maybe she talks about the pregnancy in some other NutriSystem commercial that maybe I haven't seen AND ABSOLUTELY DO NOT WANT TO.

Also? I saw EIGHT eHarmony commercials during the course of slapping together carefully crafting this sh*tty-ass amazing post. Only it's a different couple now, and not Lee and Anne Marie, which leads me to the obvious conclusion that Lee and Anne Marie have already broken up. I certainly hope my earlier, thought-provoking post had nothing to do with it, because that would be awesome make me feel badly.

AND????? I burped AT LEAST 15 TIMES (!!!) while I was writing this, which has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that I don't think I've burped 15 times total before IN MY ENTIRE LIFE and WTF is wrong with me and this leads me to another obvious conclusion that NUTRISYSTEM GIVES ME GAS.

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For those of you suddenly not so sure you're happy I've resurfaced here...I totally understand.

Maybe At the End of the Story EVERYONE DIES? That Would Be Awesome

Open letter to eHarmony on behalf of FED UP SINGLE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE:

Dear Everyone Who Works At eHarmony:

I hate you. I have a polite request. If you could please be so kind as to stop running your commercials during every single program break on every single channel every single day of the week, THAT WOULD BE SUPER.

Case in point:

I have seen this particular couple's story approximately 1,487,264 times – and by approximately I mean 1,487,264 times plus an additional 6,876 more. In short, their commercial spins a yarn that goes a little something like this: Perfect boy (no such thing) meets perfect girl (no such thing unless me) and they become even way more awesomely perfect together because of their perfect, storybook love. (In some circles, this kind of love is sometimes referred to by its Latin root name of "BARF FEST.") (Or "Vomitous Festivalus" for our Spanish speaking friends.) (Since, if you'll recall, this blog recently became multilingual.)

I am sure "Lee" and "Anne Marie" are quite innocent in all of this. This couldn't have been their idea. It's not like they look smug or overly impressed with themselves. Oh wait. EPIC FAIL.

I mean honestly, eHarmony: What is your advertising budget over there? $20 gagillion trillion billion dollars?? And if it is, maybe you could do something a little more constructive with your money like, oh I don't know, perhaps feeding the world's starving and homeless? Or bailing out the United States' disastrous housing market? Or paying off the country's overwhelming debt? Or – I know! – how about something way, way, WAY more not at all important but still undeniably cool, like BUYING LESLEY THIS SUPER-SWEET LITTLE RIDE:

Say hello, reader readers, to the Cadillac XLR-V Roadster...and its starting price of ONE HUNDRED AND ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. (In all likelihood this entry-level figure does not include the engine or all of the tires.) eHarmony? You can afford to buy me two. 

(If not eHarmony then maybe Cadillac/General Motors? I can write about car in blog? Free advertising that will easily reach two people millions? Fair trade?)

Droooooool.

 

                     

Oh good grief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the thing:

Yes, I know the world can be a lonely place and that a lot of people are still searching for that one person they want to spend the rest of their lives with. I believe in The Big Love (being in it myself) (and by "in it" I mean "OH MY GOD WILL THIS EVER END") and I am all for everyone finding it. Woo-hoo! High fives all around! Love and let love! And I know that you, eHarmony, totally believe in the power of stuffing your wallets love, too.

TIMEOUT 10:53 PM: LEE AND ANNE MARIE ARE ON TV RIGHT NOW. YOU CANNOT MAKE UP THIS KIND OF CRAP. They're on the Sci Fi Channel (huh??) where I was attempting to mind my own business while watching Grant and Jason hunt ghosts and instead suddenly found myself looking at THIS:         

 

I like to keep my love and ghosts/zombies/blood-sucking spiders separate, thankyouverymuch.

I see these people more than I see my real friends.

Universe hates me.

 

 

 

Anyway. Back to eHarmony's love of their Swiss bank accounts love. As I was saying: I believe in love too, eHarmony. But my problem with you is the way you presume to act like FINDING LOVE IS SO EASY. The way you imply over and over that all anyone has to do is fill out a simple questionnaire. And by simple I mean a 487-page time suck of about 687,000 questions on important topics like, "What are your interests?" And for your information, the choices listed as an answer to this question actually include "eating" – not eating out...just "eating" –and I don't really understand this because if you're not interested in eating then chances are good you're DEAD and probably shouldn't be filling out this questionnaire. Then once you're done with The Third Degree, all you have to do is fork over some dough to then be instantly matched across "29 key dimensions of compatibility." I honestly have no idea what these dimensions are, but this does sound kinda sci fi so maybe it's not all bad. (Can I assume one is "HOTNESS?") And then? TA DA! You and your soulmate can ride off together into the sunset. Maybe in your Cadillac XLR-V Roadster if one of those 29 compatible dimensions includes WALLET SIZE: GIGANTIC.

Really, eHarmony? What do I look like? A moron?:

Exactly.

But that doesn't mean that I am one. I know better. I know love cannot be bought at the mall like a new pair of shoes – I don't care how many tens of thousands of times a day you try to tell us otherwise. And I don't care how many dimensions two multi-dimensional people have in common (3D? Need red/blue glasses?), love is not always hearts and flowers and sighs and swoons. Because if it was as easy as all of this? No one would ever need a service like yours, eHarmony. Duh.

So, I've got an idea for your marketing department, eHarmony. Why don't you put real real people in your ads? How about THAT? How about putting people in your ads who are down in the trenches covered in mud and crawling along on their bellies dodging automatic weapon spray while still trying to keep holding on to each other. (I might know a little something about this.) Because that is when you really find out what your love is made of, more so than when, say, you're bowling. (HAVE SEEN LEE AND ANNE MARIE BOWL ONE GAGILLION TIMES. WAS INTERESTED ZERO TIMES.) It's when love is tested that we really learn its worth and are reminded of why we need love to live as much as we need food and water and shelter. How about a little truth in advertising, eHarmony? How about a whole lot more respect for the act of love (NO, NOT THAT ACT) (CHRIS) and a whole hell of a lot less of this crap over and over and over in all of our faces:            

People don't need this. Especially me.

And would eHarmony run even more ads if they actually charged us this extra $40? (Shudder.)

 

 And in conclusion? THIS:

            

Oh right. Like you didn't see this ending coming.

(Sound of National Anthem Playing)

Farewell, Olympics.

I will miss you and the way you always made me feel

like I wished you'd get the hell off USA Network and stop preempting late night reruns of Law & Order: CI

vaguely disturbed and confused any time race walking was on

like an underachieving loser

inspired and patriotic.

Although Really? It's Just Two Letters Away From "Suck Ass"

I don't care how many gold medals Michael Phelps has, I would totally pass out if I ever got within 3,000 feet of that much talent I am not impressed. Why? Because I have a Kick Ass Blogger Award!! See?:

Notice how I color-coordinated the award name above with the graphic on the left? That's what bloggers do who kick ass.

So take THAT, Michael Phelps! And all you nine-year-old teenage gymnasts from China! Sure, you can all perform mind-boggling displays of uber-elite athleticism (I'm too busy for that kind of thing), but I can write blog posts all about your mind-boggling displays of uber-elite athleticism. HAHA! Like I've ever written anything that intelligent in my life. But if I did, these posts would be totally kick ass (see award) and impressive. And by impressive I mean I know where the "publish" button is.

The best part of this award is that I received it from the quite lovely and always Canadian XUP. On the subject of mind-boggling, I still have no idea why she so faithfully reads my blog. When you visit her blog – and you should! – you'll see immediately how it's so thoughtful and insightful and witty and intelligent. (Even when she's talking about boobs or even this hot kitchen item.) Mine? Well, I'll use up 4,500 words talking about falling down. Or my forehead. Or my cat. And since I didn't slip XUP any money to send this award to me, I can only assume one thing: Just as I suspected, I AM THE MOST AMAZING BLOGGER TO COME OUT OF CYBERSPACE SINCE DOOCE.

Hmmn.

Or this:

Since I didn't slip XUP any money to send this award to me, I can only assume the woman is half out of her mind.

But no matter! I now have my first blog award in a long line of no more many, and I could not be more thrilled! Unfortunately, it does leave me with a bit of a problem. As a recipient of this honor, I am in turn supposed to bestow it onto five other bloggers I think kick their own amounts of serious ass. (Not as much as me, of course, because I mean really. This blog? Me? Hello? Dooce, schmooce.) The problem with this is the fact I'm so new here that I don't know five other bloggers.

Sure, besides the four blogs I read regularly – my two real-world friends Mo and Chris, and my two new wonderful cyber-sisters XUP and Debra at Reflecting, there are also several others I visit on a daily basis. But I don't have any kind of relationship or correspondence with any of their authors. I don't e-mail with them. I don't leave comments on their posts. I don't leave much behind in the way of a footprint beyond whatever small spec of data I might register on their Feedburner page as I click over. (Kick Ass Bloggers? We know things about things like "Feedburner." And "clicking.") I may follow a couple of them on Twitter, but let's face it: They are all big-time bloggers with Technorati ratings in the single digits or something. (Technorati? More Kick Ass blogger-speak.) (Technorati? HATES ME.) These wonderful bloggers don't know me or my blog and I don't know what the official etiquette is on all of this, but I just don't feel right bestowing awards on total strangers. So this, coupled with the fact that XUP, Debra and Mo have all already been properly acknowledged as "Kick Ass" themselves, means I am officially left with the option of currently bestowing this award on one person, and if you've been paying any kind of attention here (WHY?), you will realize this person is this blog's favorite Chris, the aforementioned CHRIS.

But here's the thing: Chris launched his blog a short while back and got all his friends in states and provinces everywhere (ME) all hyped up to experience all the daily Chris-ness we could possibly desire. And then he proceeded to Promptly Write One New Post Every Gagillion Days or So. And while, besides being a Kick Ass Blogger, I'm also a Huge Chris Fan, I simply cannot reward this type of delinquent, poor performance with a "Kick Ass Blogger" award. But we are all adults here and we understand and accept various concepts like behaviors have consequences and it's not a good idea to eat poo, so in the spirit of such maturity I've created a special award just for Chris:

The Lazy Ass Blogger Award!

Chris actually took time out yesterday at the end of his insanely busy day to show me how to knock out the background of that trophy in Illustrator so I could import it into my Photoshop file. So he willingly added to his "insanely busy" day, to unknowingly help me give him a "Lazy Ass" award. This is called funny as hell to me IRONY.

 

 

And on a barely-related note, Donkey Basketball?

Did anyone else know about this?

 

 

 

Also, I totally drew this donkey.

And by "drew" I mean I sketched him with a charcoal pencil.

And by "charcoal pencil" I mean I downloaded him off some random website using Google image search. But still....hi donkey! (Copyright infringement laws apply to everyone except me.)

 

Sure, Chris has a very busy life. The kind of busy that would make a lesser man weep like a baby while curled up in the corner sucking his thumb, but that is no excuse. Wife? Two very young little girls? High-level, extremely demanding job with deadline after deadline after deadline? I do not care. I've got a job, too. And a cat. And absolutely nothing else to do and you don't see me using "I'm busy" as an excuse not to keep up with my blog. Why? BECAUSE I AM A KICK ASS BLOGGER, that's why.

So if any of you out there know any other bloggers just like Chris, please feel free to pilfer this award and pass it along. We can start another chain that doesn't spread the love quite as much as the usual blog awards but instead says, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE WRITE SOMETHING. YOU ARE SO LAME." It's like the Twitter nudge. Only rude.

And in addition to the Lazy Ass Blogger award, because I'm feeling kick ass AND generous, I'm also going to bestow Chris with one more honor. Congratulations, dude. You get the Best Hair Award for this little number:

Circa 1980-something-or-other. The Canadian Matthew McConaughey. This one wears a shirt.

Not quite as good as that other 'do I was referencing in my earlier (Kick Ass) post, but still fantastic and in all likelihood flammable the envy of all his friends at the time.

Award Sponsorship funded by Aqua Net.

 

So, in the spirit of all this honoring and bestowing, I just want to thank XUP one more time for spending some of her precious time here...and then AWARDING me for this crap. And I'd like to thank my other reader readers too. Someone is Kick Ass here, and I have a sneaking suspicion it's actually all of YOU guys.