Airport Rub-Downs: Consider It An Early Christmas Present.

Well, it's that time of year again when I am supposed to say what I am thankful for.  Last year I had a long list of things to share with you guys, but this year I have only one: I'm thankful that I don't have to fly. Like, super-duper-doing-a-happy-dance-thankful.

Unless you've been in a coma, you've seen the endless crap on the news about the airport body scans and pat-downs, and you know how pissed off people are getting about it. Well, I'm pissed off too! But I'm not pissed off about the pat-downs and scans, I'm pissed off at all the losers who are whining about it. (By the way, if you were in a coma, that totally sucks, and this blog should catch you up on everything TSA-related. And even though I don't know you, I'm really thankful that you're awake. So congrats on that!)

So anyway, the first thing that all these jackholes are pissed off about, are those x-ray scanner thingies that some of the airports have now. It seems that people are all worked up because these machines show an outline of your private areas. You know, weiners and boobs. Since I am nothing if not a seriously thorough investigative reporter, I looked up some of these x-ray photos on the internet, and my finding was this:  They make you look like either a mega cool robot or a frumpy albino. It really just depends on what you're giving them to work with.

Example:

These 2 people are in really good shape, which = mega cool robots.

These 2 people aren't quite as svelt, which = more of a frumpy albino. And also, they are carrying inappropriate travel items, i.e. creepy things and murdery types of weapons. I'm pretty sure the lady has a banana in her waistband. Or a vibrator. And the guy has some kind of parrot or something on his shoulder. Probably a trained parrot assassin. So, you know, thank goodness for these scanners. Otherwise some unsuspecting granny on a SWA flight to Boca would be getting her eyeball stolen by a mother effing parrot, and some albino lady in the seat next to you would be getting down under her blanket with her vibrator/banana.

I don't really see the big deal here, people. So these scanners can see your privates. Guess what they can also see? Weapons hidden inside or around peoples privates. Yeah, it happens. Sure, maybe if you're self-conscious about your beer belly or your muffin top, or it's that time of the month and you don't want everyone seeing your maxi-pad with wings, these scans can suck. But you know what else sucks? Sitting on a plane next to a douchebag with a bomb in his underwear. That sucks hard you guys. 

And if you're really super shy about these scanner techs seeing your in-betweens, you can always buy these x-ray proof underwear to hide your bits and pieces:

But they'll probably think you're hiding a gun behind that fig leaf, so prepare yourself for a stage 2 cavity search. Which you totally deserve, by the way, for being such a self-conscious wanker.

The other thing that everyone is fired up about is the security pat-down. I read an article online in which a woman was quoted as saying that buying an airline ticket doesn't give a stranger the right to rub her private parts. She also compared the pat-down to being raped. This woman is obviously an asshole. 

First of all lady, it's not like some dude's jumping out of a dark alleyway and searching your crotch for weapons. This is airport security. They are trying to protect us. Before they send us hurtling through the sky in a tiny plane with no cops and a few hundred cranky strangers. And I haven't seen you, but I am betting that the TSA employees of the world aren't laying awake at night hoping that they get to give you a rub down. This is their job, and I doubt they're gonna be picturing your bitchy face that night when they rub one out.

And I'm sorry, but from what I've seen on the news, most of these travelers look like they could use a little feely-feely. People get cranky during the holidays, and I think that stress levels could be lowered immensely if these fuddy duddies would just let their junk get rubbed.  Charlie Sheen pays people, like, thousands of dollars to rub his junk. You can get it done for free. And totally legally. And your spouse can't even call it cheating. For crying out loud, just go with it! Get your rocks off and be thankful that a hand besides your own is feeling you up for once. Geesh!

If Your Kitty Gets Stuck In A Pipe, Call These Guys. Or Don't. I'm Sorta Confused.

I was behind this truck a few months ago, and of course I took a picture of it because I found it totally confusing. But in an awesome way. Then I kinda forgot about it because my attention span is really, really short unless the topic is Paul Rudd or Laverne and Shirley. But The Universe obviously wanted me to remember it because I was behind it and all of its awesomeness again yesterday. How, oh how, could I have ever forgotten about this? This is like, the best truck EVER! I can't even begin to understand what it means, but that is the genius of it. Obviously the owners of this truck are some kind of plumbers and  they can totally replumb your entire house. And they also seem to be adept at replacing pipes. With keys that turn or something. I'm not at all sure what that means. But because I like to be really researchy and stuff I went to their website to find out, but there were a whole lot of mechanical sounding words and things that were extremely boring, so I got distracted and gave up. But I did send them an email inquiring about the wet cat:

Dear Delta Mechanical,

I was behind one of your trucks and I was curious...why is there a sad, wet cat on the back door of this  truck? This causes me great confusion and I hope that you can help me to understand the scenario in which this cat got so totally drenched. And sad. Although I guess as far as cats are concerned, drenched and sad go hand in hand, since cats hate being wet. Except that cat I saw once on You Tube who liked to waterski. But I'm pretty sure he was duck taped to those skis. Or hot glued. And he looked pretty pissed.

Anyway, I would like to know what happened to this particular cat. Was he involved in a pipe bursting accident? Was he accidentally flushed down a toilet?  Is he actually dry but just likes to wear hair gel and have that wet look? And if so, does he know that look was over, like, 20 years ago? Also, was this photo taken during a real pipe emergency, or was this a model/stunt cat? If it was a model cat, I would like to volunteer my cat to pose for your next truck photos. Free of charge. Because (a) She's really photogenic, and (b) She hates being wet and since she's on my bad side right now I'd really like to teach her a lesson. You can even stick her in a toilet if you want, because I think that would make a really awesome truck picture. I bet you'd get, like, thousands of calls. Most of them from animal rights people, but even animal rights people need plumbers. Am I right? 

If you would be so kind as to answer my questions, I would greatly appreciate it and will think of you guys if ever I have a plumbing catastrophe. Get it? CATatstrophe! Feel free to use that in one of your ads.

Thank You!

Unfortunately, I haven't heard back from them yet, which if you ask me, is really pretty rude, because obviously my questions were of the utmost importance. So if I've learned anything here it's that plumbers don't really have good manners. And cats look really funny wet.

This Receipt Blows

Okay, so when I was visiting my sister last week, the first thing we did after my plane landed, was to go and have an embarrassingly enormous breakfast. The second thing was hit the supermarket, because (a) I knew she wouldn't have any food in her apartment, and (b) I needed wine. And chocolate.

When we got to the checkout, the girl asked who was buying the wine. I said, "Either one of us, it doesn't matter. I'm paying, if that's what you mean." And she said, "I need to know who's buying the wine, because if it's her (points to my sister) then I need an ID, but if it's you (points to me) I don't." Ok. I will now pause here to let you ponder this statement........................................................I am sure that you are as shocked as I was, because really, I don't look a day over 21. Right? I mean sure, the mustache makes me look mature, but I was mustache-free that day since I suspect that it also makes me look crazy and/or terroristy and I was flying and stuff, and the last thing I needed on a very rare child and husband-free vacation is to be taken down by an air marshall and cavity searched and waterboarded. So anyway, I said "Excuse me? You don't need an ID from me? Isn't there a rule where if someone looks under 35 you should card them? Don't I look under 35? Hello?" And she just looks at me like she hates her life and wishes I would go die.

So, while I bitched and complained I showed her my ID and paid for the groceries and we went on our way, talking about how totally rude she was. And of course I looked for reassurance from my sister that I did not look over 35, and since she's not only my sister but is intelligent enough to know that I am not at all above kicking her ass, she gave it to me.

Fast forward to Sunday, when I'm getting my receipts together so that the husband can get his Quicken boner taken care of. As I'm putting the supermarket receipt in the pile, I notice something:

This Devil receipt says my birthdate is 12/12/1912.
And Turkey is spelled wrong. 
So not only is that cashier an a-hole, but her cash register is a total idiot.

Now, although I actually witnessed the cashier typing in the birthday, I am hoping that maybe there is some reason that this particular store maybe uses that date as a catch-all date for people over 21. Do any of you know anything about a rule like this? Because, man...I'd hate to think she is that mean. Although she did seem pretty hateful.  And I don't really have a super amount of faith in humanity and their ability to not be totally bitchy. Given, I HAD just gotten off of a plane, which means I was possibly a bit puffy. And I DID get up at 4:00 am, which means I maybe had bags under my eyes. And my birthday IS 12/14, which is close to 12/12. But my year is nowhere near 1912. And if you remember from my vacation blog, those guys at the bar told me I looked 28. Tweny-freakin'-eight!! They even asked to see my ID for proof that I was actually 38! Surely they meant that. And surely it had everything to do with my looks and nothing at all to do with my maturity level. Right?

All I can say, is that cashier and that stupid register of hers had better thank their lucky stars that I am now 745 miles away and neither PMS-ing nor in possession of my own private plane, helicopter, jet pack or teleporter, because if my hormones were just a little more fired up and I had fast transportation, I would so go to Marsh's Sunfresh Market and kick some ass.

* UPDATE* My friend Pennie has informed me that on the Devil receipt, above my fake birthday, it says "Wholly Guacamole." I am so ashamed that I missed that! I guess when you're 98 years old your eyesight's just not as good as it once was.

I Have A New Blog And I Totally Did It Myself (Or Not)

Guess what you guys? I finally got a new blog design! After spending a year being bored to tears by that plain Jane page I was using before, and after spending months trying (and failing) to re-do mine on my own, it's all shiny and new. I am so happy! Now I can stop reading articles and "simple" step-by-step instructions on how to customize my page, because that stuff was giving me migraines. And making me stomp around the house a little bit, talking to myself about how much I hate computers and the insanity of HTML and all that crap. And maybe now I can lay off on the wine a bit. Or not.

Last week I'd finally had it with the whole do-it-yourself approach and was about to toss the laptop out the window, when I was saved by Blogs Gone Wild. Within just a few days we got everything done. And I say the word "we" even though all I did was harass this poor guy over email enough that I'm sure he is (a) extremely relieved this job is over, (b) drinking way too much now, and (c) probably about to put a hit out on me.

So  I want to thank Mr. Bill at Blogs Gone Wild, as well as Sharon Sheara with Camera Shy Creations for so kindly volunteering to take pictures of me with my stupid (yet amazing) mustache. I know that I was a tough subject to shoot. And we had severe trouble not laughing through the whole thing. Also, I want to thank my friend Pete Stuller, who came up with the idea for the photo and tattoo. He was also my Biology partner in the 10th grade, and was awesome enough to play frog puppets with me, which he probably doesn't remember, for reasons I won't mention here.

Man, I totally feel like I'm winning an Academy Award or something. I've never thanked so many people in my life, choosing instead to usually tell people to suck my balls. I feel so nice right now!

If you are getting this post via email, please click the title so you can go to my site and check things out. I hope you like it. If you don't you can totally suck my balls. (There. I feel much better. I said that twice. I am gonna get so many Google hits from this it isn't even funny)

It's Like Angels Singing. If The Angels Were Totally Untalented Ex-Cult Members With Stockholm Syndrome.

Watch this video:



Did you watch it? Don't lie to me. Seriously. I will spork you in the ovarnads. Plus, you won't know wtf I'm talking about unless you watch it first. DO IT!

Okay. Now is where I just decide to trust you guys. Here we go...

First of all let me say that I now know there is a God and a Heaven because this was obviously sent to us from Angels, who sent it to my friend Jenny Ruchhoeft, who sen it to me and is now my most favoritest person in the universe (aside from the inventor of my mustache snowglobe). But although I love this video with a love like no other, I must point out a few things that I find aweomely disturbingly creepily amazing.

-  "He taught me how to praise my God and still play rock and roll." 
No. No, he didn't. This is not anything that even slightly resembles rock and roll. Awesome? Yes. Rock and Roll? Nope.

-  "Once I tried to run and hide. Jesus came and found me and he touched me down inside." 
I'm sorry, but this sounds like something a kidnap/molestation victim says on the witness stand.  I have a bit of advice for you, Jesus. If someone is running and hiding from you, maybe don't chase them. And if you do, then certainly don't touch them down inside when you catch them. There are, like, all kinds of laws against that. Plus it's just gross.

- "He's like a Mountie, he always gets his man. And he'll zap you any way he can." 
Ok. So maybe if some dude who looks like Jesus is chasing you, and you try to run and hide, you'd better either be really fast or a really good hider, because obviously this Jesus has a cattle prod or something like that air gun that scary dude in "No Country For old Men" had, and he's gonna zap the shit out of you with it so he can touch you down inside. Or maybe this Jesus is a wizard. Like Harry Potter. If Harry Potter was listed in the Sex Offenders Registry. And wore sandals.

- The guitarist isn't wearing shoes. 
I'm pretty sure that when Jesus caught him he took them so he couldn't run away anymore. I think I saw that in a kidnapper movie once.

-  There is a mysteriously pointless grand piano is this video.
 For no reason. Maybe the director thought it added a certain gravitas to the whole production or something. But no one is playing it. It's just sitting there looking stupid, which distracts from all of the other things that look stupid. They really shoulda had someone dressed as Jesus playing it. Wearing a Mountie hat. That would have been amazing.

-  "He'll love me when I'm perfect, If I ever get that way." 
Dude...I wouldn't hold my breath on that one.

-  There's a whole lotta virginity going on up in there.
Unless I see videographic proof that any of these people have ever gotten laid, I won't believe it. And if anyone takes me literally and tries to show me videographic proof of any of these people actually getting laid, I will cut you. But I'm sticking with my assumption that they are all mega-virginal and have never even come close to gettin' down with another person. Unless you count being involved in some weird-ass relationship with a really, really, handsy Jesus as gettin' down. Which I guess I probably would.

-  I'd like to point out that the name of this group is "Sonseed."
I have many inappropriate things to say here, but sometimes my mother-in-law reads this, so I'm just gonna let you make up your own.

I Went On A Trip. Not An Acid One. Just A Regular One.

So last week something strange happened. I got to leave my house, my town, my husband and child, and go someplace that involved an airline ticket and a suitcase.

I went on a trip alone. By myself. Over state lines.

I know! I can't believe it either! For one thing I have a feeling, deep down, that I really should not be allowed to travel alone. If I had a psychiatrist, which let's face it - I probably should,  he/she would probably even have some sort of court order against such a scenario. For another thing, it took a rocket sciencey skill set to organize the whereabouts of my 9-year-old for the 4 weekdays that I would be gone. I left notes and piles and suitcases and snacks and medicine charts and all manor of motherly job thingies to get this to work out as smoothly as possible.

And did I mention that I had to leave my house at 5:00 am on THE MORNING AFTER HALLOWEEN? And I had quite the elaborate costume planned for trick-or-treating, but by the time I got myself organized for the trip, and my kid organized for the halloween festivities, I just didn't have the oomph to dress myself up. So I drew on a handlebar mustache, filled a bag with a few bottles of beer, and hit the streets with my little Grim Reaper.

My one-woman trip was to Kansas City to visit my little sister, who at 23 is much younger than me, but at 6 feet tall a bit bigger than me. She had just moved into her first solo apartment so I went to have some bonding time. Roommate free. Whether she wanted it or not, I was there to cramp her style.

Sister cute. Sister being a weirdo. It runs in the family.

My mom told me that my sister was nervous about keeping me entertained, which is totally stupid, because as all you moms out there know, being away from home alone is so freaking rare and exciting that you don't really need entertainment. Just riding on a plane kid-free is so effing fantastic that on step one of the trip you've already had enough fun to make it worthwhile. Even if you, like me, had to sit behind the most flatulent man in the universe and next to the most annoyingly boundaryless woman.

So, me and this lady are sitting in the Exit row, which is airplane Heaven for a tall girl because my freakishly long legs don't even come close to fitting in a regular seat, which have ample legroom for you only if you are an oompa loompa, or a guest of honor at the Amputee Skydiving Festival. So, I say to her : "Maybe if we look sick and/or crazy, nobody will sit between us. You cough alot and I'll talk to myself." Since I am hypnotically persuasive, she was game. Unfortunately, a tiny little Asian woman decided to chance it and sit between us anyway, which shocked the hell out of me because she was obviously a germ-a-phobe of some sort since she put her purse and her briefcase into velvet bags before placing them under the seat. But whatever. The woman and I were not happy about our interloper, but since she was so tiny and couldn't possibly take up much room, we were not too pissed. But we were incredibly wrong about her. This 80 pound woman immediately fell asleep and flopped her drooling head onto the shoulder of my comrade, then actually threw her legs over mine. Yes. On top of my legs. Like she wanted a foot rub or something. She may have been 80 pounds but she took up more room than a linebacker. And at least if we'd had a linebacker he would have been aware of his girth and probably tried to make himself small and unobtrusive, and possibly even taught me what the hell a linebacker is. I tried to wiggle her legs off of me, but they just wouldn't budge, so I started to cough. Alot. And when I saw her open an eye to take a peek at me I said "I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure I was bitten by a Zombie last night and now I feel funny." And voila...she made herself tiny. FYI: Crazy works every time.

So I had 3 carefree days with my sister to shop, eat, drink, shop, eat, drink, and shop, eat, drink. Oh, and find weird stuff at flea markets. And go serial killer hunting in her building. And eat some more and drink some more. And sleep on a blow up mattress like I'm young and careless and don't have an old lady back. And get told by (possibly double-vision-having drunk boys) that I can't possibly be a day over 28. Shut up. I'm sure they meant it.

Anyway, my sister's apartment had some freaky-ass pounding going on in the pipes, which I am almost positive was morse code, which I suggested was being tapped out by someone who was chained up in the basement by a psycho janitor. Lindsy didn't see how this was possible, since she was on the fifth floor. But as I told her, the morse code pipe tapping of an abductee can carry like nobody's business. I watch scary movies all the time so I'm sort of an expert on that kind of thing. I suggested that we go to the basement and check it out but she declined because she's obviously selfish and doesn't care about saving people. She pretended like she thought I was stupid, and she said something about me having my own constant stories going on in my head or something, but I'm pretty sure she was just scared. So when she was at work one night I went down to check it out myself, and although I found nothing, that doesn't mean there's not a secret room that I missed. Because Serial Killer Janitors know nothing if not how to hide their murder rooms. I'm just saying.

On a less murdery note...One of my favorite things to do is to go to Flea Markets, so we did that a few times to look for things for her apartment. And while I found things that I thought would make her new place "special", she seemed to have a different opinion. One place had so many Jesus paintings that I have to assume it was nothing less than a sign from Heaven that we needed them. There were Jesuses (Jes-i?) everywhere, so I suggested a Jesus themed apartment. Unfortunately she poo-pooed that idea, even though I watch all those decoratey shows and I really think I know what I'm doing. Then I found one of my most favoritest flea market finds ever...A FREAKIN' GIANT CAT! And I suggested that instead of a sofa (which she needed) I buy her the giant cat, which could easily seat one, possibly two very thin, apartment visitors. Although this idea slightly intrigued her, it was a no go.  And although I pondered all the things that I could tell Steve to convince him that I needed this $200 big-ass cat in order to survive, I begrudgingly left it behind. And as usual, we also found some doll parts at the markets. And strangely enough, a doll that was missing a head yet was $55.00 with a tag that said "Antique doll. $55.00. Missing some toes." Yeah. But it's also MISSING A HEAD!

Me riding a giant cat, of course. Because who in their right mind wouldn't ride a giant cat?  A loser, that's who.
Glass container of doll heads. Totally expected. Not even shocking anymore.
You can still cootchie-coo the hell out of a headless baby who's also missing a few toes. And it's so not even weird.

But out of everything I saw in Kansas City, there was one item that stood out. One item that made me shed a tear of happiness. One item that I was bound and determined to purchase no matter the cost (which thankfully was only $12.00, although as I told Steve, I would have totally prostituted myself to make enough money to buy it anyway). And that was this:

Yeah. That's a mother-effing MUSTACHE SNOWGLOBE, yo!

Honestly, I've dreamed up some pretty fantastic things in my twisted little head, but never did I dare dream I would find something as amazing and spectacular as this. I just wish I knew the Genius who invented this, i.e. my soul mate. I can now die happy. Which I might. Because aside from having a kidnapped girl in the basement, I'm pretty sure that Lindsy's apartment building was also haunted. Because it was really old and really creaky and stuff. And mostly because I wanted it to be haunted because I love that kind of stuff. And I'm pretty sure that the ghost fell in love with me and followed me home, because that shit happens to me ALOT. And when I got home my cat (Ethan's cat) started running around the house all bonkers like it was chasing something invisible (like a ghost) and generally acting like she was spooked out of her little kitty cat mind. And today she is all up in my grill and trying to make out with me non-stop like a maniac, which I think she is, because she's undoubtedly possessed by the ghost that followed me home and is now using her furry body as a vessel to get all up on my stuff and be all rubby and licky and everything. So now I need an exorcist because having a cat lick and dry hump you is totally unacceptable. Even if you're totally into dry humping. Like I am. And Steve says I have trouble drawing lines, so I am thinking that drawing one at being dry humped by a cat is a good place to start. And now I can tell him that if only he wasn't too big of a tight wad to let me buy that giant cat, I could surely use it as protection against this 9-pound humping cat, and save myself alot of exorcist fees because I'm pretty sure exorcists charge more than $200 a pop, because dude, they are making ghosts go away. And not just any loser off the street can work that magic. Except probably a big-ass giant cat.