Failure Bread

Today was a bountiful day.  It was kind of eerie; as though some higher power had declared it Give V Free Shit Day, but no one had told me about it.  Anyway, let me allow you to vicariously share in my glory by providing you with this very random list of stuff I got today, unrequested and free.

A King James Bible:  Yeah, I was surprised too.  Usually, these things get thrown violently at my head, instead of appearing in pairs inside boxes of Aristospan, as though Noah had built a tiny cardboard ark and then gotten drunk and filled it only with New Testaments and medical supplies.*  Why did the lovely Aristospan people feel that a doctor named Strosberg needed, not just one, but a matching set of “Physician’s Life Reference” books?***  I don’t know.  All I know is, it was so silly I just had to be a part of it.  By stealing one.  Whatevs, don’t give that “Thou shalt not” crap, free Bible.

Ice Cream:  This was provided by the lovely people at Cymbalta.  Wanna know why prescriptions are so expensive?  Cuz drug reps give out pints of ice cream like condoms on Sex Ed day, that’s why!  So the next time you’re spending $75 dollars on fourteen measly little pills and dreading every single side effect, take comfort in the fact that at least I got a cold pint of Caramel Butter Pecan.  You’re welcome.

A Shiny Paperweight:  Thanks, My People!  I put it in front of some candles and it’s so sparkly I’m tempted to try Ecstacy just cuz I think it’d be fuckin’ rad to look at while wasted.

Pirate Fabric:  Presumably for the making of booty bags.

A Crab:  Technically, it’s Rob’s crab, but we are a nice couple and we always share our crabs.****

A Weed Poker:  No, not the dubious gardening product Billy Mays used to hawk. Apparently, a weed poker is a paperclip that has been bent into a shape that will allow you to scrape pot residue and ash from inside a pipe or bowl.  Further, a paperclip that has been bent into this shape can only function as a weed poker from that fateful day onward.  The one my sister found on the floor of my car was apparently “a pretty nice one; it has a handle and everything!”  So yeah.  Party in my backseat, bitches.*****

*That was probably one of his early attempts.  He was drunk pretty often, from what I hear.  FROM MY NEW BIBLE, NATCH!**

**Natch is my new favorite word, so much so that I consciously search for sentences in which I can spring it upon an unsuspecting public.

***The author is listed as ‘the world’s greatest physician.’  Catchy, ain’t it?

****See what I did there?

*****It’ll be like prom night, only with less vomit and fewer regrets.  And more weed.

Dear CNN,

Fuck off and die, please.

Seriously.  You have outlived your usefulness.  You have become a pathetic mockery of your former self.  You are a shallow wreck of a news station, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.  You are a suck sandwich on failure bread with weak sauce and a flimsy yellowing pickle of ineptitude.

Why?

Because Michael Jackson is dead, and you decided this was worth two weeks of 24-hour-a-day coverage.  I am not going to point out what the fuck is wrong with this; it’s up to you to pull your head out of your ass and realize that there ARE SLIGHTLY MORE IMPORTANT THINGS HAPPENING IN THE WORLD!!!

So, to sum up, you suck.  Please choke on vomit.

Love,

V

I don’t have enough material* for a full article today, so I thought I’d just get a few short things off my chest in the form of highly-cathartic unsent letters.  Enjoy!

——————–

Dear Jamie,

I didn’t watch Repo Man even though I had a perfect opportunity tonight, because I left it at home instead of in my car.  I promise I will soon.  Please don’t send me a letterbomb or anything.

Love,

V

——————–

Dear Pants-On-Head Retarded** Burger King Employee,

Take a chicken cutlet.  Now take a chicken sandwich bun.  Hold them side by side.  Notice anything?  Like, oh, say, that they are the same shape?  Now think back, way back to when you were just a very tiny disappointment to your worried parents, learning to stack blocks.  Did the tower stand up better when you stacked blocks of the same shape on top of each other?  It did?  Imagine that!  Now I know you probably already hate your life, but allow me to introduce more misery by pointing out that today when you made my sandwich, you failed a skill that most functionally intelligent people learn at age three!  The fucking chicken fits perfectly onto the bun, and yet instead of stacking them neatly, you handed me a literally half-unwrapped bun with a perpendicular chicken shoved into it!  Garnished with a green tomato!

Congratulations, mouth-breather.  My dinner was subpar.  I hope you know who you’ve pissed off.

Fuck Off And Die Cuz You’re A Lazy Moron,

V

——————–

Dear Sean and Megan,

I less-than-three you both.  Please stop calling while I’m carnally engaged.

Love,

V

——————–

Dear Adult Swim,

Bring back Space Ghost, okay?

V

——————–

Dear Today.com,

Please stop reformatting my paragraphs.  I took out the horizontal rules that confused you so much, what more do you want?  Fuckers.

V

———-

*Snerk.

**It’s a link, Lenny.  Go back and click the stars and I’ll give you a pet mouse.  A soft one.

Dude.  Drop whatever the fuck stupid nonsense you’re doing right now, and go to fox.com, and watch the teaser pilot episode of Glee.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.

Since I’m not stupid enough to think you actually surfed away from my addictive blog to watch some TV show, let me just give you a heads up before you go clicky-clicking like a good little follower: You will watch this show.  When it airs this fall, you will watch this show.  You will love it, but even if you don’t, you will watch it, because if you don’t and it gets cancelled, then I will bomb Fox Studios and you will never know what the hell is going on with Lost!!!  Or House.  This is not a drill; you know when I am willing to put House on the line that I am pretty God damn serious.

My sister put me onto this little gem, and it was enough to make me forgive her for going to see Bride Wars.  This show, even if it is set in a typical TV high school, is so friggin’ cute, and even better, it’s a show about, duh, a glee club.  Which means singing and dancing.  Which means Fox has finally picked up on a trend in human behavior that will not be dulled by time or fads: the people love music.

I think most people harbor a secret love for musicals that they won’t admit to because it seems lame or geeky.  And even musicals aren’t your thing (”How do they all know the words?!”), it is human nature to appreciate, love, and even crave music.  If it weren’t, and loving music was just something only the hardcore music dweebs did, would the iPod exist?  It would not.

Anyway, watch Glee, because I want to watch Glee.*  If you’re still skeptical, do as I suggested and go watch the pilot episode on fox.com.  Sit through it till the end, even if you start to think it’s not your cup of tea.  I defy you to watch the last five minutes of this show and not smile and think, “Damn, we need more of this on television, I will be watching this motherfucker.”  Why?

Because I don’t care who you are, a capella Journey is EVERYONE’S cup of tea.

*Also, because it is apparently where the cast members of Heroes go when their characters get killed off. 

When I heard several different usually reputable sources say that Drag Me To Hell was a pretty good horror movie, I, in my infinite gullibility, took that to mean that it was, how do you say, a pretty good fucking horror movie.  That’s how I interpret that particular phrase.

Apparently, the rest of the world has a different working definition of ‘pretty good,’ cuz the shit that I saw made me want to hunt down the Raimis and beat them with Joxer’s colander hat till it stopped being fun.

It would take too long for me to list all the things that were wrong with this movie, so I’ll just give a quick synopsis and then hit the highlights till they puke in your mouth, because apparently, that’s the scariest thing that could ever happen to you ever ever.

Drag Me To Hell, contrary to what the trailers would have you believe, is a shitstorm of a movie centering on a blond girl who pisses off a gypsy and gets cursed.*  Why does a gypsy curse her?  Because all gypsies ever do is run around cursing people, natch.  I don’t know if there’s like a Gypsies For Equal Treatment In Films Association out there or anything, but if I were a gypsy, I’d be pretty pissed off about the way movies portrayed my entire people.

But I digress.  Anyway, blond girl gets cursed, and finds out that she has three days before a goat-demon called a Lamia drags her formerly fat ass into hell.  However, in those three days, the Lamia will also visit her at home several times to throw her into walls because he’s apparently just a real dick that way, and the now-dead gypsy who cursed her will pop in occasionally to vomit gross things into her mouth.  The girl gets a couple of psychics and a random Mexican to hold a seance for her, which doesn’t work, and she dies.  The end.

Are we all caught up?  Good, here comes the List O’Reasons I Cried “Fuck Me, I Paid Money For This?”

1)  Lamia is not a goat god bound to do gypsy bidding.  Lamia is actually an ancient Greek myth that has something to do with being a baby-eating witch.**  The Greeks had a goat god, but he was more about partying with nymphs and getting drunk than sending people to the underworld.  The creature in this movie is actually a lot more like Baphomet, if Baphomet had nothing better to do than chase after bank tellers just because a senile old gypsy told him to.

2)  What the hell was with all the mouth nastiness?  Every time I stopped snorting into my Dr. Pepper, I’d look up to the screen and there’d be the old gypsy drooling in Blonde Girl’s mouth, or vomiting into it, or puking worms into it, or punching her dirty old gypsy hand into it.  Bitch, close your fucking mouth and maybe nasty demon shit would stop getting into it!  This girl had vileness in her mouth so many different times throughout the movie, I literally lost count.

3)  Why was Justin Long in this flick?  I don’t get it.  I mean, somebody had to play the skeptical but well-meaning boyfriend and it might as well be someone good-looking, but why was the character even there?  So that he could pick up the tab for Miss Cleo’s light show and look sad at the end?  Pointless.  I thought maybe he’d get invited to the seance and could look scared and probably yell “What the fuck?” a couple times, but no, he wasn’t invited, even though anyone who’s seen even one seance movie can tell you four looks better at the table than three.  Which brings me to number four.

4)  Who the fuck was the Hispanic dude at the seance?  The character literally showed up five seconds before they all sat down to summon Mr. Tumnus.  Who was he?!  It was like the old psychic said, “Oh, you sent your boyfriend away?  But we need four for a seance, everyone knows that!  Oh, well.  Token Indian Guy, would you go fetch the gardener, he’ll do.”  So the gardener comes in and gets possessed (shortly after a goat calls Blonde Girl a whore - I am not making this shit up).

While I did spend the entire movie laughing my ass off at the cheesy effects (OMG, goat feet!  Under my door!   AHHHHHH!) and repetitive scare tactics (violins, violins, violins, SHIT OLD LADY IS VOMITING RUN OH NO THE DOOR CLOSED BY ITSELF YET AGAIN!!!), I definitely felt dirty for having suggested to my sister that we see this movie.  I award it no points and may God have mercy on its soul.

*Incidentally, how does the gypsy curse scale work?  Cuz sending a goat demon after someone for refusing them a loan seems pretty harsh.  I mean, the dude from Thinner fucking ran over someone and all he got was a tapeworm.

**Was I surprised that Neil Gaiman knew this, but not the Raimi brothers?  Not even a little.

I know that pretty much every snarky bitch on earth has beaten me to this particular punch, but I have to come out and say it.  I can’t keep it inside any longer.

I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK AT A ROLLING DOUGHNUT ABOUT JON AND KATE AND THEIR BEASTLY FARCE OF A MARRIAGE!!!

I don’t!  Why the fuck should I?  They’re a couple of obviously sub-human twatwaffles who thought that the best way to cement the stability and intimacy of their family life was to broadcast it to the entire country.  The only thing they forgot to factor into the equation* is that doing that automatically makes you a shitty parent.  I can’t believe that neither of these mouth-breathing whores has a family member close enough to them to point out that becoming a reality television star is just one step below stapling things to yourself for money on the scale of Shameful Ways To Make A So-Called Living.**

Now, when I hear about people with lots of kids, I am less than impressed.  Half the old ladies I work with come from double-digit families; that’s the way it used to be before the Pill, back when you could reasonably expect your kids to do their share on the family farm without calling CPS because they’d rather be playing with an Xbox they neither earned nor deserve.  Admittedly, having five or six of them at one time is pretty remarkable, and in that case, I might ponder to myself, “Self, what do you think it’s like living in a household like that?  That must require some hella good parenting.”

And I’d be right.  To successfully raise eight children, especially multiple births, takes some hella good parenting.  And the first rule of hella good parenting is to NOT SELL YOUR CHILDREN’S SOULS TO THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL!  Putting your small children on display like the goddamned bearded lady automatically disqualifies you from candidacy for decent parenthood and turns you into someone I don’t think should be allowed to broadcast their stupidity to the rest of this mush-headed, impressionable country.

Think about your childhood.  Think of the fits, the fights, the potty-training accidents, the millions of small embarrassments, and the rare few horrifically shameful times that your whole family silently agreed to never mention again.

Now imagine that there’s a digital video record of all of that.  And not only that, but just by Googling, any sicked-out pervert in the world can view it in detail.  Imagine being in like, eighth grade and having the class bully print out a hundred copies of your five-year-old self crying in a jewelry store because Mom had the audacity to bring your teddy bear on your ear-piercing excursion.***   What then, Jon and Kate, what fucking then?  You think your kids are nightmarish little brats now (and let’s all just face it, they are)?  Just you wait till they’re the laughing stock of their school and they know exactly who to blame.

So no.  I don’t give a shit if Jon cheated or Kate’s emotionally frigid or if they each secretly sucked off a Baldwin brother.  Their marriage was already a joke, from the moment they decided to turn their lives and their almost-innocent children’s lives into a publicity stunt.  That’s what happens.  Kate seems like the type to obsessively follow tabloids and reality TV; doesn’t she notice that this is always what happens?!

But this is good, actually.  Because maybe if they break up they won’t bring eight more little morons into the world.  The thing about this situation that I really hate, the thing that really pisses me off, is that I hear about this nonsensical soap opera…

…on CNfuckingN.  CNN the news station.

THIS IS NOT NEWS!  Idiots break up every single day!  Why is the station that is supposed to be bringing me up-to-the-minute coverage of important world events that actually affect my life telling me about a couple of blue-bus-riding fame junkies who just can’t make it work?

I don’t care!  Stop trying to make me care about silliness, CNN, and do your goddamn job!

*Which I’m guessing was something like: Jon + Kate + 8 = money, money, money, free diapers, money, money, money.

**And only one tiny step above making an Amazon wishlist and webcamming your tits all day long.

***Speaking of good parenting, that little brat needs a good smack.  If I talked to my parents the way some of these kids talk to theirs, I’d have been ass-kicked from one room to the next till I learned a little respect.

And now, friends and neighbors, for an amusing example of schadenfreude.

I have this brother, yes? And this brother, he has a girlfriend. And this girlfriend has a three-legged dog.

Believe it or not, the three-legged dog is not the amusing part.

What is amusing is that the three-legged dog got spooked as my brother was coming through the door the other day. The dog, jumpy and confused, pounced on the perceived predator and latched on to the first thing his teeth sank into.

Which just happened to be my brother’s crotch.

Picture this, if you will. Poor young staff sergeant comes home after a long day of serving his country only to find his staff sergeanted by an angry animal. Picture my brother, six feet tall and outfitted in camouflage, with a three-legged dog hanging off his nether regions.

Worry not; according to Mom, “the frank was okay, but the beans were bleeding a little.” So I’m sure he’ll be all right.

I’m back!  Get excited!

Sorry about the long absence, but circumstances being what they are, you know, I was quite busy with some things, with the possibility of extending my mutuals to full-time etc.  Look, it’s all very technical…

Anyshit, here I am, ready and willing to entertain you with joy and cynicism.

First off, everyone say hi to Kirby, my new laptop.  Because I now own Kirby, I have even fewer excuses for not updating,** but I like him anyway cuz he runs Linux so I get to see adorable penguins pretty frequently.  Also, Kirby has a tiny condensed keyboard, so if you notice typos, they’re his fault, not mine.

Before you ask, yes, I do have a topic for this post other than ‘I’m a slothy bitch with a new computer.’  In fact, it’s pretty much the only topic worth buzzing about lately.  Yes, you guessed it.****  It’s frickin’ Star Trek.*****

For all you non-Trekkies, or those of you who only wear your Spock ears on special occasions, I’ll keep it simple.  The topic today is Zachary Quinto being so made of win that he wins the first ever Failure Bread Awesome Sauce Award.

The Failure Bread Awesome Sauce Award: presented to those individuals or things that garnish the sandwich of your otherwise miserable life with the mayo of extreme coolness, the Russian dressing of undeniable greatness, the oil and vinegar of total and complete Awesomeness.

Zach wins this award for several reasons: first, commitment to the job.  He shaved his eyebrows off to play Spock and if you’ve ever seen his eyebrows, you know this is no small, quick feat.  Secondly, being sexy even with shaved eyebrows.  I don’t know if it’s the sexy monochrome Star Fleet uniforms or just the fact that I prefer my men emotionally unavailable and free of troublesome in-laws, but I harbored several vivid dreams about lightsabering Uhura, stealing her wicked little skirt, and doing some beaming-up of my own.  Third, because never in my life have I heard someone make the phrase “Live long and prosper” sound so very much like “Fuck you.”  And finally, for inspiring this great little moment:

Me:  You know, I heard Zachary Quinto can’t do the Vulcan hand thing.  JJ Abrams had to glue his fingers together.

Rob:  Lots of people can’t.  It’s genetic.

Me:  Really?  That’s awesome; I am genetically superior to Zachary Quinto.

Rob:  You better be careful.  Now you have a power he wants…

Am I the only one who thinks a ‘Heroes’/'Star Trek’ crossover where Spock and Sylar duke it out and glare at each other would be the frickfracking bomb?!******

*Hi, Jamie!  This means you won’t kill me now, right?

**Leaving me with only “I’m lazy,” “But ‘Heroes’ is on tonight!”*** and my personal favorite, “I just hate all your faces.”

***Goddamn summer break!!!

****We both know you didn’t, but I’ll cover for you.

*****I almost titled this post “Live Long and Prosper… In Mah Pants,” before I remembered I was not my brother.

******If it weren’t totally the lamest thing ever?

Great Moments With Jeannie, Volume One

Jeannie:  Check out the flyer I just made for the penny wars fundraiser.

Me:  Pretty cool.

Jeannie:  Is it readable?

Me:  Yeah.  But I’m not afraid of words, like most people.

Jeannie:  …Oh, well.  I’ll put some glitter on it.

 And thus, Jeannie was Made Of Win for suggesting the illiterate can always be won over with sparkles.

Rob:  Who the fuck is Hawkdude?

Me:  You know, Hawkdude.  The geeky guy?

Rob:  You mean Nightowl?

Me:  Is that his name?  He’s supposed to be an owl?

Rob:  Yeah; hence the name Nightowl.

Me:  Are we thinking of the same guy?  This is the guy with the ass, who was giving it to that chick inside the giant ow-  Oh.

Rob:  Yeah.

Me:  I’m a jackass, aren’t I?

Rob:  Yeah.