Thursday, November 30, 2006

All I want is you

I know I have a reputation for being a hard ass. For being violent, guarded, and unsympathetic. And it's true, I won't deny it. We all know I'll punch you right in the knee cap. And if I could reach I'd puncture your lung with your own rib. But, beneath all the hostility, rage and all the yelling is a plain old sap. I'm like your great aunt Ester's shitty hard candy. That candy she leaves out in floral patterned dish on the coffee table in the living room. Each piece of candy is wrapped in a white wrapper with tiny pictures of fruit painted on it. That candy is hard on the outside. If you bite the candy it'll break your jaw. However, if you let the artificially colored and flavored teeth decayer sit in your mouth a spell. If you're patient. You'll discover my insides are gooey. Once you look past the facade, past the anger, and past my clothes you'll see I'm just a big old teddy bear of girl. Yeah I'm hairy--hairy like a bear. But maybe it's that hair that makes me believe in love. I have to because no one is going to sleep with a hairy girl unless they love her.

If you don't believe I'm like a hollywood hooker. A woman with a heart of gold, sans the hooking and sleeping around for money, I don't blame you. I've known myself my whole life and I've only just discovered I have the capacity to love, or at least appreciate the art of other people who can love.

I can't get this God damn U2 song out of my head. I'm not even a U2 fan.

Let's see if you guys fair any better. Because "All I want is you."

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

2006 Thanksgiving in Review

My boyfriend Jack and I were left to our own devices this Thanksgiving. My parents fled to Florida with some friends and Jack's parents don't celebrate Thanksgiving. Jack's dad is a freelance non-Indian Indian Chief and finds the holiday too painful. Jack and I decided to head up to my aunt and uncle's house in Westport, CT. My aunt's a good cook (you know she doesn't use cheeze wiz) and my cousins are pretty funny.

Unfortunately during the course of dinner Jack's feelings got hurt. See, I'm engaged to my friend James who currently lives in Oregon. James doesn't want to end up alone so he asked me to marry him when he turned 42 which will occur in nine years. My boyfriend Jack and I agreed we'd help James in his time of need. James has no problem if I continue to see other people after we're married. The whole thing just works out perfectly. A few weeks ago James mailed me a ring of engagement which I wear because I'm engaged and that's what engaged women do.

I wore my ring to Thanksgiving dinner. I told my family the good news that I was engaged. They all congratulated me and toasted my pending nuptials. They all fawned over my ring and kept asking me about the wedding. Jack began to get irritated. He had come up to celebrate Thanksgiving and all my family could talk about was James who wasn't even there. Jack with a couple of glasses of Chianti in him exclaimed, "The wedding is nine years away! Rachael and I are dating right now."
The family was like, "Oh 9 years. Rachael, are you serious about this wedding?"
I find this question flawed. Because I am in the mindset that I will marry James but I think it's alot of fun being engaged and so in that regard I'm not serious. Perhaps when the novelty of engagement wears off in 4 or 5 years I'll be more serious about it.
Anyway, this nine years away thing got my family all panicked. They asked, "Rachael don't you think that wearing the engagement ring around all the time will deter other men from ever asking you out?"
Jack got really mad and said, "Hello! I'm right here! I'm not detered. I'm here in your house! Celebrating the slaughter of people my father works for. Jesus Christ!"
"Jack, honey. Calm down. Let me handle this." I told my relatives, "I wasn't really meeting men before I had a ring. I'm thinking it's not the ring that's a deterent."
"Yeah, it's me you crazies!"
And that's when we stopped pouring Jack wine.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Single Another Word for Reject

I feel for my best friend Anna. She's single. And dating seems to be just a barrage of rejection. Rejection you don't even ask for.

Anna had met a young man a couple of weeks ago. They corresponded via email multiple times a day for a week. He then called. He said he had an extra ticket to see a motor-cross event and would she like to go with him. Anna thought perhaps this invite also doubled as a date. She wasn't in love with this man but he seemed nice enough, fit, funny, intelligent, and who doesn't love motor cross? So she accepted. After the motor cross they went for a drink with the would be suitor's friend who competed in the event. When the drinks were fully imbibed and convesation about the philosophies of motor cross exhausted all three of them went their separate ways. No kisses, no sex, just a hug good-bye and subway ride home.

Anna didn't know if she had just been on a date. Nothing sexual happened and when she thought about the invite she realized motor cross is kind of a nebulous event regarding a date. It's not like he asked her to go apple picking. So Anna sent the young man an email thanking him for the motor cross experience. He emailed back and wrote, "Sure thing. If I get any more opportunities to go see motor cross I'll let you know. You're my new motor-cross buddy." Her buddy. Well, I guess that answers that question.

They continue to email. It's not every day you make a motor cross buddy.

Monday, November 27, 2006

I Deserve a Proper Break-Up

Last week I called my mother. She did not pick up the phone. I left a message requesting advice on what to buy my orphaned cousin for her 8th birthday. My cousin's birthday came and went and my mother never returned my call. I wound up buying my cousin a 1/2 pound of milk chocolate. Kids love chocolate, and it's not like she's got parents to get mad at me for buying the kid candy. And as I always say if you can't have parents you might as well have chocolate.

But here's the thing? Why didn't my mother call me back? I think my mom is passive aggressively trying to break-up with me. Why else would she not return my call? I think she wants to start seeing other people's children. Which is fine. We've been growing apart of years now. We don't even live together anymore. And if she agrees that she doesn't think it's working and wants to end it after 29 years, I guess I can't stop her. But you'd think she'd have the decency call me back and break it off with me. After 29 years I think I deserve more than a phone call. I deserve a face to face break-up. Doesn't the many many vacations we traveled together mean anything to her? She's been to all my graduations and even my batzmitzvah. For Heaven's sake she gave birth to me. You don't just give birth to someone if it's not serious. I deserve answers. An explanation of why she "Just can't do this anymore." If it's because I refuse to have grandkids, fine so be it. The passing on of genetic material is important to her. And it's not so important to me. We have different priorities. Apparently, my mother (or is it my former mother how can I know if she won't call me) thinks grandchildren are so important she can't call me back.

A friend suggested that maybe she didn't get the voice mail message. "She is, after all in Florida, right now." Yeah, fine maybe she didn't get the voice mail, but she hasn't called me just to talk. We have a relationship where we call each other pretty regularly. Not every day, but at least once a week. I guess she's calling her new children now.

I bet you she's seeing her brother's three daughters. Yeah, my own cousins. The betrayal. They all have had mutliple babies the past three years. I wonder if my aunt and uncle know my mom is trying to steal their children and grandchildren from them.

OH GOD. Why won't my mother return my phone call? I can't believe it's over. I guess it's time to register with some online parent finder site.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

For Thanksgving

You know what's worse than your own family? Someone else's family.

Even though both sides of my family are peppered with lunatics they are my lunatics. I've grown up with them. I get them. They get me. We're all on the same page. The problem with lunatics you're not related to is you haven't grown accustom to them.

I agreed to attend Thanksgiving dinner at the parent's house of my friend Shari. This was several years ago when I lived in Portland. Shari's parents lived out in toothless, OR--otherwise known as the town of Mollala. Prior to our journey to Middle Oregon I purchased a bottle of red wine to give to Shari's parents. We arrive. I present my bottle of wine, "Thanks for having me."
Shari's mom makes a face as if I've handed over a bottle of castor oil and says, "Oh. Well. We don't drink wine." She then tries to give me back the bottle of wine. I feel weird and attempt to be gracious and say, "No. Keep it. Maybe you can serve it to company." She gives me a look that says, "Uh we don't hang out with aliens." Now you're thinking that these people are crazy Christians who don't drink. No. These people love alcohol-- as long as it's not wine. In fact I'm offered a beer or whisky, which I decline--I had given up drinking the night before (Long story for another time.) Well, to quote Lloyd Bridges in Airplane "I chose the wrong week to give up drinking." Shari's parents seemed horrified that I didn't want to drink. If not horrified very offended. I might as well have said, "You're blue eyeshadow makes you look like you've been punched in both eyes." Which I didn't say.

We sat down to dinner. One of the two side dishes served they called, "Brocoli Surprise." It was a sort of hazmat looking yellow goop with a few specks of green drowning in it, served in a glass pan. I declined. I might have been rude not to even try it, but I was not ready to die in Mollala by a Thanksgiving side-dish. I discovered later that the yellow stuff was cheezwiz. Just gobs and gobs of cheeze wiz enveloping five pieces of brocoli. Americans descended from Nothern Europe love the stuff. They like to dip their Wonder bread right in it. But I was raised by Southern and Eastern European Americans and though all these European Americans are white there are subtle difference in our cultures. For example, my people don't eat cheese spelt with a "z" that comes in a jar. Thankfully dinner ended.

It was now time for Shari's uncle to come over and do Jello shots with the whole family. You know the traditional Thanksgiving Jello shots. You remember when the Indians made a feast and the Pilgrims wanted to contribute to the meal so they went back on the Mayflower and got out the the gin and mixed it with Jello? Shari's family had trays and trays of them in the refrigorator, well not the traditional pilgrim Jello shots. The Mollala family used vodka. Here's where 60 year old people began to pressure me into doing shots. "Come on. They're just Jello shots. It's not like it's real drinking." My health teacher in middle school, when I learned about drugs and alcohol, never told me there'd be a time when retirees would try to force alcohol down my throat. Nancy Reagan didn't understand that just saying, "No" isn't always the most socially gracefully way to avoid inebriation. At this point I was willing to drink. However, I don't like Jello. I know. I know. What kind of American am I? That's the thing I'm not a real American I'm from New Jersey.

I longed for my home land where my lunatics lived and celebrated. The people who argue incesantly about directions. It is very important to my family you travel over the correct bridge, and make great time to your destination. I yearned for the people who only want the smallest pieces of cake. A sliver of cake. "NO! Half that!" Who then eat 10 cookies. That I understand. OK I don't understand it but it's comfortable. Instead, I was trapped with drunken strangers who hated me. Yes trapped. I had no car. I had only one working ankle. I could have tried to make a hobble for it, but I didn't know my way back to Portland. I surely would have perished in the elements. So, figuring I was already hated I took a nap on the couch. And when I write I took a nap on the couch I mean I pretended to take a nap on the couch. I "awoke" just in time to be driven home.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Earlier Each Year.

It's not even Thanksgiving yet and people are already correcting the way I spell Hanukah.

I say everytime you spell Hanukah with English letters you misspell the holiday.
My friend Allison posted on her blog that everyone who left a comment on that day's post would be rewarded with a compliment from her. She'd let each individual know what she loves about that person. I left no comment. I'm very uncomfortable with affection.

A Guide to New York Area Parties

I am very popular. I am sure this surprises none of you. Just look at me. Who wouldn't want to spend time with me? Exactly. One of the many reasons I'm so popular is that I'm a giving person. I share. Today I want to share with you the contrasts between types of parties. This way if you ever become even moderately as popular as I am you will know how to behave.

This weekend I attended two separate parties. Yes, that's right two parties. I don't know where I find the time or the energy. But I do. I must. My public needs me. That's why I try to stay fit. Saturday I attended a party thrown by my roommate at his new art studio. Sunday I attended a birthday party for my young cousin who ascended to the age of 8 years old. I now would like to share the differences between and adult party and a child's party.

1. --If you arrive fashionably late to an adult party you get there right when the party gets hopping.
--If you arrive fashionably late for an 8-year-old's birthday party, you miss the party.

2. -- A child's party is full of flashing lights, loud noises, and video games.
-- An adult party is full of booze, which makes loud noises, flashing lights, and screaming children excruciating the next day.

3. -- A child's party is full of rides which makes it exciting.
-- An adult's party is held in a yet to be gentrified area of Brooklyn. Where you must traverse darkened, deserted alleys in order to attend. Also very exciting.

4. -- An adult party makes you want to have sex.
-- A child's party makes you reconsider ever having sex.

5. -- A child's party has pizza.
-- An adult party has guacamole and chips.

6. -- At a child's party my grandfather likes to cry and declare that no one loves him.
-- At an adult party (family edition) my grandfather likes to cry while we all tell him no one loves him.

7. -- At a child's party the kids call my grandfather (who wears an eye patch) "patchy the pirate" to his face.
-- At an adult party we call each other whore behind one another's backs.

8. -- A child's party is filled with hope and excitement toward the future.
-- An adult party the attendees belt out Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."

Friday, November 17, 2006

Internal Come'on Monologue

Hey there cute boy sitting in the same coffee shop as me. You are cute. Do you think I'm cute? Do think the way I run my fingers through my hair is hot? The way my fingers stop at the top of my scalp and scratch? It's so animal of me. Grrr! How about the way I briskly take my hand from hair and inquistively examine my scalp in my finger nails. Yeah. Rrroar. And all the while I'm furiously writing in my journal. You like a multi-tasker like that? You know where else I multi-task? Uh huh, the library. Oh yeah, I'm a baby mamma--whatever that means but it sounds hot when I say it in my head. Ooo look. Now I'm drinking my hot apple cider and deliciously picking and prodding at the pores on my arm. That's right I'm not ashamed to bare my arms in public. You like that kind of confidence in a lady? a L. A.D.Y. Are you finding it hard to control the urge to come over and talk to me as I sexily stick my pointer finger in my ear and begin to dig? It's OK you can come over here. I don't bite. cuticles. And I don't stop a job until it's done. But you already know that. You've watched me for the last half hour continually tug at a chin hair until I finally ripped it from my person. Maybe we can get a drink sometime. We can sit at the bar as our hands tear the label off the beer bottles. Well mine will be a cider, but we can discuss that later. Yum.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

My Visit to the Doctor

I went to the doctor to find out why I've been so consistently tired lately. He asked me a bunch of questions. One question he asked was "Are you depressed?" I answered, "Nah. I haven't really cried this week." That's right people even comedians weep. It's not all ha ha all the time. Yeah, I cry and not just when someone like a nurse puts an adhesive bandage on a hairy section of my arm and then later I have to yank that adhesive bandage off. Thereby ripping hair out of my arm. No, that doesn't make me cry. That makes me swear like a South Park movie. But my crying isn't really the point. Let's just say I cry and leave it at that. Why go into my deep seeded sadness. None of you care. You just want the chuckles. You want my tears after they've been transformed into punchlines. Well, fine. Here you go then. Take my pain. Take it and use it for your own amusement. Who am I but a slave. Your blogging monkey. Clap your hands and I'll dance an internet jig.

The point is my doctor might care too much on being liked by his patients. After I mentioned the weeping he then asked, "Well, do you want me to give you something for that?" I declined because I don't think anti-depressants come in liquid form. Oh yeah, and I also think perhaps I should have someone diganose me as depressed before I start taking random drugs. I wouldn't even know what to order. He smiled, and said, "OK." and then cheerily like a buddy said, "You just let me know." Thanks, doc. Thanks for just taking my word for it. You know, because no one would lie to get their hands on some meds. Especially not a drug addict. They are always so honest. I think next time I go back I'll tell him I'm having trouble kicking H. Maybe he'll offer me methadone. Now that shit comes in liquid.

What do I Have?

For a couple of weeks I've been exhausted. I wake up tired and remain that way until I go to bed. Whether I ride my bike, teach an exercise class, do comedy, or just sit on my ass I'm tired. Today I go to the doctor to get an answer.

At first I thought I had mono. But the only person I make-out with is Jack so...Unless? Can you get mono from a toilet seat? Is mono more fierce than those paper tissue toilet seat covers?

Then I thought I'd developed anemia. I felt lighter. And well, iron does way more than pasta.

My fiance, James, told me about how he had lime disease. I did go hiking October 9th and I saw deer! At the time I tried to take a picture of the deer. I thought them so precious. Who knew they would kill me?

Someone suggested I had Lou Gerig disease. But that can't be. I don't play baseball.

Hopefully, my doctor has more to offer than a computer with WebMD access.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Calling Under The Influence

I think there is nothing more romantic than a drunken phone call. A drunken phone call where the drunk man making the call expresses his undying love for me. Or he declares his overwhelming attraction to me. It seems ridiculous because a drunk person can always take back their declaration the next day. They can blame their outpouring of affection on the booze. But there is something so vulnerable about a guy who needs a half a bottle of booze in him in order to open up. Call me crazy, but don't think you're special many people call me crazy.

My boyfriend Jack knows that I absolutely adore drunken phone calls. So every now and again he'll go out with his non-profit buddies after work and throw a few back. They usually play the drinking game where the participants sit in a circle and name impoverished countries in alphabetical order. If a person skips a letter in the alphabet or names a country that's not impoverished that person has to drink and then pay a dollar to the selected charity. (The charity is chosen and agreed upon by all playing game prior to the game commencing). It's always nice to see do-gooders try to relax and have a good time. "A" for effort. After Jack purposely loses the game in order to get completely trashed, he goes outside and calls me.

"Hey, Jack."
Slurring my name, "Rachael."
"Yeah, babe."
"Oooh. My head is spinning."
"Maybe you should sit down."
"OK...Oooh...No that's worse. The sidewalk is filthy...Rachael?"
"Where are you?"
"Oh really. Do you have some other guy over there?"
"Sure you do."
"No. I don't."
"What about your roommates?"
"Well, yeah, OK. Gene is home.?"
"You're such a liar. Why do you lie to me?"
"I do not lie to you."
"You just did. Oooh god. Too many shots of gin."
"Who the hell shoots gin?"
"Fine. Leave me then. Just because I like gin shots. I don't need you. I don't need anyone."
"I'm not leaving you because you shoot gin."
"Thank god. 'Cause I don't feel well. Will you make me soup tomorrow?"
"Aren't I romantic? I feel like i'm going to vomit...Hey...You know what. If I didn't feel like the world was going implode right now I'd ravage that hot body of yours."
"That's sweet."
"Hey Rachael."
"Hey, what?"
"Ahh nothing."
"No, What?"
"Well...awe love you." And then he quickly hangs up. Is he not the sweetest to walk on Earth? Hell, I bet you he's sweeter than men who don't walk. And even sweeter than men not on Earth.


You know you're over someone when you are no longer compelled to read their horoscope.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Overheard at O'lean's

Here's a conversation I overheard--took part in, whatever-- last week at a restuarant in the East Village.
Girl 1 (speaking of gentleman not present. said with a sort of sympathy): He's cute.
Girl 2: Yeah, I think he's cute. But, I'm wrong.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

This is 100% True!

Now, it's one thing for dead people to put out new albums-- Tu Pac, Nat King Cole, what have you. It is plausable that these dead men recorded songs prior to their death and money grubbing label tried to make an album out of it. It is entirely different when a dead person adds new friendsters to their account. It's very creepy when you log into friendster and are alerted to the fact that your dead friendster has just added new friends. Does the world wide web now reach the after world? And what does that say about the afterlife? It seems if dead people are still logging onto to friendster the afterlife is just as mundane and miserable as this life. And if friendster is accessable in the nether world shouldn't that be an option on your profile under "where do you live?" But I think a bigger question is who is friend requesting dead people? What's the point? The dead people won't be attending your gallery opening or birthday party.

I started thinking maybe she's not dead at all. Maybe she's part of the witness relocation program. Her whole, dramatic, highly publicized, untimely death was just a rouse to throw off the mob or corrupt, high-ranking, government officials. And after two years of hiding the lure of friendster was too strong.

Whatever the reason is I'm glad I didn't delete her from my friendster network. She might have thought I was pissed at her. You don't want to be on a dead person's bad side.

My Travel Song

Here is a live performance of my Japan Song.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

It's Official!

Last night I opened my mailbox and found a package from my fiance James. The package contained a mix cd and an engagement ring. I guess it's official James and I have begun our 9 year engagement. My boyfriend Jack was very impressed with the size of the stone. (If you'd like to get caught up on the story of James and my engagement click here)

My boyfriend Jack fixed the ring so it'd fit my finger. They say marriage is team work and I guess "they" are right. Who knew the team was made up of more than two people?

Monday, November 06, 2006

James Lipton I'm Ready for My Interview

People always ask me, "Rachael, what's your creative process? How do you come up with these briliant blogposts day in and day out." Well, it's not easy. It's a long and involved process. I'll share it with you now to help those youngster who are just starting out in the arts and need some guidance.

Step one, I come home after being out all night doing comedy. Sometimes I'm drunk other times I'm sober. But the main thing is that I'm exhausted. Exhaustion breeds funny. Or at least it breeds the belief that you are funny. That's why I'm glad that lately, I'm almost always exhausted. I think it has to do with a lack of calorie intake that stems from a mismanagement of my meager funds. I know one thing is certain when I was 7 years old, well fed, well rested, well exercised, I never wrote one blogpost.

Step two, I turn on my computer. I then check my email. I check my sitemeter (that let's me know how many people read my blog that day) I then read seven different Cancer Horoscopes for the next day.

Step three, I log into blogger.

Step four, I play vegas style solitaire. I win or loose hundreds upon hundreds of virtual dollars. And with each click of "deal" I tell myself, "No, really Rachael this has to be the last game." I proceed to play three more games.

Step five, I check my email and my sitemeter again.

Step six, I log into myspace and see who else is online. (Side note: I hate myspace. Socially, it's just like a high school except online and with adults. Which makes it just sad. That stated, it's an important part of my creative process.)

Step seven, I begin to write comedic genius. During this step I also repeat steps 2,

4, and 6. Sometimes in mid-sentence.

Step eight, I click "publish." I make sure that I never proof read my work before I publish. If my blog is coherent it looses that special, Rachael Parenta signature.

Step nine, I check my sitemeter again to see if anyone has just read the thing I just posted.

Step ten, I play more vegas solitaire.

So there you have it. My creative process. It's alot of work and it takes a great deal of time, but you know genius is 97% sweat 3% talent.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

You Can Teach an Aging Dog New Tricks (But Don't Call Me a Dog)

My grey hairs have not grown in vain. As I've grown older I have indeed grown wiser. This weekend I locked myself out of my apartment. ( that's the wise part. That's the "you still have alot to learn, kid" part.) I will admit that this is not the first time I've walked out of my apartment without my keys and shut a self-locking door behind me. However, last time I locked myself out I wound up in the hospital. In an attempt to break into my own apartment I climbed out the 3rd storie hallway window of my apartment building and grabbed onto the windowsill of my slightly opened bathroom window. I dangled 25 feet in the air and struggled to pull myself from my bathroom. I failed. I fell. I broke my ankle, had surgey and then had to walk with crutches for 5 months.

Friday night I decided not to scale a building. And you know what? I didn't break any bones. See, I'm learning. I think there might be hope for me.

Friday, November 03, 2006

The Use of Profanity to Muse on Religion

They say God helps those who help themselves. I say that's horse shit. If I could help myself I wouldn't need God. You wouldn't pay a doctor who gave you that line of crap. "Hey I'm a doctor. I cure patients who cure themselves." You'd tell that doctor, "To go fuck himself." What I'm trying to express is if God wants fans; if God wants followers then God better step it up. I want my miracles. Yes, plural. I want more than one miracle and none of which are "world peace." There are plenty of people hoping and praying for World Peace and I wish them the best of luck with that pipe dream. I have my own pipe dreams I want fullfilled and I want them fullfilled now!

People, I've tried helping myself. And I've tried not helping myself. The results have been the same--I'm not helped. It's time God stepped in and did something Godly, like making my life better. I am a mere mortal I can't do it. I tried.

Oh! And I don't want one of those small miracles that could easily be a happy coincidence. Like the time I was running late to meet Jesse for dinner. I reached the bowels of the 7th Ave station in Brooklyn in time to watch the B train fly past me. Usually, the B and Q trains alternate. That day the Q train would have done me no good. And then a small miracle occurred. Another B train arrived! I made my dinner appointment on time. I thought it a miracle. But it could have easily been an MTA fuck up that happened to work in my favor.

Serendipitious subway shenanigans is not going to cut it this time. I want my life altering happiness causing miracles. Basically, I want something that is too great for the MTA or even Amtrack to accomplish. I also don't want to have to be vulnerable to get my miracles. I do not want to state out loud to other people what it is I want. Nor do I want to have to post said wants on this blog. If God is Godly then God should know what I want and miraculously give it to me.

I know that there are other people out there far worse off than me. I wish them the best. I hope they get their miracles as long as their miracles don't get in the way of my miracles.

Alright good night and Godbless

Thursday, November 02, 2006

About Showering

It makes perfect sense why the shower is a homicidal maniac's favorite place to work. A shower victim is all sort of vulnerable.
1) You're barefoot and wet. Wet feet have no traction for fighting back in a slippery shower.
2) You're naked. Which means if you do have a bathmat and are able to fight back all the maniac has to say is, "Your ass sags." Next thing you know you instinctively stop punching the knife wielding intruder and use your hands to cover your sagging ass.
3) Your eyes are closed in an attempt to avoid soap in your eyes. Or, you have soap in your eyes. Either way you can't see some a homicidal maniac approaching.
4) The roar of the showerhead hitting the cast-iron (or whatever other material makes up your shower.) drowns out any other noises in the vacinity of the bathroom, such as approaching footsteps or music from "Psycho."
5)You're clean so germaphobe killers need not fear you.
6)Soap, shampoo, and conditioner smell good. People who smell good attract more people including violent, law-breaking types.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Choose: Your Heart or Your Liver

A report was released today stating that large quantities of red wine offset the negative effects of a fatty, gorgeful diet in mice. Where were these mice getting the wine? Mice don't live to 21 years of age. Who's selling the mice the wine? Or more likely who is buying the wine for the mice? I think we all know who. The Scientists. The god-loathing and now alcoholic enabling scientists. These scientists are elitists. Apparently, good old American beer isn't good enough for these scientists. They go out and buy that high falutent European wine. Or they get it from California, but those Californians aren't real Americans--what with their sourdough bread. Real Americans eat tasteless wonderbread.

If scientists are going to encourage underage drinking then they should do it with Budwieser.

God save this country.

All Saints Day Regret

Yesterday for Halloween I did not wear a costume. I have one. I have my father's old army uniform. I carried it in my bag incase I got a last minute invite to a party where the host forced its guests to get dressed up. The last minute invite never happened. I feel regret. I have this army uniform and now no place to wear it. I'm not cast in any Oliver Stone films this year. I have no plans to comandeer a landed a plane. Not that you need a military outfit to comandeer a landed plane but it helps set the mood, and the uniform isn't constricting which is necessary for pointless comandeering activities.

I guess I'll just have to wait until December when Christmas party season begins. The uniform is green so if I buy a red hat and scarf it can be festive. You can never start planning your holiday party outfits too soon.