G+, Kiss My Sass, And Day_lee Adventures
Last week my site’s logs showed the following interesting searches:
Sally Fields facelift – Yes, ladies. Thanks to the Sally Fields facelift, you too, can have the glowing, youthful looks of Sybill. They’ll REALLY, REALLY LIKE you!
grammas having sexy – Having sexy what? Shoes? That’s got to be it.
bimbos in the shower – as opposed to… say, dumbos in the shower?
Did Jesus really walk on water? Or was it ice?
Scientists say if it was ice that formed on Northern Israel’s Lake Kinneret, the odds would have been 1-in-1,000.
Read and decide for yourself.
Via Harvey, Elgin.
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Current mood: 
horny
Now you can all discover why I *heart* Hal Sparks so much…
He’s probably a flaming liberal…oh well that CANNOT stop a girl from having fantasies.
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Do you know what happens this week? On Wednesday of this week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be
01:02:03 04/05/06!
That won’t ever happen again for another 1,000 years.
You may now return to your normal stuff!
More about it here:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060404/ap_on_fe_st/numbers_row
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OK.
After my near-disastrous lunch with mom on Saturday I *did* have a good rest of the day on my birthday.
We went to her house and hung out and she showed me some stuff she learned at her computer class and then she gave me a really pretty homemade card that she made (these things are like works of art the way she does them) and for my gift she bought me a ticket to the Lions’ Super Breakfast. What a great gift!
The Lions’ Super Breakfast is this great big, huge event the Lions have twice a year as a fundraiser. It’s sixty dollars a ticket which is a LOT of dough for me to just toss out on entertainment, being a broke bum who runs her own business.
I’ve gone to these before and it’s great fun. It’s always at Willie’s Hidden Harbor which is this bar & banquet hall right on a marina on the Mississippi, and there’s a huge buffet with every breakfast thing you could want, eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, hash brown casserole, corned beef hash, omelettes, gourmet breads, croissants, and muffins, and then giant fruit baskets made of watermelons and filled with pineapples, strawberries, grapes, and melons.
There’s also a bar and you can make your own screwdrivers and Bloody Mary’s and a giant aluminum trough of ice and beers (mostly domestic and watered down stuff but still free, all you can drink, with your ticket). Then they have raffles the whole time, pull tabs and quick picks which are kinda like pull tabs but they draw a number after you pull your tab off the board. The raffles are fun, most people like them, they give away sports jerseys (Vikings, Gophers, Northstars, MN Wild, Twins, etc.), gift certificates and cash.
I’m excited. It’s generally a day of sloth and food and drunken merriment, lots of friends and people I know are going so it will be a blast.
Another highlight was when I got home, my iPAQ pocket PC came in the mail, which I bought from eBay, as a birthday gift to myself. It’s really cool and I can’t want to trick it out with tons of cool stuff. Some people buy these buggers so that they can instant message their buddies, play games or mp3’s while away from home. Me, I’m gonna use it to keep track of contacts, addresses/phone numbers, meetings, to-do lists and check mail while I’m out and about. I have to get a network card for it but it should be fairly easy for me to find one for under $40. The pic above is a pic of the model that I purchased..
And here’s what the screen looks like (not mine but similar)
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Something I saw in a blog entry today…kinda tripped a switch in my brain, and I thought “Why, she is just like me!” What a small world we live in:
“…I am frustrated because things are so unchallenging and people are so complacent about themselves. I despise the way lecturers read word-for-word from their powerpoint slides like pre-school kids, I abhor the way they turn dumb when questioned about matters pertinent to the course but are unfortunately out of the syllabus. I hate the way assignment deadlines are extended again and again, I loathe the manner in which students come late and leave early for classes, I scorn the way people are just never excited about anything they learn, except for getting tips for exams.
I condemn the rotten education I’m paying for which is mass-populating generations of intellectually-challenged dim-wits – young men who think success is only about getting a high-paying job and young ladies who learnt how to charm dim-witted guys into doing things for them by playing dumb and bitchy.”
I’m the most easily frustrated person there is when it comes to certain things, the “things” mainly consist of: being dim-witted-ness and just plain irresponsibility.
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Happy Armed Forces day!
I have written the following article which sums up my feelings for a very sick and twisted individual, who runs a very stupid web site, called Forsake the Troops. The article can be found here.
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Get Well, Mr. Al-Zarqawi!
New Precision Guided Humor Assignment: A Card for Zarqawi
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This entry was posted on Monday, May 30th, 2005 at 4:15 pm and is filed under xX-Everything Else-Xx. You can follow responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your site.
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Mark your calendars folks. Rather than the usual ‘indeed’ or ‘hmmm.’ That Mr. Reynolds of Instapundit normally uses as his commentary on a news story or post, today he has chosen to use ’sigh’.
It must be a holiday! The proof is in the pudding… er pie!
Glenn digs into a celebratory slice of *sigh* pie
Picture Time – Reader’s Choice
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Napolean Dynamite reminds me of The Dickweed that chased me through middle school and gradeschool.
Only this Dickweed’s name was Corey Pesik. The Dickweed decided he was going to try and woo me to the tenth degree. It seemed to thrill him to the very core that I was repulsed by him, which only made him woo me harder, if there ever was such a thing.
To The Dickweed, the thrill of the chase must have been the greatest thrill of all.
For he chased me until I could stand no more of his shit.
Until I pleaded for mercy with white-knuckled angst.
Until my body convulsed with dry heaves from the sight and sound of him, constantly chasing close behind me.
I knew he always like-liked me (dork) since the sixth grade. I know this because he would hang around my locker and pounce me. One day, when all the kids got ready to go home we’d all flooded the hall, and as I approached my locker he’d hung back as if he were talking to someone (most likely Bob, one of his Dickweed Deciples). Then practically from out of the blue he’s behind me, pouncing all over me like Tolkien’s Gollum with his spitty, lispy whisper into my ear. The nastiest things came out of his mouth (at least they were nasty to my sixth-grade virginal ears). The worst one ever? “I want to JUUUUUUUUUMP your BO-OH-OH-NES!”
The second embarassing moment came in seventh grade art class.
The art teacher for seventh and eighth grade was a tall, gangly mess of Tispy & Waddle if there ever was one. She stood at least 6′3″, thanks in large part due to calf-high whore-style boots, whose 4 inch heel was as narrow as a pencil lead. Tucked into the boots, was a pair of JC Penney’s most bellowy wide-leg rayon pants available (always flower print) which she paired with long ugly sweaters, sleeves pushed up past her chicken neck elbows and gangly, freckled arms, her flippy wrists at the end, which jingle-jangled due to the cheap tinny bangle bracelets she must have also picked up at Penney’s. Her caved-in chest was adorned with whatever chunky clay-bead necklace was ‘in’ at the time. Bet you two bucks she still wears those ugly ass necklaces to this day.
Top that off with a great, horned shock of Annie Lennox-red hair, spikey as a fir tree, and you’ve got the Tipsy Waddler, who, I swear was a drunk, and I can prove it.
On her paper-strewn desk, stood a can of Diet Coke that was full of some sort of liquid, which, if you stood 2 feet from her desk, you could play the “What foul stench is that?” game, breathing in its solvent stink. So what was it? Gin? Vodka? Nail Polish Remover? Who knows what foul thing. The Tipsy Waddler was very fond of lipstick, the more gaudy and bright, all the better. She wore a different color lipstick on Wednesdays, usually a hot pink, so that the can’s rim would have her hot pink lippy-prints all over it, on top of the orangey color from Tuesdays and the fire engine red color from Mondays.
Anyhoo.
That day in class, we were reviewing art slides. Nothing new about that, of course, she was always showing fucking slides because that way it could be dark and she could get her slosh on. You knew this because you could hear her slurping away at her can in the back of the room, as she was perched momentarily on a stool near the slide projector. At some point, Tipsy Waddler got up and walked toward the the screen and addressed the class, barely able to maneuver her pointing stick, which was waving in the general direction of a slide. “Whoerrwhat, mosss like, lee insssssspired this stahl of painting during thissssspurrid?”, she slurred, pointing her stick to a Botticelli, its round, naked womanly subject causing a gasp and a couple giggles from the class.
The Dickweed raised his hand and declared, in his most awful falsetto Gollum voice–full of bravodo and lust–that I was the answer to her question. Naturally he said my name. Immediately the roomful of pre-teens started snorting and stifling giggles, all of them looking in my general direction.
I was a bit a of a chubber at that time, and I was sporting a red sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, my hair up in a banana clip (plastique tres chic!) and a pair of white Vans sneakers (less tres chic, more tomboy). He pressed on, saying “…’cause she’s so rrrrrrruuuuubinesque!” and with a snap of his neck, swiveling his face to meet mine, he did something with his mouth, not unlike Hannibal Lechter’s “thss-thss-thss” in Silence Of The Lambs. My face fell to the floor. That day, the coolest clothing and chic-est hair do could not have kept my face from turning as red as my outfit. Which it did.
I can’t remember what happened next. I do remmeber that I ran. I ran until I couldn’t run any longer. Either that or I wound up in the girl’s bathroom, sweat flinging off of me like Jennifer Beals’ Flashdance character.
The next month, I wound up getting kicked off the school bus for 2 weeks because I yelled at the driver to “Let me off this FUCKING BUS RIGHT NOW, GODDAMMIT!” How did that happen you ask? Well, the Dickweed was chasing me up and down the bus aisle and jumping after me pouncing and gasping, spit flying out from his nasty train-tracked teeth. I think he thought he was being cool, because the jumping he was doing appeared to be a half-assed attempt at the crane position from The Karate Kid. I wasn’t havin’ it. Next thing you know I had to ride to school with Melissa Miller and her mom in their station wagon. Melissa’s stupid little brother was the icing on the cake, who had to ride with every time. He was so annoying because he couldn’t say his ‘r’s right, replacing them all with ‘w’s and his mom thought it was cute. Ugh! His most charming contribution to society up to that point was throwing naked Barbie Dolls at the traffic that passed on the busy street in front of the Miller’s house.
By the time the summer after seventh grade was over and eighth grade was starting, I had me a Parade of Dickweeds, chasing me hither and yon. We’ll call them the Geek Swarm, okay? The Geek Swarm was a band of loyal idiots who thought The Dickweed was King Shit, just like Farmer Ted and his Dweebdom of Deciples on Sixteen Candles. Could you just imagine the Dickweed Drool, Times Ten?! I shudder to recant. I honestly think I repressed most of the beginning of the eighth grade. I cannot recall now, how the hell I’d endured it. Probably that was when the new Debbie Gibson LP came out. Debbie helped alot. So did Dino!
Anyway, I guess I’d have to say that the worst memory of the Dickweed came around the same time as the last day of school before New Year’s break.
Eighth grade semester finals.
The finals were 2 days where your elective classes would be skipped and your majors classes would be expanded, to provide 2 hours each (enough time to take your final for that class). The teachers were a bit lax during those 2 days, because since kids got testing for some classes done early, they could wear headphones during their classes so long as they were done testing, there was also lots of milling around in halls due to most kids being done with certain classes and waiting for the next final exam class to start.
So whaddya know. Guess who’s hovering around my locker waiting for an appearance from me? The Dickweed. Like I needed to answer that! The Dickweed naturally sees me coming from the gym hall on the north end, so he casually struts away, moving into his natural habitat, the Geek Swarm. Lucky for me, the Geek Swarm just so happens to take up residency across the hall from my locker (as if I don’t see him coming anyway, what a faker).
I get to my locker and what do I see? “Hey BJ, I want To Jump Your Bones” all over my locker, in Black Sharpie. The words are huge, and I’m sure could’ve certainly been seen from several feet away, and it takes me all of a half-second to realize their full meaning. I’m instantly sorry I read them, and I feel the strong urge to turn into some kind of liquid and slip through the holes in the wall vents below the row of lockers. The bell rings and I am saved because once the shrill sound fills the halls, The Dickweed is off like a shot, to whatever creepy, queer, dorky class is next on his schedule.
Although I’ve no idea how long the nasty words were on my locker seeing as the Dickweed was smart and probably finished his exam early, I managed to get it fixed shortly after the bell rang. I walked up to the first janitor I saw and tugged on on the sleeve of his uniform. I told him someone vandalized my sister’s locker and I need him to see if he can fix it. He sighed and said, “Your sister, huh?, OK then Missy, I’ll take care of it.” When we got over to the lockers he sighed again, and I’m not sure if the sigh meant he was relieved it wasn’t another pile of puke he had to throw sawdust on, another huge coffee can full of cigarette butts that he had to clean out with his hands (there was one outside the boy’s gym), or if he was just plain tired of us kids.
The next class was Choir. Easy-cheesy on finals day. I always got an A+. Singing was my thing in school and I was destined to be the next Madonna. Then Mariah Carey went and ruined my chances, with her high whistle register. The skank.
So anyway, we’re all sitting around after the choir finals and the next thing I know Caroline is tapping my shoulder and pointing to the chalkboard, which I should tell you, was the hugest chalkboard in the whole school. On it, glaring across the whole seven foot width of it, and letters four feet tall, was my home phone number and my name. Dancing and jumping frantically next to the chalkboard and pointing like a maniac, is The Dickweed, who’s smiling like a fucking freak, nodding his head toward me, all the while, grabbing his crotch every now and then, a la 80’s Michael Jackson style.
Thank Holy Heaven that I got a month-long reprieve of the Dickweed. I got a job babysitting out of town that summer! Dirty Dancing and Beaches came out on VHS right around that time, and then shortly afterward Ann of Avonlea debuted on the Disney Channel. Patrick Swayze made me lust and want to learn the Mambo, Bette Midler made me bawl while singing Wind Beneath My Wings, and Ann Shirley & Diana Barry’s kindred spirits entertained and delighted me, Ann’s version of the dead damsel in the lake having been my first lesson in goth (and last, thank GOD).
And so it goes, I forgot all about The Dickweed.
Until that bastard Napolean Dynamite got onto the fucking movie screen.
Dang!
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