Sunday, October 29, 2006

I Hate ________________.

Catch phrases run the gamut from "kiss my grits" to "can you smell what the rock is cookin?" I like to make my own, though, and of late, my favorite has been "I hate __________."

We live in a world that is uncomfortable with hate, and because it is forbidden, I guess, is why it's fun to say. I'm not all about the hatin' exactly. It's just whatever you're not supposed to do is fun to do. Forbidden words hold more power. Also, there's no thinking, just denouncing.

You can't hate everything. People are too complicated to hate. If you start to hate one, and then think some more, you'll find something that wasn't so bad. And if you hate someone for being a hatemonger, then you're just as bad as they are, aren't you?

So hate has to be more specific, like
"I hate floral print shirts."
"I hate when good sloths go bad."
"I hate vocational training."
"I hate Death by Chocolate type desserts."

It can backfire on you, such as the time when I was about 13 and impugned the mixing of gold and silver jewelry, spouting, "I hate when people wear gold and silver together," only to look down to the trendy, 4 ring wearing 80's hand of my conversational counterpart and discover that she was committing this cardinal wardrobe sin that I, as deacon dumbass, had denounced.

So like I was saying, people, it's best not to hate.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Old Cartoons

In just an hour or so of watching old cartoons on Boomerang (old meaning, 30's - 60's produced) I mentally tallied a few stark differences between the cartoons of now and those of old. On the Pink Panther I DVR'ed, there were about five scenes containing guns, including one fired at the Pink Panther's head at point blank range, rendering him grey-headed and exploded, one cigarette (smoked by the gunman), and some scant sexual references to can-can girls (by the Inspector), and even a suicidal duckling on an old Tom and Jerry I caught who attempted a self-gullotine with a giant ax on a string.

So the question is, then, how come we watched all this and there were few to no school shootings back then? Why did public violence seem to increase in an inverse relationship to the amount of violence that was fretted over and strained from kids' tv in the 80's and 90's? Now new cartoons are mostly a contest to see who's more badly drawn or the most insane. Where is Tipper Gore now, when we really need her to get Ed, Edd and Eddy and Invader Zim off the air???

I do like Pokemon though. Pikaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachuuuuuuuu! ;)

Sunday, October 15, 2006

White Trash Recipe

Brought to you from the State Fair of Texas is this concoction invented from materials on hand while sitting waiting for a sheep dog show to start.

Fair Food Burritos

1 bag freshly spun cotton candy
1 paper cup slightly stale popcorn

Peel off thin layers of cotton candy to create a candy "tortilla" in your hand.

Sprinkle in a handful or so of popcorn inside the cotton candy tortilla.

Fold "tortilla" together, adding extra strips of candy on the top or sides to seal it in.

Stuff in mouth, making "mmm" sounds as you go.

It's a crunchy, soft, sugary, salty slice of junk food genius.


Friday, October 13, 2006

Read the label

Even though we're all unique and special, just like every fuckin' snowflake and everyone else, we are also composites of stereotypes. While everyone talks shit about stereotypes, we also know that they wouldn't exist if there wasn't some truth to them.

Here's a list of some of mine, in no particular order:

Of Irish Descent -- i.e. Hot-tempered, Hardworking, Drunken, Proletarian
Short and Fat

Poor kid
From Dallas
College edumacated
Bleach blonde
Musically obsessed
Dog person
Animal lover
Tree hugger
Computer geek

Yep, that pretty much sums me up. Or not.

Care to put your labels on the table?

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Another, far better eee-stwar

If you just want to experience New Orleans without all the sweating and beignets and staggering and hurricanes, read this:

A Confederacy of Dunces

There's a statue of Ignatius Reilly in the French Quarter somewhere, and I'm kicking myself that I didn't see it.

A movie might be made at some point, but, I guarantee you, it will be a gossamer shadow of this book's greatness.

Read it.

Even if only for the pale purpose of saying you've read a Pulitzer prizewinning fiction.

Suffocate yourself laughing, slobber everywhere crying.

Just read it.

Trust me.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

combination # 10

worship me for my drollness
or sarcasm, one of the 2
or both at once
like a big yin yang thing
sweet and sour
tangy syrup msg for your tongue and brain

Sunday, October 08, 2006


(least that's how they pronounce 'Histoires' in French)

Why the frog, say you? 'Cause I'm here to favor you with some tales from the dank, mildewed streets of New Orleans' French Quarter, which I got invited to journey to a few weeks back. And let me say, not to worry! Depravity and drunkenness, never affected by natural disasters, are in full swing.


When you know you'll be passing through airport security, avoid wearing an underwire bra that costs less than $10. If you do, boob inspections by security officers will be provided courtesy of Wal-Mart stores' Cheapest Undergarment Materials Possible Division. For added fun, get a call from your school about missing children who are in your class (who merely strayed from their waiting spot after school and have since been found, but that's not mentioned until 2 minutes into the call) at the same time.


If you stay on Bourbon Street and it's between March and November, this is your schedule for every day:

10 a.m. Awake. Commence sweating.

11 a.m. Go eat beignets and rocket fuel for breakfast (fried donutlike objects with a minimum of 1/2 cup powdered sugar on top and coffee with chicory).

12 p.m. Take a tour of Garden District, marveling at the influence of such a small mortal as Anne Rice as well as the jungle-like proliferation of flowers everywhere. Don't forget to perspire.

2 p.m. Traipse from shop to shop or across Vieux Carre, seeking pralines, beads, voodoo dolls, paintings or the like.

4 p.m. Fall damply into bed and draw the hotel shades for a several hour nap to recuperate from constant walking and fluid loss.

9 p.m. Arise vampyre-like, don "sexy clothes" and go forth, in search of alcoholic slurpee stands. You needn't walk far, for their fluorescent mixers filled with ice, artificial flavoring and Everclear are churning upon every corner. Start drinking. Resume sweating.

11 p.m. Stagger through the streets, seeking whatever new amusement catches your senses or prurient interests. Get beads thrown at you or throw beads, even though no naked flesh is seen. Try not to step on toothless, itinerant street performers who are making weeeet weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow catcalls with their guitars. Look for restaurants. None of these quaint, culture-rich places are open. Wish for an Applebee's. Get obnoxious, but not too much so. The cops on horses are watching you.

2 a.m. Stumble into Krystal for 4 tiny cheeseburgers and an odd-tasting drink (odd-tasting because it doesn't contain alcohol). Try not to slip on the piss/booze/mud/sweat/scum/Godknowswhatelse liquid mixture on the floor.

3 a.m. Return to your hotel, take off soaked clothing, and ramble about the 1,744 things you've just seen/done/licked/smelled. Laugh at each one of them all over again.

4 a.m. Finally doze off from cumulative booze, traipsing and giggling exhaustion.

(Wash. Rinse. Repeat.)
If you are cornered by shirtless wanderers who may or may not be homeless and/or telling the truth about their plight, who then burst into song, have a counter-song ready, such as the theme song from the long-defunct William Katt television show, The Greatest American Hero:
"Look at what happened to me... I can't believe it myself! Suddenly, I'm up on top of the world... it should've been somebody else! DUHDUHDUHDUHDUHHNNNN!!"
If your friends get into this situation, be sure to sit a distance away and let them make an attempt to deal with the wanderer (to your endless amusement) before you make a rescuing cellphone call. Hopefully, the wanderer will wield merely song and odor and not a switchblade.
If one of a pair of life partners says, "That's what UP means" after you enter an elevator that's going up and gaze intently at the buttons just because you want to see the pool and it's on floor 16, which is marked "R" for "roof" and it takes you a moment to figure that out in your state of inebriation, don't snap back, "Yeah, I'm just REALLY STUPID." It's rude.


If you can avoid it, don't sit next to two tank-top wearing, totally buff, ripped, tribal tattooed and uber-masculine life partners on your return flight from one of America's muggiest cities. While being musky is their custom, if you're not a bear yourself, you may not appreciate it. Your brain needs oxygen, after all.


The world's still spinnin' round, we don't know why. Why, why, why? -- N. Gallagher, et al.

Sunday, October 01, 2006


Step into motorized listening booth
Accelerate onto thoroughfare
Put on heaviest metal to blot out
niggling thoughts that pull at brain

Let the
unrelenting bass guitar
thundering report of sticks on skin
banging angry cadences
Drive out these idiot notions

Purging needless pain from the soul


Does that make me crazy? -- Gnarls Barkley
Add to Technorati Favorites