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Today – A Guest Blog

1 Aug

For your enjoyment, I’ve asked a friend and fellow blogger, Jason at  Mongo Like Internets, to share an especially near and dear message. Read on and take heed.

Turn

 I’ve had bigger spots on my lip and I never stopped whistlin’. 

~ Max “No-No” Fry

 My late Grandfather No-No always told us this after an injury to make us tough. Recently I’ve come to realize it’s a useful metaphor for many of life’s troubles. Basically, for all of life’s troubles.  The message?  Don’t freak out about the small stuff.  A clichéd statement I know, but it seems to be one that most people forget about, as they get older.

 Speaking of getting older…

We live in the Future.  As children we played with technology our parents never dreamed about, and in turn, our children do the same.  Technology like cell phones, the Internet, blogs, etc. has created a sounding board for every thought, idea, and dream to be broadcast to anyone that will listen.  This seems to be the point where some people start to have issues about our newfound amplified voices; they become offended if our beliefs and thoughts don’t align with theirs.  They complain, gossip, and spread fear that our words are damaging to the Common Good.  In most cases those complaining don’t give a rat’s ass about any Common Good.  They’re just upset about something challenging their own sensibilities and thoughts about life.

 Well, I have a solution.

 Turn.

 Yes, TURN.

 Turn it off.  Turn your head.  Turn the channel.  Turn the page.  Turn to something positive in your life.  Turn into oncoming traffic.

 Just…turn.

If you don’t like it move your eyes, brain, fat ass, or whatever else is being affected to an area of less concerning stimuli.  I swear it won’t hurt our feelers.  We probably never even knew you were watching because, and here’s the Lesson, WE DON’T DO IT FOR YOU.  Shocking, I know.  Some of us, scratch that, most of us write about life, pass on funny videos, write songs, or draw penises on dirty car windows because we are expressing ourselves.  WE enjoy it, and if we’re lucky enough for some others to stumble across our work and it makes them think, or even crack the slightest smile, well then, it’s all gravy, baby.

 Shall we review one last time so we can leave this here lil corner of cyberspace on the same page?

 If you don’t like something you view upon your own free will, then…

 Turn.

And remember, if you ever get butt hurt about something you saw or read on the Internet, or anywhere else for that matter, the author of that content has probably had bigger spots on their lip and they never stopped whistlin’.

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Who Has A Mullet Now, Beotch?

28 Dec

It was 6:00a.m. and I pretended to be asleep when I heard my 4-year-old sprinting toward my room. “Oopsy daisy!” said L at the top of her lungs in order to wake me up. “Oopsy daisy” is so far off from what she should have been exclaiming… it’s weak and poorly planned, not to mention misleading. The implication is that she dropped a toy or a piece of cheese, not that she has made a serious and lasting decision about her appearance – and all without consulting me, her stylist and closest confidante.

Regardless, there she was with a big smile on her face and a fistful of hair in her hand. I was convinced it was from her creepy human head hair styling toy, which is what I asked her: “Is that from your doll? The head?  You cut her hair?”

I wish I could do her expression justice by explaining it here, but it’s impossible. A rough interpretation would be that she smiled giddily at me in that guilty, holy-crap-I-can’t-believe-I-did-this way that only a 4 and 1/2 year-old can pull off, while simultaneously shaking her head. Nope. Guess again, mom.

“Shut the EFF up!!” I didn’t yell. Instead I did my dramatic gasp and began sobbing, “Are you shitting me? A friggin’ mullet? This is about me, isn’t it? I haven’t been paying enough attention to you? Or is it my cooking? Is it the hair-washing technique I’ve used at bath time? I’ve tried so hard to keep the soap out of your eyes! I have,” (here my sobbing turns in to crazed anger), “What the crap is going on around here? Doesn’t anyone care about how hard I try to make this family appear normal? Why, just yesterday you flushed your sister’s toothbrush, your own underwear, and some game pieces down the toilet. I turn my back for 3 seconds and now I have 3 feet of water in my house and an extremely unfortunate hairstyle on my child’s head.”

Nah. Actually, all of that is true except for my part of the dialogue. I just said, “What? Why? Where did you find scissors? Why do you want shorter hair? Why are you up in the middle of the night? It’s pitch black outside. Give me a minute to wake up…Jesus…”

And then I laughed (not in front of her) – because it’s FUNNY, I mean, so what? She was not trying to be naughty. She wanted shorter hair. She had some scissors. Now she has shorter hair. She is four.

On the other hand, if she does one more thing to test my patience – such as waking my ass up at 5:59a.m. for the 100th time in 100 days – I will sell her on Craigslist, unless I think I can get more money for her on e-bay.

“Feisty four-year-old female (human) – make offer.”

 

Do Not Eat

1 Dec

I have a list of things I long to do but don’t, based solely on the warning labels that accompany the objects of my temptation. Thankfully, someone out there (in legal) has repeatedly saved me from myself and my complete disregard for common sense.

When I read these warnings I automatically fill in the blank at the end of the message with “you freakin’ idiot”, as in:

Do not eat the cardboard box that contains your scalding hot pizza. Only eat the pizza. Do not eat the box. Only the pizza. Which contains dairy. And maybe came in contact with soy. Or peanuts. Eat the pizza. Not the box. You freakin’ idiot.

I mean, seriously – it’s clearly implied, as is the sneer on the face of the author.

I would prefer that evolution and survival of the fittest supersede these warnings, but what do I know (besides how to spell supersede and use it in a sentence).

My latest temptation was to eat seventeen bars of soap at  my local grocery store. Fortunately I saw the warning just in time:

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to exercise my random act of kindness for the day and shoot an e-mail to legal at a few companies. I have some suggestions for future labels:

“This hairdryer is not a toy. If you plug it in, turn it on, and then toss it to your babbling baby who is playing nearby in the bathtub, something bad will happen. Also, the hairdryer will stop functioning and the warranty will be void.”

“This package of candy Lifesavers is NOT actually going to save your life. If you cannot swim and you choose to jump into the ocean relying solely on this candy as a flotation device, you will drown.”

“Do not attempt to wear this pillow as a hat, as it may decrease your ability to see while driving. Which reminds us, do not attempt to rest your head on this pillow while driving either, as you may fall asleep. Do not sleep while driving.”

You freakin’ idiot.

One Pink Shoe

15 Nov

As I read this book to my daughter last night I had to refrain from commenting on every single page and/or laughing. Pull up a chair and we’ll read it together.

First, look at Barbie’s sister Stacey. She’s wearing a purple half-shirt and tight high-water pink pants, yet it appears Barbie is consulting her for fashion advice. This, as evidenced on the next page, will prove to be a foolish decision.

 

 

 

 

 

“My cinderella costume or my purple denim vest?” asks Barbie.

“No, Barbie! Wear the lemon-lime suit. It’s perfect,” says Stacey, whose crush on Ken has led her to an attempt at sabotage.

Note the rascally pup under the bed… he’s up to no good, I’m sure of it.

 



The pink mock turtleneck ties in with the hat box she’s holding. Gorgeous pumps.

The pink mustang convertible appears to be the size of a clown car, but I’m sure if anyone can manage to squeeze into one it’s Barbie.

 

 

 

 

First, I’ll answer your question about Ken’s pants: I have no idea where you can find a pair. They are straight up FAB.

He and Barbie clearly planned to wear turtlenecks. I bet she didn’t know he’d short-sleeve it, though.

Now let’s take a moment to acknowledge the absurdity of the political correctness in this picture.

Stupid.

 

 

I just cannot get over those pants.

And Ken’s little hair helmet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barbie must not be hungry, she hasn’t eaten a bite! Hmmmm…

What a swell afternoon date at the disco it was!

 

 

 

 

 

 

A hearty handshake and she’ll be on her way.

Surely this is the end of this riveting tale…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Lord there’s more.

Barbie is buying Stacey her first bra, along with a couple of swimsuits. This will prove to be fortuitous momentarily.

 

 

 

 

Here comes Kevin, followed closely by a strange character in an orange shirt. (getting a close-up view of that person is definitely worth the trouble of clicking on the picture.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The girls get to show off their new swimsuits, in addition to the fact that they have no belly buttons.

Who’s the bitch sitting on the side of the pool? She was NOT invited.

 

 

 

 

Wait. A. Minute.

Barbie is going to cheat on Ken, isn’t she?

What a slut.

(sharp intake of breath) Look at that crazy dog! Again with the shoes…

 

 

 

“That damn dog has my shoe,” said Barbie. “I’m calling the police!”

I just realized something… I owe Barbie an apology. This picture clears some things up. Kevin and Dan are actually a couple.

Oops. Sorry, Barb!

 

 

 

“Why fellas… there’s all my missing shoes!”

Did Barbie ever stop to think that this might be Spot’s way of asking for a little attention? Doubtful.

Look at Dan… any second he’ll shake his head and say something about Mentos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a long, boring, convoluted story about a missing shoe.

The End.

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