Overthunk

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 desse...

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...

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. Enjoy!

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: American White Female Of Irish Descent -- i.e. Hot-tempered, Hardworking, Drunken, Proletarian Short and Fat Poor kid Teacher Texan From Dallas Writer Blogger College edumacated Curly-tressed Bleach blonde Intellectual Artist Musically obsessed Dog person Gamer Animal lover Homeowner Conventiongoer Sister Conservative Tree hugger Foulmouthed Computer geek Yep, that pretty much sums me up. Or not. Care to put your labels on the table?

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.

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

(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. TRAVEL TIPS 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. ITINERARY If you stay on Bourbon Street and it's between March and November, this is you...

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

Why it's still embarrassing to purchase products of a feminine nature after 20 years experience, I don't know, but sometimes it is. I decide I don't want to navigate the perilous waters of Wal-Mart, so I'll stop at the drugstore (as it used to be called in the parlance of my youth), even though I KNOW a guy will be working the counter at 9:30 p.m. I'm perusing the products, looking for my preferred species, and a Whitman's candy display is there on the end of the aisle, sparking a train of thoughts: "What the fuck is that doing there? Oh, no wonder I couldn't find it the last time I was looking for a last-minute gift -- it's here in this fucked up place, what kind of layout is that?" Then it hit me: "WHOA, it's there because duhhhhh, it's the most expensive chocolate in the store and it's right here next to the pads and tampons!" Stunned at this sexist display, I continue to shop, looking for other shit to buy to distract ...

If you take one of those big ol' rubber bands and swallow it in an attempt to engineer a cut-rate lap band surgery... you might be a redneck. Or you might just be that fat-addled and lacking of insurance. ----------------- p.s. Did you know that tapirs , even though they look like pigs with mini-elephant-trunks, are odd-toed ungulates, related to horses and rhinoceroses? They are said to eat dreams in some Asian countries, which could help me, because I've been having bad dreams lately. In specific, I awoke from a nap this afternoon with a fading remembrance of a big tray of deviled eggs, which I had apparently made. I hate deviled eggs. Conclusion: I need a pet tapir.

Although I can theoretically make up any new statement at any time like lemurs banging out Updike novels on word processors, I find myself saying the same things over and over and over. The dumb thing about this is I repeat stuff to people who know me intimately. "I just can't deal with a militaristic management style." "It has to be Hellmann's." "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me." "I'd rather roll the dice." I try not to, but I still do. Evermore Wages the war 'Gainst being a confounded Colossal bore. ----------------------- Did you ever find yourself sad that a Little Debbie pumpkin cookie was gone? Well, I just did. --------------------- p.s. Go out and find acoustic F*** It Up by Towers of London. Drink lots. Play it. Secret of universe inside. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- With every breath, I thought I'd had too much. With every breath I...

Two years I've been writing this. Two years. Most of you and I have known each other for most of that span. Why is it so hard to believe, the constant flow of time? -------------------------------- Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems -- but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems incredible. -- Salman Rushdie

Hi everyone, Because friends share in good things and bad and this is important to me, I thought you all might like to know. My mom, who had been battling many health problems, especially during the past few years, passed away Friday night. She was not a perfect person, but her love for me was. I figure if you want to know more, you'll ask. But if I don't seem quite myself for awhile, that's why. Thanks.

If this was myspace, you'd be annoyedly scrolling down, trying to find the clickbox to stop the page's theme song. Today, it would be the song "Defender" by the epic metal band Manowar . Ride like the wind Fight proud, my pup You're the defender God has sent Why? For this, the tiniest of dogs, exploded into violent barking and enthusiastic lunging at this threatening sight: A rather crappy patio set -- loaned out, but then returned. Once empty patio I look up to you and heed thy call This plastic ends my search I'll live your dream now passed to me And I now wait to shake the hand of fate Like the dusk awaiting dawn So umbrella, flap your spell With no heart to do me well So its written, it shall be Trust me, it's a great song. And in no wise wussy. Great to swing a paladin sword by. Oh, and there at the beginning? THAT'S ORSON WELLES.

(Warning: Cheese may be needed. Whine ahead.) The trouble with anything online is, it's you but it's not you. With predominantly online relationships, this is you but not you added to them but not them. This plus time equals an exponentially inaccurate virtual folly. The most important stuff that happens in my life, I don't write about. What's the line between "free spirited" and "skanky"? How come the amount you want someone is inversely proportional to the amount they want you, and even if that ratio changes, between the same two people , it still applies? Death: horrifying snuffer of sacred life force, or just welcome relief? What if all the things I'm pretty sure God is ok with, He isn't? Is it possible to never hear another depressing news story again? As I age, my emotions rule me less, resulting in more days of relative calm and happiness. As a tradeoff, I don't get as excited about as many things. If you want something, give up on...

On another trip to the Half Price Books store, I had to use the loo. They've cleverly used the covers from old Harlequin Romance novels from the 50's and 60's as a border atop the wainscoting, so they're at eye level as you wash your hands and such. There were bunches and bunches, but a few titles struck me as perhaps more... significant than others. Could our pre-Internet forebears have been more clued in to the variant stripes of sexuality than is commonly suspected? Exhibit A: Gay Cavalier Exhibit B: Master of Saramanca Exhibit C: Citadel of Swallows and finally, Exhibit D: A Night for Possums.

Well, I guess it didn't HAVE to die. But nonetheless, I destroyed it with the weight of 12 bricks and my stupid, stupid stupidity. See, the littlest dog I have has an amazing ability to dig holes under fences and squeeze her tiny self under. One morning, I woke up and SHE WAS GONE. After I freaked out and papered the neighborhood with ugly yellow signs, a man called me. She was apparently having a good time helping him put down some paving stones in his back yard. I was so glad to see her, I cried. I told her then to always stay with the pack, and she has. Still, I feared losing her, so I went and got a bunch of bricks. Bricks are heavy and scratchy. I had about 75 of them, over 2 trips. I could only take about 4 at a time. More were too heavy, because I had to carry them from the front of the house all the way around to the back, and I did not want to drop any of them on any metatarsals or the like. On the 2nd carload, I got frustrated. I don't own a wheelbarrow or a dolly or ...

Those who read this screed with any regularity are already acquainted with my love of John Updike, who, besides just possessing my esteemed enamorment, has won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction not once but twice. The day before yesterday I just happened to drop by the Half-Price Books in my town, where I, on a whim, thought some new Updike might just be the thing. So I picked this up. Note its price: $4.98. Well, the day went on, I continued shopping, visited with friends, and was waiting for my Independence Day Freedom Potato Salad spuds to finish boiling when I thought I might read a story or three while I was waiting. After all, there were 40 of them. Oh, look at that, an inscription in a used book. Let's see whose Great Aunt Margot gave this to them on which holiday... Well, I'll declare. That there says, "for Mark a rare volume John Updike" Being me, my first thought at any awesome event such as this is, "Nuh UH ." So of course I went and checked here ...

I pay $1000.00 per class to attend a prestigious private university. I am midway through a Master's degree and have a 4.0 grade point average that I intend to keep for the duration. I have over 17 years experience at adulthood and I own and operate my own house, car, career, and life. Yet still, the other day, I felt mortified and 12 all over again. In this particular class, there are those writing-surface-fused-to-an-uncomfortable-chair type desks that thin people don't think twice about sitting in. I, however, have gone through a past period of hugeness where I could just barely wedge between the chair back and the writing surface edge. Happily, now I can fit without too much problem, though I still marvel at the 6 to 8 inches of gut-to-desk space that most people have in those. Anyway, so the professor has this brilliant idea to play a game for an exam review (I know, wtf, it's grad school, I was thinking the very same thing). She decides that rather than raising our han...

Whereas... A = Driving two hours across town to a moderately important, though brain killingly dull, work function, being late and being turned away due to one's frazzled inability to manage simple Mapquest directions and "thinking" one has the cognitive capacity to find "a faster way," B = Bloating up like a bullfrog doing whippets, and; C = Being moved to tears by "needing a man in my life who loves puppies and makes cakes like that fine Brawny paper towel guy" or the minor annoyances such as the lack of ketchup... A + B + C = P Dig?