10 Thing I Learned About Wearing Contacts For The First Time

Note: Okay, fessing a little, I did try wearing contacts way back in the day, like 1983, when they were these hard, inflexible buttons that you basically had to glue to your eyeball and you couldn’t really close your eyelids comfortably when they hit that damn speed bump. Did not have a good experience, and quickly abandoned them. But this last eye doctor visit, I thought, what the hell, let’s try them again. And here we go…

1. The eye-dilation thing.

Okay, I know they need to do this, so they can peer in there and see what might have ruptured or is possibly missing, but since this part is optional and I hate it, I usually decline. However, this time around the doctor made a slightly smart-ass comment that the last time my eyes looked like Little Orphan Annie was roughly the same time as the Mayflower ran aground in Plymouth. Fine. Go ahead and do it.

This process takes two sets of drops, apparently. The first round preps your eyes for the dilation drops. And they hurt like a MOTHER. To be fair, she warned me just before the hellacious burning began, standing there and fingering a garlic glove around her neck in case I should completely lose my mind from the pain. Then plink, plink, Sweet Baby Jesus my eyes were on fire, and I think I wet myself a little.

Once I could remember my name, she moved in for the second round, and I briefly considered taking her life. But I was a little disoriented and she had me wet before I fully realized what was going on. And she was right, that second set was NOTHING after the sensation of thousands of miniature people stabbing my eyes with pointy sticks, making me feel like Karen Black at the end of her episode of “Trilogy of Terror”, the one where she pissed off the little grunting African doll with the spear, then pissed him off even more by throwing him in the oven and trying to make a casserole out of him.

Anyway, Doctor Lady then sends me back out to the waiting room, so I can relax while my eyes try to do the same. No problem. I’m happy to be any where that doesn’t have shelves filled with chemicals that you can pluck up at random and try to blister my eyeballs. I trotted quickly down the hallway, the torturous memories already fading as I got further from that place that shall now be known as The Chamber of Liquid Pain, Wherein Dwells the She-Beast with Squirting Devices.

I wander into the waiting area and plop down next to my bestie, Tiffany. She and I have journeyed on this adventure together, both of us having been a bit lackadaisical with not having our eyes checked for several years. There have been many consecutive instances of us drinking adult beverages together and reaching that “Norma Rae” moment of imbibing, where we swear to do everything we can to change the world, including get our eyes checked, but we never do. There’s always something on TV to distract us.

But we finally got our act together and made dual appointments. Well, she made the appointments. If it had been left up to me, it never would have happened, because I just don’t care enough. Anyway, she thankfully did, and we both traipsed in here as one, and therefore I assumed that she would want to know all about how I had been savaged in an ocular manner in a room where there were no witnesses.

“So, how’d it go?” she asks, nonchalantly flipping the pages of an outdated magazine. (Why do doctors always have old magazines in their offices? They make enough money to keep up the subscription payments. It just seems shady to me. Anyone?)

“Well,” I say, stupidly assuming that anyone in this world actually cares about the viciousness in my life during the last thirty minutes, “they dilated me. I’m dilated now. Ready to spit out a kid at any moment.” I beam and wait for hearty praise over my jocularity in this dark time.

“That’s nice,” says Tiffany, in a tone that I instantly recognize as meaning “I’m right in the middle of a story about John Travolta and I really don’t care”.

Oh. Okay, Plan B. “Your blouse is really pretty.”

She already knows this, having obviously made the wardrobe selection herself and not needing any pointless self-esteem boosts. She chooses instead to weakly smile, not respond verbally, and turn yet another page with her exquisitely-manicured index finger, a digit featuring a dainty flower carefully applied by some overworked minion in a nail salon where at least three different languages are spoken by the staff, none of them English.

Fine. I am not going to be validated. I sigh and turn to a small coffee table where various brochures have been placed, just in case anyone gets bored enough to actually read them. I spy one featuring colored contact lenses, and this titillates me enough that I snatch it up. I work my way through a few pages in the pamphlet, and then I come across an inspiration that is so soul-confirming that I nearly wet myself again.

It’s a model, and her name is Anna, along the lines of “This is Anna sporting another color in our deluxe line of products” kind of Anna. The model herself is not my focal point, she has all the wrong body parts, but her eyes are sheathed in a lens color known as “Gemstone Green”.

I want that color for my own eyes. I want that color NOW. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, at least not in the last five minutes.

I try to get Tiffany’s attention again, and after several attempts of doing so, she finally turns to me with an expression that clearly implies “I am only going to talk to you because they made me turn off my cell phone in this office and my need to communicate with the world is being annoyingly tested.” You have two seconds before I lose interest.

I proffer Anna, she of the fake green eyes that have inspired me so.

Tiffany glances briefly, the picks up her magazine again, not impressed. “That’s nice,” she mutters.

I decide that I hate Tiffany. At least a little bit.

Then I realize that the dilation of my pupils is now a real and solid thing. There are three Anna’s staring up at me from the brochure, and this is not a calming thing to experience. I don’t want three models with fake eyes to be peering at me at the same time. It’s unsettling. Actually, more than that. It’s like a scene in “Rosemary’s Baby” before Mia Farrow realizes that she should just rip that stupid necklace off and throw it in the gutter.

Just then, Doctor Lady comes prancing down the hallway and calls out my name. I try to smile at the one of the three that I think is actually the real one, and I lurch out of my seat. (Tiffany makes a hissing noise as my actions make her have to start over on another paragraph about John Travolta.) I stumble toward the beckoning doctors.

And, of course, the doctors lead me back to the Chamber of Liquid Pain. I’m really not comfortable with this, but it must be done and I persevere. One of the doctors slams the door shut, and I contemplate the fact that I may never be seen again. I hope someone remembers to feed the cat.

“So,” says another one of the doctors, “it appears that you are dilated now.” (Are you basing this assessment on the fact that I am drooling and crying and trying to figure out which of the three chairs I should sit in? If so, yes.) I finally trip over something solid, assume it’s a chair, and shove my ass into it. I turn to face the six-eyed Yeti whose facial expression indicates that she just lost a furry child in the blizzard and she is PISSED.

She closes in while I whimper. To up the intimidation, she slaps on a miner’s helmet with a big-ass spotlight on the front of it. “This will help me look into your eyeball.” Really? How can anyone feel comfortable hearing a statement like that? Then she’s on point, craning her neck about and barking out orders that I should look at the one hand she’s holding up beside her head, wiggling her fingers like deadly strands of seaweed that only want to drag me to the depths of the ocean and bash my skull in with the body of a dead stingray.

Then she’s done. “No tumors!” she exclaims, and I’m so discombobulated that I don’t know if this is a good or a bad thing. She hops off of me (wait, when did she get ON me?) and pulls off some rubber gloves that I never noticed in the first place. (What exactly was she touching that she needed gloves?) “Everything looks good. No rips, no tears. And no tumors!”

Why does she keep saying that, the “no tumors” thing? I’d never even thought about tumors in my eye. Thanks for the new nightmares, bitch.

She throws open the door, letting artificial light sear my dilated and horror-filled eyes. She yanks me out of the chair, or maybe I fell out, things were blurry and random, and next thing I know we are somehow in that hallway leading back to the reception area. I have no coordination whatsoever, so I’m just following anything that moves.

We get to the desk, where fake attendants are offering fake smiles, and the doctors make their pronouncements. I’m all good for the glasses part of the exam. But I’ll have to come back for the contact lens bit, because it’s pointless to fit me for contacts when I can’t tell my toes from my ass. Somebody shoves an appointment card at me, which I grasp lovingly, because it might somehow help me make it through the next part of my life.

There’s more shoving of various kinds, and then I realize that I am standing in front of Tiffany. At least I hope it’s Tiffany. The boobs look right, so that’s encouraging. She hops out of her chair, since the Yeti didn’t dilate HER, and scurries out of the office. I lurch along behind her, not really sure that I like her at all, but she at least knows some of the same people that I do, and maybe a mutual companion will take pity on me at some point.

We make our way into the mall proper. (Oh wait, I probably didn’t mention that we were at a shopping mall. Yep, Tiffany insists on combining eye care with potential exposure to outfits that will make her look even more fabulous. It’s part of the deal with her.) Once firmly ensconced in the pathways of ancient mall-walkers who will knock you down in their quest for consistent blood-flow, Tiffany turned to me. “Are you okay?”

I pause. This is probably one of those moments where you think that Tiffany is trying to show concern for your well-being, but she is actually fishing for yet another compliment. So I try to satisfy both angles. “Your mascara is perfection. And I really need a cigarette.”

It seems that I may have hit pay dirt. “Fine,” barks Tiffany. She leads me into Dillard’s, one of the anchor stores that actually has portals to the mammoth parking lot, thus allowing you to escape the retail hell. I tried to behave as we stomped through the store, but I must admit it was very difficult when I faced three times the normal amount of clothes mannequins, all of them intent on killing me with their bald heads and unnatural poses.

Finally, we slammed through the outer doors, into a place where the sun still shined and the birds still sing, when they aren’t trying to avoid gunfire from rednecks and acid rain caused by stupid chemical-manufacturing decisions, since the EPA has no idea what they’re doing right now.

I take two steps into said sunlight, and then fall to my knees in agony and pain as the light enters my eyes with blinding intensity.

“Really?” asks Tiffany, already whipping out her phone to make a Twitter update that will destroy me socially. “You’re going to make a scene NOW?”



To Be Continued…

10 More Signs That You’re Getting Incredibly Ancient and Haggard

1. The name game.

You’re standing there with people you have known all your life, talking about other people you have known all your life, and suddenly you can’t remember the name of your COUSIN that you have known all your life. It just won’t come to you. You can picture the face, you can recall everything you’ve ever done together, even the time when the two of you ran naked through the backyard because you were bored and there wasn’t anything on TV, but the damn name just won’t pop into your head. It’s as if your brain is so full that random bits of knowledge have dribbled out your ears.

Twenty minutes later, when everyone has wandered off, the name will finally drift in out of the fog, even though it’s far too late. But you can’t help yelling out “Bobby Joe!” with a mixture of relief and frustration, despite the fact that no one is around you, further convincing the younger relatives that maybe it’s time someone handed you a brochure about Shady Pines.

2. The popcorn thing.

So you’re innocently sitting on the couch in the den, and all you intend to do is zip into the kitchen real quick for a nice snack of something that won’t make you have to pee in 5 minutes. You hoist yourself up, and suddenly the room is filled with the sounds of microwave popcorn just before the ding, with tiny explosions filling the air and echoing off the walls. All of that mess came out of YOU and your apparently no-longer-lubricated joints. To further the shame and degradation, small children will run up to you holding out bowls and a salt shaker…

3. The “adult acne” thing.

What is THIS crap all about? I suffered enough on the first go-around, when some of my teen years were spent walking around like a textbook example of how one SHOULDN’T look if they ever expected to have quickie sex under the bleachers at a football game. Total suckage. This outrage was followed by a few soothing decades where I didn’t have to worry about such things and had sex with complete abandon whenever and wherever I wanted. Good times.

But now it’s back. There’s enough grease on my face lately to fry hush puppies. Really not impressed. Why do we have to go through these midlife hormonal changes? WHY? Haven’t we paid enough taxes to be exempt from this? God.

4. The dripping faucet.

I just WENT to the bathroom. Why do I have to go to the bathroom AGAIN? I didn’t even make it down the hallway.

5. All those pills.

Okay, so we go through our 20’s and 30’s and some of our 40’s never needing a prescription for anything, except an occasional bout of bronchitis or possibly a conjugal visit that should never have happened and probably wouldn’t have if the drinks hadn’t been so cheap that afternoon. Then we hit a point where we need a pill for everything. Cholesterol, blood pressure, anxiety, hoof-and-mouth disease, you name it. I might as well rent a cot in the pharmacy at Walgreens and let trained technicians walk by every hour and cram tablets in my mouth. It would certainly save time and effort.

6. The impatience thing.

I used to be really sweet. All the time, with everybody. Not anymore. People annoy me. I don’t want to deal with them or their inability to function as decent human beings. There have been SO many times when I wanted to leap over the check-out counter and throttle that gum-smacking rude little skank with her hair extensions and lack of worth. But I don’t. I take a pill for that now.

7. The lack of caring about your couture.

There was a time when my daily outfits and personal grooming were of utmost concern. If things were not just right, and didn’t properly accent my dwindling best features, I wouldn’t leave the house. Now? Screw it. As long as I’ve showered and my loins are covered, we’re good to go. There’s nothing wrong with t-shirts that are not particularly flattering, faded jeans that have seen better days, and a hairstyle that can only be described as “well, at least it appears to be clean”. I’ve managed to live long enough that I just want to be comfortable, not win any awards.

8. The fading eyesight thing.

Back in the day, I could spot the school bus three miles away and have plenty of time to slip into my designer jeans, feather my hair just right, and organize my notes from the previous evening’s episode of “Charlie’s Angels”. Today, I have to ask the waiter to take the menu in the other room and hold it just right so I can read it and find an entrée that will cause the least digestive issues.

9. The sleep thing.

If I can make it through three hours of uninterrupted sleep, I’m happy. Five hours and I am truly blessed. But many nights we just take catnaps between gurglings, odd night sweats, unusual pain in body parts that shouldn’t hurt, crazed dreams wherein people are speaking disparagingly of my sexual prowess on “Oprah“, and mind-numbing flatulence. Eventually, I’m just wide awake and lay there, listening to the further decay of my body and waiting for Ingmar Bergman to make a black-and-white movie about my physical and mental decline.

10. The lack of energy thing.

I realize that there are many important things I should be doing to keep my life in order and Code Enforcement off my ass for the appearance of my property. There are many charitable causes that would welcome my volunteerism with open arms and possible discount coupons at a local movie theater. And the whole political thing. I should be out there fighting for decency and some type of legislation that would hold Fred Phelps and Sarah Palin accountable for what they have done.

But usually I just put on my jammie pants, grab the remote, start flipping through channels and suddenly…

It’s the next morning. And time for me to take some more pills.

Backup Dancers From Hell: La Roux - “Bulletproof”

So we start in some place where black lines are racing across the floor to take over a set piece that somebody found on a soundstage from 1987 when everything was angular, stark, and far more colorful than really necessary. The conquering lines eventually lead us to the odd tennis shoes of someone seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Oh look, it’s La Roux (or whatever her real name might be), pimped up in a too-busy outfit and sporting a hairstyle that can get cobwebs out of the corner of the room with one flick of her head.

She starts singing, but we’re so distracted by her vibrant orange lipstick that we probably missed a few words of the lyrics. This probably isn’t important, since it’s very clear that she’s angry about something and needs to vent. We’ll go with that. (Side note: Just googled, and apparently the angry lead singer’s name is Eleanor, or Elly, for her closest 5,000 friends.) Elly hops up and starts stomping around in her stark world, with her facial expressions indicating that she will gladly decapitate anyone who gets in her way. She scary.

We get lots of close-ups of Miss Ellie’s futuristic makeup, with a special emphasis on her startling green eye-shadow that could probably cause satellites to stop in their orbit. Elly and her Rubik’s Cube accessories keep strutting around, but we have no idea where she’s going, unless it’s to an anger management class. Just to keep things jazzed up, the producers are jacking around with the psychedelic set piece so that it looks like Elly is trapped in a scene from “2001: A Space Odyssey”. Without Stanley Kubrick. Or an off button.

Oh look, Elly did a quick costume change, and now she’s running about in a modified Goth outfit that involves pieces of aluminum foil and some new eye-shadow that confirms you are only cool if you have metallic bits smeared on your skin. She’s also wearing what looks like a cameo necklace, which has nothing to do with anything, so somebody in Wardrobe probably got fired.

The inappropriate accessories don’t stop Elly, though. She keeps marching through her alien world, fully intent on destroying the boyfriend or girlfriend or potted plant that did her wrong. We get some shots of her looking really sad and not singing, but this might just be the result of so much hair product that her brain had to shut down until the noxious vapors cleared the room.

And we have yet another outfit, this one involving a tribute to the Spandau Ballet album cover for “Communication”. This signals the producers to make it look like Elly is on a catwalk that leads through a giant piano. Then they do some fancy camerawork so that it appears Elly has been trapped in an Ikea showroom. This leads to a segment where Elly and her hair have to rest, probably because the spandex tights are cutting off her circulation.

Costume change once again, and now we have a tribute to Dale Bozzio in Missing Persons, complete with cryptic pink eye-shadow that has taken over Elly’s entire head. (Seriously, there’s a stylist somewhere who actually told Elly to wear what she’s wearing right now? I am SO not understanding musical fashion at the moment.) And there goes Elly again, tromping around in her “Tron” environment and still looking angry. Does she EVER smile?

Wait, is she now singing in a futuristic bathroom? What’s up with that?

Okay, now we get to the slightly calmer part of the song, and Elly is now ensconced on a throne of some kind, coupled with images of her flat on her back (probably because her hair is too heavy). She’s looking more tragic than ever, so I really don’t know if we should believe all her bellowing about being “bulletproof”. Just sayin.

Then some discordant projectiles start falling from the sky, looking like Elly is being attacked by an alien spaceship in an old-school “Galaga” video game, and things start to pick back up. Stone-faced Elly starts strutting around again, and the projectiles miss her completely instead of smashing her to smithereens. (Not that she would notice, with her clenched jaw and “I’m going to stomp along until I get my way” attitude.)

And now the producers start slicing-and-dicing the imagery, so that we get to see composite shots of all of Elly’s questionable attire in one image, along with some fracturing of the camera angles. Great. I didn’t care for the individual outfits, and now we get a fantasia of sense-assaulting couture. This right here is why people turn to drugs. But I’m not bitter.

And that’s how we wind things up, with the split-personality wardrobe, sprinkled with re-visits to the startling unisex bathroom that no one apparently uses except Elly. We also get shots of Elly on that odd throne thing, so it’s possible that she is some type of interplanetary queen just waiting for the right time to take over Earth and rule forever. I’m fairly certain that this won’t happen, because the Republicans won’t allow anyone who isn‘t white and rich to govern, but I’m still going to pack an overnight bag just in case…



Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Reasons Why Playing Cityville Is Just Like Real Life

1. You never have enough money or energy to do what you really want.

You open up the game excitedly, all ready to have loads of fun, and you start clicking here and there and doing this and that. Two minutes late your resources are completely drained and you haven’t accomplished ANY of your goals. The deluxe mansion is only half built because you ran out of energy, so you basically wasted your money since none of the overly-happy, jumping little people can move in yet. You only have 3 coins left, so you don’t have enough money to buy that municipal building that everybody is screaming about and refusing to move to your town because you don’t have a freakin’ post office yet.

And all those stupid trees that you don’t want? They’re everywhere, usually right where you want to build the miniature sanitarium for the crazy people that you know are on that bus that just pulled up from out of town. It costs energy to whack down those trees, and we’ve already proven that the game people don’t give you enough of that. So you have to kill the trees slowly, waiting for the little clock to tick away and another energy bolt to become yours. Kill the tree. Wait. Kill the tree. Wait. (We might want to go ahead and make a reservation at that sanitarium.)

2. The really good stuff is WAY too expensive.

Anything decent and cute costs billions of game dollars. So instead of buying the really cool skyscraper with the working elevator or the impressive restaurant tower, you can only afford the crappy, low-income cottages that only hold 3 people (you’d have to buy 700 of these to actually make some decent money, and you don’t have enough land) and the few people who are bothering to live in your disgusting village with the tar-paper shacks only have two choices for food: hot dogs from that tiny vendor or a tree.

Speaking of the land, buying new squares gets really pricey really fast. Sure, they lure you in at first, practically giving the land away for a few pennies. But once you start getting some decent acreage, the cost skyrockets. I’m up to 500,000 coins for a single new square. Really? I’ll have to collect rent for 3 months before I can get some more sod in this town. I should march myself down to the tiny capitol building and kick the animated butt of those greedy senators. Bring the cost of living down or I am NOT voting for you in the next pretend election.

3. It’s boring watching crops grow.

You have to have goods in this game if you plan to get anywhere. So you have to plant. And then you sit there, tapping your finger on the mouse, waiting for the dang watermelons to pop their asses out of the ground so you can snatch them up, race to supply the Italian restaurant, wait some more for the little ant people to sing and dance their way to the restaurant, finally collect the cash when enough medicated citizens have eaten there, and then go make a small down payment on the cruise ship that you have to buy to complete the next task. Repeat this process roughly 1.73 gazillion times. God.

4. Real estate is a risky investment.

I’m talking about the crappy squares of land that abut the railroad tracks. They cost the same amount as the other squares, but you lose a third of the acreage to the damn railroad. This is soul-killing, especially when you eventually get bored with sending off the cute little train and never use the station again. My advice? Buy up these squares when they are still relatively cheap. It is going to destroy your sanity later in the game if you pay a premium price and then can only fit 4 measly houses on the new purchase. (Oh, and maybe some livestock, because if you plant as many carrots as I do, you’re going to end up with enough gray bunnies to repopulate the world, and you gotta put ‘em somewhere.)

5. Some of the things you have to do in life are just pointless.

The “tasks” can be inane. I don’t care that the new doctor in town is sweet on Sally Sue, who apparently works in the bridal salon and schemes to snag new meat when it rolls down the street. I’m not interested in whether or not their relationship works out. Seriously. So why does he expect me to locate 6 boxes of chocolates for his new squeeze? He’s a doctor, people. He makes enough money to buy his own inventory, I don’t need him stealing from mine. Bastard.

And the payout for being his source of goodies? 2 experience points. TWO. I’m at level 66. The number of points I need to get to the next level is bigger than the national budget. Two lousy points does not excite me in any way.

6. You can’t always get what you want.

Why can’t we build more interesting retail establishments, like brothels and crack houses? This would be a hoot. And if the little, fake children bopping and skipping about learn at an early age that there are certain parts of town you should not visit until after puberty, they are going to be more responsible citizens and better at budget management…

7. Some people have moral issues with allowing certain franchise outlets in their town.

I named my Laundromat “Scrub and Twirl”, thinking this was cute and catchy. Apparently, some of my more conservative neighbors felt this appellation was too indicative of a tawdry place where gay people might gather to clean and dance, and this was just not acceptable, denying my franchise request. And you can imagine the reaction to calling my shoe store “Pumps Galore” and the coffee shop “Steamy Goodness”. They must think my little village is a hotbed of sin and degradation. Which it is, just not in the town square or within one inch of the school districts. I have my standards.

8. Who needs enemies with friends like this?

I’m talking about YOU, poachy little neighbors that are constantly sending “help me” requests ,but never take my own needs into consideration and send ME what I ask for. The name of my town is not Charityville. Do the right thing and pay it forward. Or at least send me more Zoning Permits. I always need those. A couple batteries wouldn’t kill ya, either.

(And quit clicking on my low-rent housing when you stop by. I know you get the same amount of cash regardless of the building you click on, but I get the actual rent amount. Find one of my ritzy sectors and bang away on the mansions. It’s the right thing to do.)

9. Are they EVER going to open “Beach Town”?

Ever?

10. Some people are just poor city planners.

I quite enjoy visiting some towns where people have actually designed little neighborhoods, with pleasing colors and pleasant coordination all fitting a theme. Then you run across other hoods, and see something like this lined up along the same street: a mansion, a hardware store, two unrelated trees, a hot dog stand, another mansion, three unplowed plots of land, a fountain, a house that’s not even connected to the power grid, and a cow.

Really? Girl, please. Tear that mess down and start over. You’ll be glad you did…

Backup Dancers From Hell: The Killers - “Mr. Brightside”

We start off with the band onstage in what looks like a cross between a fancy nightclub, a Chinese Buffet and a bordello. There are lots of people off to one side, lounging around in the V.I.P. area of the buffet, with the women all dressed like unfocused hookers. There’s one woman in particular that we are supposed to pay attention to, because the camera keeps doing so. She’s got pale-white, baby doll skin and enough frizzy white hair to fuel Amsterdam for a month.

Oh wait, was that Eric Roberts sitting in a throne-like chair and wearing a bathrobe? That can’t be good.

Lead singer Brandon finally starts singing, and he makes sure that we can see his snazzy threads, a mix of Willy Wonka and David Bowie going to church. Then we have another shot of Eric, and a shot of Frizzy Hair looking bored because she doesn’t have a gentleman that she can straddle while all of her little slut friends do. Suddenly, Eric throws her an apple, which she happily snatches out of the air with uncontrolled lust.

Frizzy is now inspired to start pawing on a few of the gentleman callers, which in turn inspires her little slut friends to up the ante with their provocative poses and thigh-exposure. It’s suddenly very hot in there as people yearn and stretch and wiggle their tongues. Brandon keeps singing about not wanting to see all this mess, but it doesn’t stop him from looking. He might have some unresolved issues.

Eric throws another apple at Frizzy, since she apparently isn’t being trashy enough. Frizzy gets back to work with latching on to old men while Eric sweats and smiles. Like he’s not creepy enough when he’s dry.

Oh wait, Frizzy and Brandon have run behind a curtain and seem to be back together again, so I don’t know why Brandon is still even singing this song. Hmm. We’ll have to figure that out later, because now all the slut girls dismount from their aging partners and head out to the dance floor. Once there, they start doing some choreography that mostly involves twirling without letting their massive hairdos unravel or the body paint to start flaking off. Whoops, they just lifted their tawdry dresses so we can see their barely-clad crotches. Then they do the same with their hind quarters. That mess was really important to the story.

Quick shot of the patiently waiting but still unattended gentleman callers in the V.I.P. lounge, with the only young one looking a bit too much like LeAnn Rimes for my comfort.

Anyway, while the Slut Dancers finish up waving their love boxes, we cut to an outside balcony where Brandon hooks up with Frizzy again. They clench hands romantically for 3 seconds, then Frizzy runs back inside and hops on Eric’s lap. Frizzy really needs to make up her mind. To be fair, maybe she can’t see with all that hair, so she’s sleeping with everybody just to make sure she gets around to her real boyfriend at some point.

Well, it seems Frizzy can’t keep her eyes off Brandon even while she’s riding Eric, so Eric throws her to the ground. (Don’t worry, the hair cushioned her fall and she’s just fine.) A few scenes later and Frizzy is back with Brandon in another secluded area, but we know not to trust that skank at this point. There’s still a few men hanging around that she hasn’t sampled.

And there she goes, snagging up yet another beau so they can do a sexual tango in some ballroom, which quickly becomes Frizzy and Brandon dancing, then back to Frizzy and Alejandro, then Frizzy and Eric, then back to… oh, who cares. There’s some dancing, people. Accept and move on.

The Waltz of the Multiple Personalities goes on for a bit, with absolutely no resolution so I’m not sure what the point was, then we’re once again on that outside balcony, where it’s now daylight and Brandon is clutching Frizzy, who has managed to find another outfit, probably borrowed from that odd LeAnn Rimes boygirl.

Aw hell, here come the Slut Dancers again, hooking it out to the dance floor even though you know they’ve got to be tired by now. This time they are even more invested in showing us their personal jewelry collections and flashing their underwear at the Peanut Gallery. Some of them even hold one foot over their heads while belching the words of the chorus with their hoo-hoos. It’s really inspiring.

Cut to Eric and Brandon playing chess, because that’s exactly what I would do in the middle of a Chinese Bordello Buffet. I guess Brandon’s not a really good sport, because when he realizes that he’s going to lose he knocks the table over and stomps away in a little snit, while Eric licks his lips and sweats some more.

We end the song with a whirl of images. We have gauzy scenes of a couple getting married but we really can’t see their faces. (If any of the guys are marrying any of the girls up in this place, they better get a pre-nup.) Shots of Brandon and Frizzy having a tender moment, even though we know she’s only resting before she couples with the next man who walks into the place, even if he just needs directions to Wal-Mart. She’ll offer him the bonus plan.

Final shot is of Brandon walking away and leaving little Frizzy, bereft and all alone with just her raging libido and insatiable hair to keep her company. Poor thing. Oh wait, someone else just came through the door. Yay!



Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Things I Shouldn’t Have Eaten Today

1. The fish sticks.

Okay, they weren’t real fish sticks. I was in the supermarket the other day, doing my ritual of walking through the frozen food section where they keep the “healthy dinners” crap, and trying to find something to inspire me. You know how it is with those tiny dinners that don’t really fill you up. In any given line of products, there’s really only one or two that you find remotely satisfying, so your radar is always up for anything new that they might came out with that doesn’t taste like cardboard soaked in watery baby powder.

Lo and behold, they had some low-fat fish sticks. Glory be! I love fish sticks, but I’m not supposed to eat them anymore because those little lard tubes block important pathways of my circulatory system. Granted, this product was marketed as “Healthy and Fun for Kids!”, but that didn’t stop me. I threw two of them in my basket and knocked over one of the apparently unhealthy rugrats on my way to the checkout lanes. Little Bobby can diet later, I don’t have as many years left as he does.

Anyway, I decided to treat myself with these questionable fish sticks for lunch today. I excitedly raced to the freezer, snagged one of the boxes out, ripped it open and studied the contents: About 12 cups of corn as the “side dish” and three miniscule fish sticks, each the size of my pinky.

Seriously?

Didn’t matter. I needed a fix. I threw the disappointing tray into the microwave and punched some buttons. Five minutes later, nearly in a swoon over the anticipation of getting to eat forbidden fruit and still feel good about it, I popped one of the lightly-breaded pinkies into my mouth, ready to relive childhood memories of eating 40,000 of these in one sitting along with two bottles of ketchup.

Suffice it to say that we won’t be getting any more of this product. Blech.

2. The handful of Oat Cluster Cheerios.

I actually really like these things. The sadness with this item lies in my disappointing motor skills during the attempted consumption process. Something went wrong with the hand-to-mouth maneuver, probably because I was just eating them out of the box, and only 3 Cheerios made it into my gaping maw. The rest of them went flying across the room in all directions, clattering and rolling into hard-to-reach places. The cat nearly wet himself he was so excited by the abundance of things to chase. I wept openly, then threw the stupid cereal box back in the pantry. I guess this serves me right for not using a bowl.

3. The fish oil suppository.

Okay, it’s not really that, but it is a supplement that I’m supposed to be taking. And I do. But sometimes there are issues with the ingestion of this oil. Let’s just say that we won’t need propane for the barbecue grill this weekend.

4. The bite-size chocolate bar.

I’m not supposed to be messing with these things, either. But they’re right there, sitting on the kitchen counter. (This might have something to do with the fact that I keep buying them in some sort of sadistic combination of defiance and self-torture, but let’s not point fingers.) I had a momentary loss of control, ripped one open, squealed at the sight of the velvety mocha, and then promptly lost control of the tidbit. It fell to the floor and was immediately whacked under the refrigerator by that always-around cat, who has apparently been possessed by Satan. Hate him a little bit.

5. The water.

I’m supposed to drink about 76 gallons of this on a daily basis. It didn’t happen today. Word.

Explanatory Note: The remaining items on this list were consumed on the patio at Agave Azul in Flower Mound, Texas. I shouldn’t have had any of these things, but once I partook of Item #6, all hell broke loose…

6. The margaritas.

For those of you in the DFW metroplex, here’s a tip: At Agave Azul (two locations), even the house margaritas are top shelf. Top. Shelf. Not kidding. These things do down like you wouldn’t believe. Before long, intriguing things happen, like realizing that the white object in that tree over there is probably your underwear.

7. The Queso Fundido.

Actual description on the menu: “Melted Chihuahua cheese topped with onions, poblano rajas, and chorizo.” Further details are not necessary. Order the bitch. Now.

8. The made-at-your-table guacamole.

My bestie, Apiphany, was convinced that she needed this, so she sent our little waitress scurrying to make preparations and then immediately got on her phone, a device which she can’t live without. Perhaps she didn’t understand that a dramatic presentation was forthcoming. Apiphany is not necessarily impressed with details.

So here comes a little man, shoving along a cart loaded with ingredients. I spy a few avocados among the wares, so I gently try to get Apiphany’s attention. This is your thing, dumplin’. Hang up the phone.

She gives me a look that makes it very clear that there will be no Christmas cards for the next ten years.

Okay, then. So I turn to the little man, smiling appreciatively and oohing and ahhing over his ministrations as he hacks away at the avocados and begins mashing them in a pleasing professional manner. Then he asks me which of the varied array of potential ingredients I would prefer in his concoction. Well, I know what I would like, but I didn’t order this damn thing. I reach across the table and slap Apiphany’s phone out of her hand. (Okay, I didn’t really. But I wanted to.)

Anyway, Apiphany finally slams her phone shut, and begins pointing at various ingredients. Then she’s mystified by a certain brown powder in a cute yellow bowl.

She turns to me: “What is THAT?”

Me, over it: “Cumin.”

She: “Why would I-

Me: “Just get it. It’ll be good, adds a nice smoky flavor.”

Little Man gets back to work, and a few minutes later he proffers his creation. The next part of the evening is hazy. All I know is that I eventually pulled my head out of the guacamole bowl, the sky was darker, and there were different people at the tables around us.

9. The spinach quesadillas.

I saw Jesus.

10. Back to that guacamole, because I can’t quit you.

I don’t need to have sex anymore. Ever.

Take It On The Run, Baby - Part II

So me and my lazy ass pull into the parking lot of the Driver’s License Hell Mouth, and initially I remain calm. Sure, there are several cars already here, but it doesn’t seem to be too overwhelming. (Granted, I would have preferred that nobody else be here, with me as the lone citizen seeking political asylum, greeted by bored government workers gathered at the door with welcoming arms, proffering donuts and coffee and a free facial, but this does not happen.)

I innocently park the car, check to confirm that I have the proper paperwork for the 27th time, make sure that all valuables are safely stowed away since we all know that shady people hang out at the DMV, get out of my car and lock it, ignore that one strange nearby vehicle where it sounds like somebody is shooting up while listening to Judas Priest, and make my way to the nondescript door that grants access into the Chamber of Vehicular Compliance.

I throw open said door with a little bit too much exuberance, and several mortifying things happen in such quick succession that it takes me a few seconds to process it all.

First, apparently nobody in here likes that door to be opened for any reason. Whatsoever. The entire room turns to me as one, glaring with such intensity that a small bush behind me explodes and a bird falls out of the sky. There’s not a single happy face in the sea of angry citizens. One woman in particular, her eyes filled with a vengeful hatred, clears her throat in just the right manner to indicate she would rather crush me with her massive breasts than let me live another second. I make a mental note to completely avoid her if I ever want to see the final Harry Potter movie.

Second, there are more people in this room than voted in the entire country during the last Presidential election. They are packed in this place. All of the available chairs have been taken, and probably have been since 1967. Everybody else is mashed together in one steaming miasma of humanity, crammed together so tightly that all you can see are arms and legs and questionable hairstyles. It seems that some of the lighter people have been pushed upward like toothpaste, forced to ride on the shoulders of strangers and hoping that their human transport device is headed in the same direction they need to go.

Third, there’s not a single sign indicating where I need to go or what I need to do. The only visible hint of some type of crowd control is a giant electric board at the end of the room. This is one of those “now serving” signs, with the four people currently being served identified by numbers and a station where they should proceed. And these numbers are all over the place, like 436, 287, 319 and 5. This does not look encouraging. And where did these 436 people come from? There are 10 cars in the parking lot. Have these people been here so long that they have multiplied and raised families? Sweet Baby Jesus.

Fourth, and perhaps most important at the moment, someone’s buttocks are preventing me from actually entering the room. (If that’s not a sign that you should turn and run, I don’t know what is.) It’s not clear what she’s doing, other than bending over and rummaging around in a purse that looks like it could hold the population of Cuba. She’s also grunting as she does so, which does nothing to enhance the ambience.

So, while Gruntina continues searching for the Holy Grail or a suppository or whatever, I scan the room again for a possible plan of action. It’s entirely plausible that Two-Moon Junction might move out of my way some day, and I will need to have a destination in mind. I see that there appears to be a glassed-in little room off to one side where people are handing forms to a woman whose expression belies that she would rather be in Newark. Okay, that’s one potential compass heading. An unsavory one, but possible.

Off to the right and kind of around a corner, I spy a row of other attendants standing below what looks like station numbers. It‘s not crowded at all over there, and people seem to be enjoying life much more. Maybe I could just run over there and sweet talk someone? Then I see two burly security-type people preventing the common folk from skipping to the land of milk and honey. The expression they give me implies that they will gladly snuff out my life if I don’t follow the rules. (This place is just oozing with potential death every where you look. Good times.)

Fine. So I’ve got to get in the line leading to Hagatha Newark and her attitude in the giant glass box. I turn my head back to the box and re-analyze. (Gruntina, her head shoved in the confines of her fake leather satchel, makes a muffled exclamation of discovery and begins to dig even more ferociously, so I know I’ve got plenty of time to make battle preparations. That ass isn’t going anywhere soon.)

Okay, so there are two people currently bickering with Hagatha, a discussion which requires that phrases like “I ain’t got one” and “just got out of jail” to be bandied about. Off to the side of Inbred and Jailbird, I suddenly realize that the people standing right there might actually be in some sort of formation. Terrific, we have the semblance of a line. I just have to track the line back and figure out who I have to crawl over or knock out of the way in order to join the line. Something tells me that I will be bathing in hand sanitizer if I ever make it back to my car. (I might even drink some, because I understand there’s a mind-numbing amount of alcohol in those things. Write that down for party emergencies.)

Anyway, my eyes follow the queue of frustrated heads as it meanders down one wall. Interestingly enough, the further I go along this line, the… sweatier… people seem to be. Really? What fresh hell is this? Then I spy a possible explanation. Suddenly, the sweaty heads stop and there’s a non-sweaty head. But she’s facing to the side of Sweaty Head #13. I crane my head around Gruntina as best I can, and realize that the line, already massive enough, is even longer than I realized. It actually meanders down some random hallway and back out.

The people going IN to the hallway look relatively happy, almost smiling but not quite (because true happiness is verboten in this hell hole), with their hair non-mussed and makeup intact. The people coming OUT of the hallway are all wild-eyed and dripping, the terror and confusion evident in the way they are gasping for air and crossing themselves.

Something really, really bad is happening in that hallway.

Great.

I sigh and continue tracking the line. It winds here, it winds there, it makes it to El Paso and back, with people in that section of the line wearing sombreros and sloppily hoisting margaritas. It runs between those chairs and over what might be a dead body. It circles a group of afro-puffed little girls, trapping them within and somehow inspiring them to do a slightly bawdy dance routine in an effort to escape. The line runs clear over that way and then curves back around to-

An odd noise breaks my concentration.

What is somebody ripping apart? I look down, and in a horrifying flash I realize that the spandex encasing Gruntina’s hind-quarters is having some structural issues, and things are about to blow.

Oh. Dear. God.


To Be Continued…

Take It On The Run, Baby - Part I

So my driver’s license expired before I could renew it. Sure, there were a few mitigating factors in my irresponsibility, such as the massive (for Texas) ice storm which plowed into town, shutting things down and basically eliminating travel. But the bottom line is that I was a slacker, choosing to while away my time with less-necessary pursuits rather than fulfill my obligations as an upstanding citizen. I seem to have an issue when it comes to vehicular deadlines. (See previous post here.) I’m assuming that something devastating happened in my childhood concerning authority and a stick shift.

And it’s fair to say that they’ve spoiled us a bit in this modern era. See, most of the time you can just hop online, fill out a short form, enter a credit card number, and presto, you can legally cut people off for another designated interval of years. But, in Texas at least, every other decade or so you have to physically report to a government location and get a new mug shot for your license, so that you can continue purchasing alcohol without concerns over the disparity between your actual appearance and the teenage image of you on your ID.

Everybody hates doing this, of course. We’ve all had an abhorrence of standing in line to get our picture taken since that horrible instance in elementary school when our awkwardness and inability to dress properly were first captured on film, thus beginning the catalog of blackmail-quality images that your relatives keep hidden until the exact moment when you are trying to impress someone new in your life. It never fails that a sadistic sister or mother will whip out one of these photos, scaring off your unprepared potential mate with shocking snaps of you sporting freckles, missing teeth and a “Dukes of Hazzard” t-shirt.

It’s not like I didn’t have plenty of warning that I had to report for Humiliation Duty. My birthday was January 26th, and the helpful State of Texas sent me something way back around Thanksgiving that I had reached the license milestone where it was imperative that I physically present myself to official people and let them see how far I had strayed from the weight and hair color indicated on my now ancient and decrepit rectangle of plastic. I could already hear the barely-muffled laughter and cries of “that boy sure likes him some cookies”.

So what did I do with this notice? Instead of instantly placing this form in my car so that it would taunt and remind me on a daily basis, I threw it somewhere in or on my desk, and the letter instantly vanished. Out of sight, don’t have to stand in line. At least not today. I had far more important issues at the moment, such as making sure that everybody got me exactly what I wanted for Christmas, and not something crappy without a receipt.

Flash forward through TWO MONTHS of procrastination, and DL-Day was fast approaching. As the moment neared, I did actually make a few feeble attempts to take care of things before it was too late. Sadly, this consisted of me walking into the home office, opening a random drawer on my desk, peering briefly inside, then slamming the drawer shut, deciding that I had no idea where the stupid form might be, then marching back into the den for another episode of “Modern Family”.

And the shame deepens. For some reason, probably because we go so long in this state without having to update our license photo and I forgot the rules, I thought that I had until the end of January to take care of this. (And surely there would even be a grace period after that, right?) As per my usual practice, I waited until January 31st to even begin making preparations. At that point, I sat down at my desk, logged into the Department of Transportation Safety website, and clicked on a cute little button designed specifically for people like me who let official things slide because they are idiots.

And then I screamed and began clawing my face. Partly because this is just a fun thing to do, causing the cat to flee the room in terror and the rest of the house to go apprehensively silent, but also because of the words before me.

In the State of Texas, your driver’s license expires ON your birthday. Period. (Which makes sense, of course, but I had happily deluded myself with the “until the end of the month” mess because I was willing to believe anything that might mean another day of delay.) And there was NO grace period. Nada. Under any circumstances. Except death, and even then it had better have been a violent end, or they were still going to ticket your casket for operating a vehicle without state approval.

I was now a criminal.

Oh, and it gets better. Because the license was fully expired, and the State of Texas had graciously deemed it possible for people to renew their licenses up to ONE FULL YEAR before it expires, (Wait. What? A year? I didn’t know that. How would I know that? Why don’t people ever tell me anything?), there would be no leeway, no hard-luck stories, and no opportunities to utilize sexual indiscretions to gain favor. I was going to have to take all the tests over, just like I was 16 years old again, with my feathered hair and daily battles with acne, self-esteem and which roller skating rink to go to on Saturday.

God.

I went into immediate mourning, and spent the rest of the afternoon rending my hair and staring out the front window at the streets that I could no longer legally travel. (Side note: REALLY need to rake the leaves off the lawn, but that’s for another blog.) And that very night, the first of several icy storms blew in. I didn’t make it to WORK for the next four days, let alone some hell mouth where I had to stand in line with smelly people and crying babies just so somebody with sucky wages could shove my ass in front of a camera and bark at me to quit smiling, this wasn’t a talent show and nobody here was allowed to be happy.

So the Days of Wine and Poses and unending white crap falling from the sky piled up, followed by more days of actually being able to get out and about but I didn’t worry about that stupid license because I had more important things to do like wash the salty white granola off my car and finally talk to other people that didn’t live in my own house. Before I knew it, I was two weeks overdue. It was time to either suck it up and face this thing head on, or call up Thelma and flee the state.

In what turned out to be a preliminary run, I left work early one day and headed toward our local Licensing Emporium. My fingers were crossed that maybe the time of day and a bit of luck would magically create a non-busy situation wherein I could whisk in and out with minimal frustration and blood pressure distortion.

Of course I was completely wrong about this.

I turn a corner and the building comes into view. I can only see part of it, because of an oddly-placed grouping of trees but it doesn’t seem to be overly crowded. Hurray! Then I’m past the trees, and I realize that there are actually about 400,000 people milling about the entrance, spilling over into the parking lot, where even more people are trapped in their cars and honking for the gang members to get out of the way so they can go drink after dealing with this place. There’s not an empty parking slot for miles.

I whip the car around and drive the other direction. Not gonna happen today.

A few days later, I’m discussing my situation with… well, one of my friends who shall remain nameless due to the sudden criminal element in our relationship, and I don’t want her to be thrown in the slammer based on some archaic Texas law concerning knowledge aforethought. (She would NEVER survive having to wear an orange jumper and no makeup.) To her credit, she did a relatively good job of not belittling me for my idiocy. I only caught a tiny glimmer in one eye that she found my predicament to be the result of my own dumbassedry.

Instead, she tenderly grasped my hand and gently counseled: “You need to schedule a vacation day and go take care of this. And on a side note, don’t ever wear that tie with that shirt again. It’s insulting.”

My partner, later that same day: “You need to schedule a vacation day and go take care of this. And by the way, do you not understand that when the soap in the shower is down to a sliver, that you are supposed to get a new bar?”

Scotch the Cat, still later, same day: “You need to schedule a vacation day and stock this place up with treats. I’m tired of the same flavor.”

Me: I can’t stand anybody right now.

But I finally gave in, and yesterday afternoon I submitted a request to take today off. That way I could spend the whole day in vehicular hell, should it be necessary. Granted, I did have a doctor’s appointment scheduled for late in the afternoon, but I decided to keep that as well, since we were planning to discuss my anxiety medication, and I was probably going to need even more of THAT.

So, this morning I arise to pleasant sunshine, birds chirping, and the Grim Reaper peering in my bathroom window. I pulled the curtain on him, hopped in the shower, took my meds, confirmed that I had everything I might need (including insurance verification, a letter of recommendation from a traffic cop I once dated, a briefcase stuffed with cash for a potential down-low transaction to get out of parallel parking, and a change of underwear), threw all of this in the car, patted Scotch lovingly since the next time he sniffed me I might smell like Eau d’Incarceration), took one last look at the house, and then headed down the road to my fate…


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Coldplay - “Viva La Vida”

We start with what looks like the image of an unfolding rose, which is pretty and all, but then it sort of changes into…I don’t know what that is. But before I can figure it out, we cut to lead singer Chris Martin wearing a very serious expression and studying something off to his side that we can’t see. But we can see that something appears to be odd about the texture of the video, and this is confirmed when we get a closeup of somebody banging on a drum, and the drum skin has that crackle effect that was popular on walls a few years ago. Did Martha Stewart direct this video from her prison cell?

Chris sings for a while, as we get quick images of other band members banging and stroking instruments. Then the band members start shoving their guitars and such directly at us, very dramatically, so I’m thinking maybe this thing was supposed to be in 3-D, but somebody forget to do something important. Like make the 3-D work.

The technology glitch apparently doesn’t matter, because Chris is determined for us to get the effect anyway, constantly waving his arms around and thrusting his hands at the camera. He looks a bit overly-frenetic while he’s doing this, and his actions do nothing to dispel the odd rumor I once heard that Chris Martin is actually Paula Abdul on crack.

Chris also likes to bounce. I mean really, really bounce. And thrust about. Incessantly. I understand that the rhythm of the song is infectious, and some people naturally express their appreciation of a good song by shaking their groove thing, but really, Chris, do you need to make it look like you and Gwyneth are procreating another child, this one named Starfruit?

And there he goes with shoving his hands at the camera again. Despite the stirring emotion of the story, this bit of theatricality is starting to annoy me. I don’t like to feel mildly threatened while listening to a pop song with a Spanish title. It’s just not something that I look forward to. So stop it.

Short bit where Chris does pushups incorrectly.

And somebody else keeps banging on a cast-iron bell. Is it time for supper?

Then we slip into the really dramatic part of the song. Everybody is still basically doing the same things, it’s just louder. Oh, and they let us see the screen waving behind them, which has images just like the album cover. That’s a nice touch. I still don’t really understand what this song is about or why the band is dressed in vaguely French-Revolution era couture, but at least the confusion is consistent.Geez, that one dude really loves that damn bell. I wonder what happened in his childhood that led to this?

Oh no, it appears that Chris may have stepped on a live wire that some idiot left stretched across the stage. His arms are flailing and his eyes are rolling back in his head. Poor guy. I may not care for his dancing, but I certainly don’t wish him electrical harm. That would just be rude.

We cut away to the other band members, all of whom have that requisite “I’m really bored out of my skull but I’m going to pretend like I’m having a swell time when the camera turns my way” look, an expression that all non-lead band members have to learn how to make per union rules. I’m assuming we’re cutting away so that medics can rush out and patch up Chris so he can finish the video shoot. Time is money, people.

Okay, Chris is back singing, and for the first time I notice a giant “V” on part of his shirt that is mostly hidden by his French Lieutenant’s Woman’s jacket. I don’t know if that symbol was always there, or it’s the result of his recent shock therapy, or if he really, really likes sci-fi series concerning Lizard People taking over the planet and making us all wear uninteresting clothing. Whatever the case, Chris has modified his dancing to now emulate a mime on crack. Okay, maybe a mime that doesn’t understand he’s not actually supposed to speak.

Then Chris gets a really bad migraine and has to hold his head in his heads. (This is really just not his day.) Luckily, the moment passes just in time for Chris to pretend that he is a marionette during the “puppet on a string” bit of the song. He’s very convincing at not having any life in his body. He must have taken classes or something.

Whoa, where the hell did Chris get all those rubber bracelets? Has Madonna been doing some spring cleaning?

Anyway, the song goes on for a while, with nothing really new to discuss. Chris is still pogo-ing around the stage, the band members are thrusting violin bows and guitar arms at us, and supper is getting cold and the bell-ringer is getting frustrated with our tardiness. (There is one quick shot of Chris singing the “St. Peter” part of the song while grasping at his crotch. I would normally get three paragraphs out of a move like that, but it’s getting late and I don’t have time for that.)

Short update from the Weather Channel. Something about a hurricane headed toward where the band is playing. Then it’s over and no one dies. Yay.

We finally get to that fun group chorus thing at the end where the whole band sings together, and you can see that they were all waiting for this part. The rest of the band goes from Slacker Cool to Glee Club in two seconds, wailing away with really wide mouths and their heads thrown back like they’re in the throes of extreme personal satisfaction. Good for them.

The song ends, and then we get short clips of the individual band members. Each just stands there for a bit, then they look off to the left while what looks like little rose petals fly off their bodies in slow-motion.

I have no idea.

Fin.



Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Keyshia Cole featuring Nicki Minaj - “I Ain’t Thru”

We start off flying over the downtown of some city, while Keyshia is already wailing away about something that’s troubling her. (Quick glimpse of Nicki Minaj, because if that girl is going to be in your video, she fully expects some major screen time.) Cut to Keyshia strutting around on top of a skyscraper. (At least I think it’s her. There’s a tremendous amount of hair and hair product fighting for the camera’s attention.)

Keyshia waves her hips in just the right manner to cause a fancy car to start driving around on the streets below. It’s a nice car from the looks of it, but I don’t know cars, so it could be anything. We also seem to be having an issue with fog blowing across the set. This might be intentional, but it might be the result of some assistant not bothering to check the weather channel.

Oh look, now we have shots of some trampy girl with an attitude prancing down a street. I’m not sure who it is, it might be Keyshia, minus all the rooftop hair, but I’m not sure. Whoever she is, she might be a little warm, because she rips off her couture dead-animal coat and tosses it to the side so some homeless person can think he found Jesus. Then Coatless Girl starts busting some moves to show how hawt she be.

Meanwhile, Keyshia is doing a dance routine in what might be a club or just the “Young and Hip” department at Macy’s, and that fancy car is still driving the streets, searching for some Fly Girls to hop inside and get the party started. I guess the car will have to wait a bit, because Rooftop Keyshia, Unknown Street Walker, and Dance Club Keyshia are still busy finishing up dance steps that somebody got paid to teach them. (Interestingly enough, all this choreography seems to center around the ability to thrust your pelvis whilst looking around to see who is watching you thrust your pelvis.)

Okay, back to the fancy car, with Keyshia now driving and one of Nicki’s personalities in the passenger seat. Oh wait, now they’re in the dance club, with Keyshia battling to dominate the scene while yet another Nicki personality is doing something to highlight her amazingly straight hair. Quick shot of Unknown Street Walker having some type of issue with her hair on that skanky street she’s walking down because she didn’t pay attention to when Keyshia was picking her up in the fancy car.

Okay, now Nicki is rapping in the Dance Club, wearing an outfit that can only be described as “RuPaul ain’t ever gonna wear that, sister, so why you frontin’?” (Seriously, what’s up with the window valance as a mini-skirt?) Nicki isn’t bothered a bit, doing her creepy Animatronic Girl routine where she does robot moves and widens her eyes like she just got an enema when she least expected it.

Back to the car, where Keyshia and Nicki are possibly rapping but might just be suffering really bad gas bubbles from those questionable tacos from “Shorty’s Fold and Stuff”. (To be fair, Keyshia is only adding a few vocal “uh huh’s” to the mess, so this is really Nicki in 4th gear with no emergency brake.) Nicki sure likes saying words like “duck” and “roof”. This probably means something. But not to me.

Now the fancy car is barreling through a tunnel, which inspires Keyshia and Nicki to flash the Peace Sign. (Okay, I know that gesture is supposed to mean “deuce” in the modern world, but really, it originally meant “peace”. And I like that a lot better than promoting a playing card.) Back to the roof, with Keyshia tromping around in that black raincoat and doing high-kicks while menacing fog billows about and threatens to suck her into a John Carpenter movie.

Now we’re in the dance club, where we learn that Belvedere vodka can act like a Roman candle if you just let it breathe. Keyshia and Nicki think this is a really plush development, so they wiggle around on the lounge seats and act slightly horny about the fireworks shooting out of the liquor bottle. In fact, they are so inspired by the sight of something spewing that they take to the dance floor, and strike some killer moves that accentuate all of their couture accessories.

Additionally, this Tribute to the Belvedere Spewing includes some business with needing “elbow room” and the freedom to possibly pursue girl-on-girl touching while the beat pulsates. That’s some really high-quality vodka. Everybody in the club seems to understand the importance of the right to bare arms, and whatever other body parts need emancipation, and there’s a rousing display of unbridled lust and patriotism.

Now we start jump-cutting around, with Rooftop Keyshia trying to do the diva thing on top of the building, hands out-stretched to indicate that she really believes in her vocals, Streetwalker Whoever kicking it into high gear as she and her spandex flail about like she just got her tax refund, Dance Club Keyshia making it very clear that there is no parking on HER dance floor, and Nicki trying to remember which personality she is supposed to be at this particular moment. I’m going to guess it’s the one who would straddle something that isn’t really hers but pretends like it is.

And that’s pretty much how we end the video. Everybody’s having a really great time doing pointless things that wouldn’t be so exciting if Mt. Saint Belvedere hadn’t erupted just when it did. Keyshia loves her red jacket and the fact that she has a belly button, Streetwalker couldn’t be more pleased with the opportunity to sashay through the trashy streets of Manhattan, and Nicki has figured out at least 20 new robotic moves that should ensure she gets to guest rap on at least 10 more hit singles…



Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Sick Puppies - “Maybe”

We start off at some decrepit gas station / roadside diner in the middle of nowhere, with a guy sitting on the porch and looking sad, so I guess the patty melt isn’t any good. Some pretty girls drive up in a car, which jump starts the song. (Things like that probably happen a lot when you’re pretty and have automotive access.) The sad guy just looks at them, so either he doesn’t work there or he doesn’t understand his job.

Cut to the band playing at a deserted intersection, still in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t really advise selecting the point where two highways cross as a musical venue, but nobody has been run over yet so I guess it’s okay. And even if somebody does get killed, it won’t be the first time a headline has been run saying “Band Members Killed Doing Something Questionable In The Wrong Place”.

Cut to a diner, where some waitress is carrying food out of the kitchen, then back to the sad guy (let’s call him Wilfred) working on the Pretty Girls car, with the hood up and the girls squirming and smiling in the car because that man over there has a video camera. Zip over to the waitress (we’ll dub her Parsley), who walks up to a couple at a table, and she manages to spill food on the patron with the bigger breasts.

The manager rushes out and starts berating Parsley, even though I’m thinking the people at the table should be chided for their pathetic outfits. (Parsley was just trying to cover up the atrocious attire!). Sadly, no one understands the inner beauty of Parsley, and they all keep yelling at her.

Now we see Wilfred giving the Pretty Girls directions to… who knows, a Pretty Girl convention where they can make fun of the less genetically gifted. We also see Parsley getting fed up and apparently quitting her job, tossing her apron at the jerk manager and presumably not winning Employee of the Month and the special parking place.

More of the band playing at that intersection. A tiny part of me would like to watch a semi suddenly roar into view. Don’t want anybody to get hurt, of course, but it would be fun to watch them scream and run, and see who bothers to save the band equipment from danger and who doesn’t, because that’s the true test of a devoted band member.

Now we have Wilfred staring into his bedroom mirror and looking Emo. I’m distracted by the odd white spots all over said mirror, and I guess Wilfred is as well, because he starts packing this things and prepping to move to a place where you can see yourself better in the mirror. Meanwhile, Parsley is in her kitchen, which is really unattractive and cramped, so she also grabs a suitcase and proceeds to throw her couture in the luggage, inspired by the dream of a place where she can have a bagel without sitting near an ugly refrigerator.

Mixed shots of Wilfred and Parsley both strutting along with their satchels and packing their cars for the Big Move. Then they’re both on the highway and we have some nice travel scenes, with Wilfred wearing his undershirt so we can see that he has muscles, and Parsley wearing her lips so we can see that she would be a good friend to have if you need to actually seal an envelope with a kiss.

Oh, look, poor Parsely seems to be lost, so she spreads her map out on the hood of her car. (Because that thing is not going to be hot after driving through the desert for a couple of days.) And the tragedies continue, with Wilfred’s car doing something that requires him to get agitated and lift the hood, and then clench his head in dissatisfaction so we can see that he has odd armpit hair that seems to have been trimmed. (Is this something new that I don’t know about?)

Well, yay, Parsley seems to be feeling a little better about things, because now she’s standing on the shore of what might be a lake and spreading her arms wide while appearing appreciative and happy. (We’ll toss aside the bit about how those deeply-wedged shorts of hers can’t be all that comfortable.) And it seems that Wilfred got his car running again, so we’re all getting back to the happy place.

Both of them are heading into Los Angeles, naturally, because that’s where your dreams instantly become true as long as you’re pretty and sleep with the right people enough. Wilfred is so thrilled to be here that he starts singing in a park, causing people to hurl coins into his guitar case., even though the people doing the hurling look like they really ought to save those coins so they can pay for a shower.

In a fun little twist, we see Wilfred and Parsley walking past one another at a Venice Beach intersection without realizing that they are apparently meant to live happily ever after and raise maladjusted kids who don’t understand socially-accepted norms of behavior. This is followed by scenes with both of them getting jobs at trendy shops on the beachfront, because it wouldn’t be as glamorous if they had to work at a sewage treatment plant like real people.

As the band still rocks out at that dusty intersection in the desert which apparently no one ever uses, we end the festivities with Wilfred and Parsley managing to run into each other on a sunlit boardwalk. They both grin sheepishly at each other in that way supermodels have of pretending to be interested in each other, and then the music fades as seagulls cry and Parsley allows the dying sunlight to caress her amazingly supple and moist lips…



Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Nickelback - “Far Away”

We start off at a nice little suburban house, where a cute guy is making a video of his girl wallering around in the bed in a possibly post-coital afterglow. She pretends as if she doesn’t really care for him doing that, but she looks like a supermodel so you know she’s lying and loves the attention. Then he hops in bed with her to read the newspaper, all cozy and full of undying love for each other since their combined genes will produce amazingly-stunning children.

Then the phone rings, and the guy (let’s make this easier and give him a name, like Chisel) answers, apparently getting the news that he has to go to work. The girl, we’ll call her Bree, gets a little pouty about their interrupted interlude. But Chisel knows how to work this scene, giving her a smooch so that her instantly-raging libido convinces her that she can happily lay on her ass in the bed until he gets back for round two. Chisel grabs his things and races off to make the bacon. Wait, is he carrying a firefighter’s jacket?

Yep, he’s wearing one as he hops in his buddy’s truck and they drive off to a staging area where lots of firefighters are dashing about and strapping things on. We even have helicopters buzzing about, so this looks pretty serious. Chisel and his buddy, Pec, slap on their hats and race to do their thing. We have a sense of foreboding that something is going to go terribly wrong, and it probably will, because that’s what makes a good story, right?

Meanwhile, back at the house, Bree gets bored and finally turns on the TV. Oh my, seems we have a massive forest fire causing the soap operas to be pre-empted. Damn. Then Bree manages to remember that her lover happens to be a firefighter, and he just ran out the door and all, and… maybe she should pay attention to what’s going on and not check out what’s playing on Lifetime?

Cut to a helicopter flying over an area filled with smoke. (Are we at the Republican National Convention?) No, wait, it’s a forest, and it’s definitely on fire. The chopper lands, and Chisel and Pec hop out to receive their instructions from somebody probably named Gunner or Brick. Once informed, they grab hoses and dash off to a section of the fire that is naturally dangerous and rife with the opportunity for somebody to instantly become a giant S’more.

While working on their hefty hoses, Chisel and Pec are suddenly surrounded by Mr. Heat Miser and his entire family. Chis and Pec need to get out of there, pronto. They start to follow other escaping co-workers, but Pec does something that leads to him lying face down and not doing any running. Chisel doesn’t think twice about racing back into the bad place to rescue his now-unconscious buddy.

Chisel carries Pec out of danger, then tries to signal a nearby helicopter on the ground that we have an issue. Instead, the helicopter flies away (Break time? You know how those unions are.) and then a giant flaming tree falls on Chisel. Well, hell. You try to save somebody’s life and an angry tree attacks you. It’s just not right.

Back at the ranch-style house, Bree gets a phone call that things are grim. She has something of an emotional breakdown, perfectly understandable, but I don’t get why we don’t see any actual tears or runny makeup. Maybe she’s not a method actress. Perhaps somebody should have handed her some chopped onion before they yelled “Action”.

A truck pulls up outside the house, so non-crying Bree races out to get the scoop. Somebody jumps out, but it’s not Chisel. Somebody else appears. Still not Chisel. Then some woman we don’t know. (Who the hell are all these people?) Then, glory day, Chisel gets out and only has a tiny little band-aid for his troubles. Hurray! Bree runs down the driveway, launches herself through the air, and manages to wrap her legs around Chisel’s waist in a jubilant but still slightly sexual manner. They kiss lovingly, and then presumably go back in the house to resume the production of beautiful children for years to come…


Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Things I’ve Learned Watching “American Idol” This Season

1. The general population of the United States is just as insane as ever.

  There are two variations of the human species which concern me the most with this one. One, we have lots of people who have delusional conceptions of their vocal abilities. Even if people around them are willingly puncturing their eardrums with a chopstick just to make the howling stop, these clueless people float along in their otherworld where apparently actual abilities and psychotic self-affirmations are the same thing.

  The second group involves friends and relatives who lie to the Delusional Children about their true purposes and limitations in life, and thereby perpetuate the madness of the damned as well as the suffering of the innocent. Right now, I’m thinking that this second subspecies is actually far more dangerous than the clueless warblers themselves. In fact, I believe maliciously encouraging your untalented offspring should be punishable by law. You lie to your child about their talents and worth to society, you go to jail.

2. Steven Tyler has a very interesting look.

  We always knew this, of course. He’s been bouncing around on stages for several decades now. But in the dimly-lit confines of a concert arena or in grainy footage of the entire band being arrested for something involving controlled narcotics, the brief glimpses of asexuality are not nearly as arresting as when he’s sitting still behind a table and directing questions toward the latest twirling queen auditioning before him.

3. Jennifer Lopez can make a ponytail sexually mesmerizing.

  Who knew that the simple usage of a scrunchie could make someone look amazingly hot? You go, girl.

4. I’m still not really sure what Randy Jackson’s purpose might be.

  Okay, he’s not throwing out that damn “pitchy” word as much this time around, so I’ll give him credit for that. But do we ever really learn anything from him? And I really don’t think it’s fair that he’s always throwing it to Steven and Jennifer to kick people out when they suck. (On the flip side, he will knock the other two down to happily welcome the rare person who walks through the door and can actually carry a tune.) Sure, he’s got seniority, but so did Strom Thurmond, and he was a suck-hole of worthlessness in Congress.

5. Ryan Seacrest is proof that members of the Lollipop Guild apparently had sex at some point.

  They sho did. Mmm hmm.

6. It might not be a good idea to audition with your soul mate.

  I’m talking specifically about that couple from wherever the hell, the two that did that corny tribute to a 1950’s movie by whirling each other around in some pasture. The judges nearly wet themselves over the perceived cuteness of the duo, and lovingly handed them golden tickets and a few Willy Wonka chocolate bars. But we all knew that she was better than him from the get go. Well, all of us except him. So when he got cut during the first part of Hollywood Week, I was not surprised.

  But Goofy and his squishy-faced grin sure was. He tried begging the judges for another chance. They weren’t interested. So he decides to start belting out a tune instead of walking out the door like the other crying and destroyed people. Bad move. And poor little whatever her name is that did make it through, you could tell that she was not impressed with how he was acting, practically running out the door to hide behind Ryan.

  I’m going to venture that they’ve already broken up. Just sayin.

7. The Diana Ross Syndrome doesn’t work for me.

  And now I’m talking about the girl who first auditioned with the silver stars hanging from her ta-ta’s. I don’t care how good you might be, there’s no need for jumbo-size accessories on your hooters. But the judges waved her through to Hollywood, possibly concerned that she might have Ninja skills and could cut their heads off with one throw. Next thing you know, Star Tits is onstage in Hollywood, and proceeds to trash everybody and promising to show how it’s really done. (Instantly hated her even more with that mess.)

  So Star T launches into her solo, and you’d think that Jesus Himself was trying to rip his way out of her diaphragm. I’ll admit the girl has pipes, but she doesn’t really know how to use them, and that overly-dramatic crap where she clutched the convenient stair-railing and nearly threw her legs over her head was way beyond necessary. Still, the judges kept her alive for now, so they only have themselves to blame when she tries to sleep with Berry Gordy and get Jennifer Lopez kicked out of the group. Yes, there IS a mountain high enough, and I don’t want to climb THAT one.

8. I’ve never really cared for people doing back-flips while waiting to audition.

  And this time, some dude landed on an idiot cameraman that was lying on the floor and trying to capture the airborne lunacy. Serves him right. Now quit doing that crap. This is a singing competition, not the Summer Olympics.

9. Some people are not good losers.

  What’s up with sobbing uncontrollably and becoming a she-devil when you don’t make it? I understand that you’re a little disappointed, and therefore it’s probably not a good day. But come ON. There’s no need to reenact scenes from “The Exorcist” when you get the bad news. Is it really going to help matters if you cuss everybody out, destroy public property, and physically attack the production staff? I think not. Just take your ass home, accept that your dreams have been destroyed, and turn to alcohol. That’s what responsible people do.

10. The dreaded “group performance” segment of Hollywood Week can rip apart your soul.

  This extravaganza is coming up, wherein random people are forced together and must come up with something judge-pleasing that still gives each individual a chance to shine. As we’ve seen so many times, people completely lose their minds during this bit. Talented folks get run over by the Idiot Train, and we often end up with an amazing wreck of madness that stuns the senses.

  I can’t wait.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Ashton Shepherd - “Look It Up”

We start off with Ashton hammering a sign into the ground reading “Yard Sale, Everything Must Go!”. Based on the violence she is channeling into that hammer, she done fed up with somethin’. Folks behind her at the sale are dashing about in that nosey way where they might pretend to be interested in your Lobo 8-Track, but they really want to get the dirt on what up with the sudden clearance sale.

Cue some guy arriving in his pickup, a bit confused about the goings on. (A subtitle informs us “All HIS stuff must go!” Ah. Got it.) While customers paw things like deer heads and fishing lures, the guy in the truck honks his horn. Of course, that puny little noise doesn’t stop anybody from doing whatever, so he hops out to do some damage control. He looks to be about 5-foot-5. Good luck with that.

He runs up to Ashton as she is happily throwing more of his crap in another box, and when he tries to get all huffy, she hurls his phone at him, which is open to some slut texting that she misses and loves him. Ashton then launches into the vocals of her revenge tune, using a now-desecrated wedding album as a handy prop. Let’s just say that Truck Boy does not benefit from the modifications to the album.

Then Ashton drags Truck over to some geeky guy with Internet access, and he’s found images of Slut Girl driving around in Truck’s truck, her hooters barely able to stay inside the truck. (It’s probably the gun rack taking up all the room. The truck’s rack, not hers.) Then we get a gander at a dictionary where Truck’s picture accompanies the definition of “liar”. (Wow, do you think Ashton is just a little bit miffed.)

Ashton now takes a break from the confronting to go sit on a keg in the garage, sporting a pretty dress and singing some more of the song. (Seriously? A keg in the garage? There wasn’t a nice tree she could lean against while butterflies whiz past?) Ashton likes to wave her hands around quite a bit, probably to make it extra special clear that her former man is a pig.

Cut to Pig Man dashing around the yard and trying to snatch back his belongings. Well, that doesn’t sit well with Ashton, so she puts her flannel shirt back on and a for-sale sign on Pig’s truck. (Oh, and look at that, she finds a bottle of whisky on the front seat, which she promptly hurls at Pig. He glances at the bottle and discovers that he is now on the label for the hooch. I guess word travels fast. Somebody had a yard sale and the whole liquor industry has to re-brand.)

More of Ashton straddling that keg and waving her hands. (She has a really fun way of saying “pig”, in case you like to track such things.) The keg-ride is interspersed with Flannel Ashton selling off more of Truck’s junk, and quite happy to do so. Truck’s truck, boat, and ego go bye-bye in just a few seconds. Then Ashton relaxes in a chair while shoppers and/or family members wave signs along the lines of “Go, Goodbye, Get Lost, Get Out, Get Gone” in a nice synchronized movement that you might see at a junior-high pep rally, assuming that you weren’t under the bleachers sucking face with bad boys while seated asses were lined up over your heavy-breathing head, missing the whole show and possibly your next period.

Back to the garage, where Glamour Ashton is destroying more of Truck’s trophies using one of his golf clubs. Once she’s done with the decapitations, she breaks the golf club over her knee and then hurls it off toward a shelf of motor oil or something. But she’s not bitter.

Back at the yard sale, Truck grabs a Bible in a last-ditch effort, maybe hoping that Jesus can cancel all the credit card transactions. Ashton is not impressed. Jesus might forgive or hold up credit lines, but she sure don’t. Back on the keg, Glamour Ashton is feeling quite liberated. To top off her new-found freedom, she decides to burn Truck’s letter jacket in a handy barbecue grill that just happens to be sitting beside her. She has quite a good time with the impromptu cookout, even muttering the word “asshole” with a grin a mile wide.

We finish up with Truck still trying to get his things back out at the yard sale, but these people done paid and they ain’t playin, no, sir. Even his dog, wearing a “Sold!” sign, is being dragged away by an older woman that looks like she knows how to make a mean batch of biscuits and gravy. Truck finally collapses to the ground, throwing down his ball cap in frustration.

Moral of the story? Don’t mess with Ashton. She will NOT put up with your crap. And she’ll get a hit single out of it, making you look like even more of a truck pig. Word.


Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Re: Concerning Lottery Jesus Good Winner

Editor’s Note: Fed up with those thousands of fake-ass emails where people who clearly don't understand English are trying to scam you for money? Read on for my equally jacked-English response…

Dear Kindest Friend,

  I am of thanks you told winning I did lottery for major dollars. Jesus praise! I am happy so because money is little for me long time and needed more. Now can buy lung set for soldier brother who serve country but then no people care when war stop and he not jobbing. I am graceful and loving for big money surprise.

  But there thing is one still must say. Because I of riches now, no more need more winning and prizes. Buy anything want now. Buy cars and castle and partner for loving in new bed. Lots money can spend and giving to friends like nothing. So stop please sending emails of opportunities and settlements and dying people give cash for free. No want hear more.

  Plus and more, not of understanding some emails. That of when you trapped in London airport and peoples not help you? And send email you for me send cash. Why of this? Need cash, go banking and get monies. That reason of banking, money. And if no bank you like or like you, ask peoples on street for dollars. London peoples have many of these. One give you some maybe.

  Or such, if yearn and despairing because no giving, then sell body for fornication and senses pleasure. Many give lots money for bang-bang. Smile and work hard and cash you have. For biggest cash let be tied up and be whipping in school girl dresses.

  And other emails, peoples not know relative but dead now and money leftover. I am not of relations with those peoples. Never hear ever. Why not knowing peoples give me foreign cashes? Suspicion for them. If had relatives with much cashes, I living with them would be, not in dense apartment with no spaces for livestock. So no know these peoples. Sorry for dead but not know.

  And not understand other emails of people in army need monies. Happy you serve country, yay good and thanking, but why need monies? Army give mens and womans all equipment and blankets needed because Dick Cheney sell to army all needed for big prices. Not want of anything. Even have movie stars and country singing people come dance and be pretty for army people when army people not shooting and running. Why ask for monies? This is of fishes smelling.

  More of, stop please emails with Credit Card Lords writing with my card not be working and want send my special information that is private secret. But I’m not having these cards with banks named this. This is lying and not justice. Stupid for me send anything and then savage men take things not their belonging and I live on dirty street with other stupid senders of private secret numbers. This is sadness not wanted.

  More now I am thinking. I am very happiness winning Jesus lottery and thankful that cash stacked in spare room. Blessings many from Jesus Man. But why now are some of the Jesus People wanting some of my monies back to them? I’m not thinking Jesus would give to me riches then want some returning of riches. Why this?

  Can be that some Jesus People not understand what Jesus want of them to do? Maybe even some Jesus People not reading Jesus Book of doing udder others so they udder you in sameness. I am not of sureness. But I am of sureness that tired I be of emails from people not Jesus Man but thinking they know what He is wanting for my life. I talk Jesus Man only. Hotline. Other peoples not in calling plan.

  And this of last phrasing. Again happy for you and Jesus Lottery and money for the spending anytime. Yay and good. But thinking not goodness for email any more with you. My English is not of right since time we wrote first when poor I still was being. I am knowing English not native language of yours even though trying you are to pretend English for scam and fooling slow people not thinking right. My using English was great and pretty before pollution of you not knowing words and phrases and whole language, using crappy web translator tool of cheapness. Now infection of your bad is me in, and confused all times putting of words right places be should.

  So, write no more, lost London peoples with no banks for using but fighting people you don’t understand in the land of Iraq because Little Bush still mad that Big Bush lost and still no money because suspended credit cards you have while working in Christian sick people tent in Tangiers need international funding of mine and people of dead status writing not-true wills leaving fortune to strangers like me. These are all of lying and cheatness for innocent people who just want email checking, not spam of your badness. You evil and suck.

  Suggesting you IM with Jesus Man and have meeting special for you. He tell you of importance not lying and cheating and the grammar wreckage. Maybe help. But of leastness he serving sandwiches usage cucumbers and tea of greenness, so you win with fullness even if still foolish…

In honoring kindness and effort friendship,

Jedediah Roquefort Bangagong, Esquire

Disciples of Latter Quaker Society for the Transfer of Monetary Funds Not Mine

Nairobi, Kenya (according to my fake IP address anyway)

P.S. Small bills, please.