Do not be offended. Some things just are, and this happens to be one of them. In case you don't believe me, here's a fairly comprehensive list:
1. I can milk a cow. And I know what part steaks come from. You know, the really tender yummy ones.
2. I can call you a motherfucker in Arabic, tell you to fuck off in Japanese, tell you to suck my dick in Spanish, and say "big penis" in German. I don't believe you have to learn a whole language in order to communicate in other countries, all you really need are a few select phrases.
3. I know how to make a bomb out of a 2 liter bottle and dry ice. Mr. Wizard taught me when I was seven.
4. I got drunk with a news anchor in Minneapolis who now works for CNN. So her news reports are now littered with images of her stumbling around and bitching about the sex with the weatherman.
5. I can rest my foot on the shoulder of someone who is standing (as long as they're under 5'11".)
6. I think "Sideways" is a stupid ass movie.
7. I can make artistic sculptures out of "Elmer's Glue" and as soon as those faggy, uptight art dealers in New York call me back, I'll be famous, which will be another reason I'm cooler than you.
8. I know the recipe to a Big Mac's "secret sauce."
9. I can eat gross things and not vomit (i.e. worms, squid tentacles, cow balls, and an "OJ Special," which is everything on the restaurant table mixed into a glass of orange juice.)
10. I can pop microwave popcorn without burning it.
11. I can get you to read 10 reasons why I'm cooler than you, which just proves that I am.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Ernest Goes to Gross Me Out
Here's a quick little line from Hemmingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls:"
"I befoul myself in the milk of the springtime!"
Eiwwww. Hemmingway's kind of yucky.
"I befoul myself in the milk of the springtime!"
Eiwwww. Hemmingway's kind of yucky.
I'm As Inspired As My Cat
I've been completely and utterly uninspired this last week. Maybe it's the stressful job I have, or my friends who keep pissing me off, or my pseudo-boyfriends who never seem to call me, or something, but I feel like my cat. All he does all day is sleep and lick his butt, and while I'm not very inclined to do the latter, I do understand his motives. It's cold out, and there's no animals left to kill. So he hangs out all day in a depressive cat-funk. He's become quite the bummer.
So I suppose I have, too. Become quite the bummer, that is. And while I know I'll eventually come out of my Jessica-funk, I can't help but feel sorry for myself. All the animals I like to kill are hibernating, too.
I want to go to the Grand National Llama Show. It's here at the Lancaster Event Center. But I can't find anybody to go with me. Am I the only one who feels the artistic pull of the llama show? It's freakin hilarious. Imagine the people who go to these things for real, not like me who has the sole intention of mocking people. But I'll never go, unless I go with myself, and the Grand National Llama Show must be shared with a friend.
Mainly, when I feel like this, it's because of a boredom. I used to fix it with pot, but that ship pretty much sailed. Whenever I have a funny notion, I have to share it with myself, because at the moment, I don't have anyone else to share it with. I'm fun, but I already know that, so hanging out with myself is boring. I would listen to my "Devastatin' Dave" album, but again, that is something to be shared with a friend. Devastatin' Dave knows this, and would be offended if I tried it alone.
My job has been completely stressful, and is literally sucking all the fun from me. But I have a 3 days off, so the stress has melted like that shit on the inside of a microwave popcorn bag that leaves your hands all greasy. So I'm feeling fun again. But alas, I have all this fun and nothing to do with it.
Things like this are not going to be happening for awhile: While at the mall with my friend Amanda, I was harassed by the Carousel Operator. And I said to him- "Knave! Dost thou thinkest of me as a rider of the carousel?" And the second time he harassed me, I said fine, I'll ride the damn carousel if I can do it for free. So we got on the carousel, bitching and laughing and making jokes, and I shit you not, I got laughed at by blind people, so you can imagine how ridiculous we looked, since they couldn't even see us. And it was tons o fun.
And until my Mujo comes back, is not going to happen again for awhile. Which is fine. Being the comedian all the time is hard. I'll take this as a well earned break. In the meantime, maybe I will try licking my ass for a while. Well, this is advice from someone who drinks out of the toilet and eats dead rodents for fun, so maybe I'll lay off my cat's advice for a while. He seems to enjoy it, though.
So I suppose I have, too. Become quite the bummer, that is. And while I know I'll eventually come out of my Jessica-funk, I can't help but feel sorry for myself. All the animals I like to kill are hibernating, too.
I want to go to the Grand National Llama Show. It's here at the Lancaster Event Center. But I can't find anybody to go with me. Am I the only one who feels the artistic pull of the llama show? It's freakin hilarious. Imagine the people who go to these things for real, not like me who has the sole intention of mocking people. But I'll never go, unless I go with myself, and the Grand National Llama Show must be shared with a friend.
Mainly, when I feel like this, it's because of a boredom. I used to fix it with pot, but that ship pretty much sailed. Whenever I have a funny notion, I have to share it with myself, because at the moment, I don't have anyone else to share it with. I'm fun, but I already know that, so hanging out with myself is boring. I would listen to my "Devastatin' Dave" album, but again, that is something to be shared with a friend. Devastatin' Dave knows this, and would be offended if I tried it alone.
My job has been completely stressful, and is literally sucking all the fun from me. But I have a 3 days off, so the stress has melted like that shit on the inside of a microwave popcorn bag that leaves your hands all greasy. So I'm feeling fun again. But alas, I have all this fun and nothing to do with it.
Things like this are not going to be happening for awhile: While at the mall with my friend Amanda, I was harassed by the Carousel Operator. And I said to him- "Knave! Dost thou thinkest of me as a rider of the carousel?" And the second time he harassed me, I said fine, I'll ride the damn carousel if I can do it for free. So we got on the carousel, bitching and laughing and making jokes, and I shit you not, I got laughed at by blind people, so you can imagine how ridiculous we looked, since they couldn't even see us. And it was tons o fun.
And until my Mujo comes back, is not going to happen again for awhile. Which is fine. Being the comedian all the time is hard. I'll take this as a well earned break. In the meantime, maybe I will try licking my ass for a while. Well, this is advice from someone who drinks out of the toilet and eats dead rodents for fun, so maybe I'll lay off my cat's advice for a while. He seems to enjoy it, though.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
One More For The Road
Sorry, gotta put this out there. If only we all lived in Europe where this sort of thing were socially accepted... A girl can dream, eh?
I want a piece of Devastatin' Dave
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Welcome To The Hitching Post
The prospect of marriage has always freaked me out. Mention the words "husband", "wedding", "vows", or "boring sex with the same man over and over for eternity," and I totally whig. And the image in my head of my marriage has never been pleasant. Here's a tid bit:
As the sun sets over the park, I step out of my trailer with my husband and children onto the cool packed dirt road. My children run into the road, splendid in their bare footed, diapered, unwashed child exuberance. I crack open a Miller High Life and light up a Basic cigarette and I rub my husband's beer belly while he drinks Jack Daniels from a brown paper bag. Our Pit Bulls bark wildly and strain against their studded collars when the children get too close. My husband ends their barking with a sharp kick to their ribs, and I smile because our electricity is back on. Marriage is bliss.
So you can imagine my trepidation. How am I going to please my husband, who obviously is quite the catch, and my dumb luck to have married him in the first place? Luckily, I came across a little article designed to help women just like me. It's a little old, but marriage itself is ancient, so I'm sure it's just as relevant now as it was back then. It's called "The Good Wife's Guide" May 13, 1955.
1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.
So okay. Cook for him. That's great advice, because I like to cook, and men like to eat. This guide is great!
2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people.
So looking pretty for him is a decent tip. Don't know about that ribbon, though.
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Wow, being gay and "lifting" my husband. This magazine is dirty! So, kinky sex? I'm in.
4.Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.
Okay, but when? I have to come home from work, rest, do my hair and makeup, cook dinner, and clean the house? All before he gets home? Well, okay, I'll try, I guess.
5.Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dishcloth over the tables.
Are you trying to say that good wives are redundant? Did you read #4 before you wrote #5?
6.Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give him a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
Okay, wait a minute. Do you really think it's wise to mix me and fire? And what the hell is this shit about "catering for his comfort?" You know what provides me with immense personal satisfaction? Throwing darts at girls who think that catering for men's comfort will provide them with immense personal satisfaction.
7. Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small,) comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
Children are "treasures" and should "play the part?" HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a moron. Quiet kids? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh man, that's good.
8. Be happy to see him.
Finally, something that makes sense. But what's all this hoopla about "his arrival?" This whole guide seems to be all about him...
9.Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Okay, hold on. What if I don't have a desire to please anybody? And I don't have any sincerity to show when it comes to not wanting to please people. My mere presence should please him enough anyway.
10.Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
WHAT!!!!???? You are fucking kidding me. You think my husband talking about who can belch loudest after lunch while scratching his ass is more important than my "dozen important things?" Fuck that.
11.Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of interest without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.
Are you planning on my husband being a bomb diffuser? Or a CIA spy? Because having a job is not exactly what I would qualify as bad enough to warrant being a jerk face and not coming home. And if he has a "very real need to be at home and relax," then why is he coming home late and going out to dinner?
12.Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
No, my goal is to avoid going to jail for spousal abuse or attempted murder. I'm not his Zenmaster.
13.Don't greet him with complaints or problems.
Well, tell him to quit pissing me off.
14.Don't complain if he's late coming home, or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through during the day.
Okay, once again, where the hell does this dude work? And why are you telling me not to worry if he doesn't come home at night? If he doesn't come home, then whatever he might have "gone through during the day" is going to seem like a fucking picnic party.
15.Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
The only thing men are masters of is the toilet, and even then they get yelled at if they leave the seat up. And I have every right to question him, because if I didn't, we would be eating polish dogs and pork rinds every night while the kids watch porn on the couch his college roommate spilled bong water on.
16. A good wife always knows her place.
Yeah, you know where it is? On top.
Well, I think I can safely say that if this is how marriage is going to be, then I want nothing to do with it. What kind of backward ass world world would we be living in if this were how marriages actually were? Oh, wait. We'd be in a nuclear cold war and Joe McCarthy would be knocking on my back door. Men are such idiots.
As the sun sets over the park, I step out of my trailer with my husband and children onto the cool packed dirt road. My children run into the road, splendid in their bare footed, diapered, unwashed child exuberance. I crack open a Miller High Life and light up a Basic cigarette and I rub my husband's beer belly while he drinks Jack Daniels from a brown paper bag. Our Pit Bulls bark wildly and strain against their studded collars when the children get too close. My husband ends their barking with a sharp kick to their ribs, and I smile because our electricity is back on. Marriage is bliss.
So you can imagine my trepidation. How am I going to please my husband, who obviously is quite the catch, and my dumb luck to have married him in the first place? Luckily, I came across a little article designed to help women just like me. It's a little old, but marriage itself is ancient, so I'm sure it's just as relevant now as it was back then. It's called "The Good Wife's Guide" May 13, 1955.
1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.
So okay. Cook for him. That's great advice, because I like to cook, and men like to eat. This guide is great!
2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people.
So looking pretty for him is a decent tip. Don't know about that ribbon, though.
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Wow, being gay and "lifting" my husband. This magazine is dirty! So, kinky sex? I'm in.
4.Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.
Okay, but when? I have to come home from work, rest, do my hair and makeup, cook dinner, and clean the house? All before he gets home? Well, okay, I'll try, I guess.
5.Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dishcloth over the tables.
Are you trying to say that good wives are redundant? Did you read #4 before you wrote #5?
6.Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give him a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
Okay, wait a minute. Do you really think it's wise to mix me and fire? And what the hell is this shit about "catering for his comfort?" You know what provides me with immense personal satisfaction? Throwing darts at girls who think that catering for men's comfort will provide them with immense personal satisfaction.
7. Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small,) comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
Children are "treasures" and should "play the part?" HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a moron. Quiet kids? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh man, that's good.
8. Be happy to see him.
Finally, something that makes sense. But what's all this hoopla about "his arrival?" This whole guide seems to be all about him...
9.Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Okay, hold on. What if I don't have a desire to please anybody? And I don't have any sincerity to show when it comes to not wanting to please people. My mere presence should please him enough anyway.
10.Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
WHAT!!!!???? You are fucking kidding me. You think my husband talking about who can belch loudest after lunch while scratching his ass is more important than my "dozen important things?" Fuck that.
11.Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of interest without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.
Are you planning on my husband being a bomb diffuser? Or a CIA spy? Because having a job is not exactly what I would qualify as bad enough to warrant being a jerk face and not coming home. And if he has a "very real need to be at home and relax," then why is he coming home late and going out to dinner?
12.Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
No, my goal is to avoid going to jail for spousal abuse or attempted murder. I'm not his Zenmaster.
13.Don't greet him with complaints or problems.
Well, tell him to quit pissing me off.
14.Don't complain if he's late coming home, or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through during the day.
Okay, once again, where the hell does this dude work? And why are you telling me not to worry if he doesn't come home at night? If he doesn't come home, then whatever he might have "gone through during the day" is going to seem like a fucking picnic party.
15.Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
The only thing men are masters of is the toilet, and even then they get yelled at if they leave the seat up. And I have every right to question him, because if I didn't, we would be eating polish dogs and pork rinds every night while the kids watch porn on the couch his college roommate spilled bong water on.
16. A good wife always knows her place.
Yeah, you know where it is? On top.
Well, I think I can safely say that if this is how marriage is going to be, then I want nothing to do with it. What kind of backward ass world world would we be living in if this were how marriages actually were? Oh, wait. We'd be in a nuclear cold war and Joe McCarthy would be knocking on my back door. Men are such idiots.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
I'm Hitching a Ride With John Madden
So I have a new job. Yay! I don't have to work at the gas station anymore!!! It's a pretty cushy job, too. 10 bucks an hour, yeah I'm okay with that. There's just a small problem. They want me to fly to the regional headquarters in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Now besides the fact that instead of going to the national headquarters in Florida, which is a lot cooler place than Wyoming (way to go Captain Obvious,) I have to FLY. Let me emphasize that a little: FLY.
So let me be clear. I don't fly. Ever. Well, I have 4 times. And I didn't like any of them. So, like smoking, I quit. And, like smoking, I guess I'm starting again.
The problem is I think I'm gonna crash and die. Now I know people will say things like "flying is safer than driving," and "the most dangerous part of flying is driving to the airport," but fuck them. I'm sorry, but how many people get to survive a plane crash? When you're driving you car, you can be almost sure you're not going to plummet 40,000 feet to your death.
I just really don't want to be aware of what's happening when the plane goes nose first into the Sandhills. It really scares the hell out of me.
And now, I can't even bring matches on the plane. So after they pry my hands loose from the arm rests and kick me out into the terminal, I can't even smoke a damn cigarette. Fucking terrorists.
I'm not afraid of them, either. After 9/11 everybody was scared of terrorists. The terrorists who would hijack a plane going from Lincoln, Nebraska to Cheyenne, Wyoming are the terrorists who got kicked out of terrorist school for smoking crack between prayer times.
What the shit is wrong with driving? Hell, I could explore the beauty of our Sandhills, and drive towards the Rocky Mountains, and check out everything Wyoming has to offer. Like livestock.
John Madden gets to roll around the country in this giant bus motor home thing because he's afraid of flying. I'm on his side. Flying is for people who have a death wish.
But then, I do realize that planes rarely crash. 100,000 people flew today, my parents included. They went to freakin Disney World. Without me, I might add (don't get me started.) They all made it okay. Maybe if I could take 2 Darvocets washed down with 3 glasses of wine I could fly okay. But it's a business trip, so I can't show up unconscious.
So I guess I'm writing this so there's a record of how I ended up dying. Cuz I will. Or not. I guess you'd have to be a lucky person to beat the odds of dying in an airplane, and I have yet to see the results of my 20 dollar Powerball ticket. So obviously, I'm not that lucky.
Whatever. If I die on a trip to Cheyenne, Wyoming, I'm gonna be pissed. If I'm gonna die on a plane, then I should be going to fucking Hawaii.
Now besides the fact that instead of going to the national headquarters in Florida, which is a lot cooler place than Wyoming (way to go Captain Obvious,) I have to FLY. Let me emphasize that a little: FLY.
So let me be clear. I don't fly. Ever. Well, I have 4 times. And I didn't like any of them. So, like smoking, I quit. And, like smoking, I guess I'm starting again.
The problem is I think I'm gonna crash and die. Now I know people will say things like "flying is safer than driving," and "the most dangerous part of flying is driving to the airport," but fuck them. I'm sorry, but how many people get to survive a plane crash? When you're driving you car, you can be almost sure you're not going to plummet 40,000 feet to your death.
I just really don't want to be aware of what's happening when the plane goes nose first into the Sandhills. It really scares the hell out of me.
And now, I can't even bring matches on the plane. So after they pry my hands loose from the arm rests and kick me out into the terminal, I can't even smoke a damn cigarette. Fucking terrorists.
I'm not afraid of them, either. After 9/11 everybody was scared of terrorists. The terrorists who would hijack a plane going from Lincoln, Nebraska to Cheyenne, Wyoming are the terrorists who got kicked out of terrorist school for smoking crack between prayer times.
What the shit is wrong with driving? Hell, I could explore the beauty of our Sandhills, and drive towards the Rocky Mountains, and check out everything Wyoming has to offer. Like livestock.
John Madden gets to roll around the country in this giant bus motor home thing because he's afraid of flying. I'm on his side. Flying is for people who have a death wish.
But then, I do realize that planes rarely crash. 100,000 people flew today, my parents included. They went to freakin Disney World. Without me, I might add (don't get me started.) They all made it okay. Maybe if I could take 2 Darvocets washed down with 3 glasses of wine I could fly okay. But it's a business trip, so I can't show up unconscious.
So I guess I'm writing this so there's a record of how I ended up dying. Cuz I will. Or not. I guess you'd have to be a lucky person to beat the odds of dying in an airplane, and I have yet to see the results of my 20 dollar Powerball ticket. So obviously, I'm not that lucky.
Whatever. If I die on a trip to Cheyenne, Wyoming, I'm gonna be pissed. If I'm gonna die on a plane, then I should be going to fucking Hawaii.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Let's Give a Hand For the Russian Bikini Team
I'm talking to my mother right now about a boy my little sister is seeing. He's a Russian, or I guess he's an American who was born in Russia. And while talking to my sister about him, my mom asked if he was really pale with dark bags under his eyes. My sister said, "well, yeah." And my mother acts as if this proves her extremely scientific theory:
Communism makes people ugly. And her argument is based on the fact that Americans, who are free, have better skin than Russians.
"I mean, could you imagine what their bikini team looks like?" She said. "Compare them to the Swedish bikini team, and you'll see what I mean."
Now, even though I bit my tongue when I thought to myself, "don't Swedes have like the highest suicide rate in the world?" I still couldn't help but see her point. I have yet to meet a sexy Russian.
So I replied, "Mom, it's just geography. They're pale because it's always winter. Same reason Africans and Mexicans are dark. It's always summer."
"Nope," she said. "I guarantee you, that if Chinese DNA were different, they would have bad skin, too."
And that's when I let her go, because I really couldn't follow her anymore.
But then I started thinking about what she was talking about. Which gave me a headache, which I fixed with two glasses of Pinot Grigio. And now she's starting to make sense. Which probably makes me drunk.
So okay. Imagine, if you will, an old Russian woman. If you can't, I'll help. She looks like Ed Koch. Now imagine Joan Rivers. Kinda wierd, huh? Like maybe the Russian spent all her time in a bread line, while Joan Rivers injected the fat in her thighs into her face. According to that model, Communism does make you ugly, while freedom makes you Joan Rivers.
But then I look at China and Cuba. Castro looks like Keith Richards, meaning he should have died 30 years ago but hasn't. And Cuban women are hot until they have 30 kids. The Chinese, on the other hand, have their own porn section at Sexworld, and are banned from having more than 1 kid. Translation: Freakin Hot!
So I guess the Chinese don't count. And well, neither does Cuba, because nobody there is pale. So the new thesis would be: Being a Russian Communist makes you ugly.
But Nastasia Kinski is hot. So is Anna Kournikova. Maybe it's just Russian men. And I don't know any Russian men, so there's nothing to prove me wrong.
And that is it. Communism makes Russian men ugly. Which doesn't make sense either, because if Communism made men ugly, then it would have to make the women ugly too, because Communism isn't gender specific.
So I guess the only logical conclusion left would be that getting old makes you ugly, as evidenced by old Russian women. Unless, of course, you're Joan Rivers, who happens to be American. Which I guess makes me glad to be American, because I know I'll always be able to shoot botox into my forehead before I start to look Russian. So I guess the only thing left to say is
GOD BLESS AMERICA
Communism makes people ugly. And her argument is based on the fact that Americans, who are free, have better skin than Russians.
"I mean, could you imagine what their bikini team looks like?" She said. "Compare them to the Swedish bikini team, and you'll see what I mean."
Now, even though I bit my tongue when I thought to myself, "don't Swedes have like the highest suicide rate in the world?" I still couldn't help but see her point. I have yet to meet a sexy Russian.
So I replied, "Mom, it's just geography. They're pale because it's always winter. Same reason Africans and Mexicans are dark. It's always summer."
"Nope," she said. "I guarantee you, that if Chinese DNA were different, they would have bad skin, too."
And that's when I let her go, because I really couldn't follow her anymore.
But then I started thinking about what she was talking about. Which gave me a headache, which I fixed with two glasses of Pinot Grigio. And now she's starting to make sense. Which probably makes me drunk.
So okay. Imagine, if you will, an old Russian woman. If you can't, I'll help. She looks like Ed Koch. Now imagine Joan Rivers. Kinda wierd, huh? Like maybe the Russian spent all her time in a bread line, while Joan Rivers injected the fat in her thighs into her face. According to that model, Communism does make you ugly, while freedom makes you Joan Rivers.
But then I look at China and Cuba. Castro looks like Keith Richards, meaning he should have died 30 years ago but hasn't. And Cuban women are hot until they have 30 kids. The Chinese, on the other hand, have their own porn section at Sexworld, and are banned from having more than 1 kid. Translation: Freakin Hot!
So I guess the Chinese don't count. And well, neither does Cuba, because nobody there is pale. So the new thesis would be: Being a Russian Communist makes you ugly.
But Nastasia Kinski is hot. So is Anna Kournikova. Maybe it's just Russian men. And I don't know any Russian men, so there's nothing to prove me wrong.
And that is it. Communism makes Russian men ugly. Which doesn't make sense either, because if Communism made men ugly, then it would have to make the women ugly too, because Communism isn't gender specific.
So I guess the only logical conclusion left would be that getting old makes you ugly, as evidenced by old Russian women. Unless, of course, you're Joan Rivers, who happens to be American. Which I guess makes me glad to be American, because I know I'll always be able to shoot botox into my forehead before I start to look Russian. So I guess the only thing left to say is
GOD BLESS AMERICA
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Bird Flu Is Total Bullshit
Ooooooooh I am incredibly pissed. Am I the only American left who can still read? Or think?
7 billion dollars is what "our" Government wants to spend on bird flu. Vaccinne, education, whatever. 7 billion dollars, because there's a pandemic on the way.
ABC News just broadcast a piece beginning with "Imagine hostipals overflowing with Americans sick with bird flu, and no way to help" blah blah.
They "estimated" 30% of Americans will get infected, and 1.9 million will die.
Pretty fucking scary.
Now lets get to reality- THERE IS NO WAY YOU ARE GOING TO DIE OF BIRD FLU. And the reason I know this is because there's a country called China, with about a billion people living in it who have been battling bird flu for 3 years. Total deaths contributed to this horrid disease: (drumroll)
163. People. Not 163 million people, which given what I just heard on the news is not outside the realm of possibility, but 163.
163 out of 1 billion people. And the people who were affected got it by literally sleeping with chickens. They were farmers with tons of sick chickens in their backyard.
When bird flu spread to Eastern Europe, it was a huge story. Total deaths there- like 20.
Let me help the Government here a little bit. Because maybe they're a little confused:
BIRD FLU KILLS BIRDS, NOT PEOPLE. IF IT'S GOING TO KILL PEOPLE, CALL IT SOMETHING ELSE.
1.9 Million American birds probably will die. See, if you just change one word, it gets a lot scarier. Let's change it back. Birds will die. Not people.
The people most at risk are going to be the people exposed to birds for long periods of time. Chicken farmers, like the ones in China, Laos,and Cambodia are going to have to watch it. But we're a lot more sanitary here, and we usually don't keep them in our backyards.
For the rest of us- 163 out of a billion is not gonna get me running to my doctor for a shot. Bird Flu is bullshit. 7 Billion fucking dollars and a lot of innocent people freaking out... Fuck You Government. Go fight "terrorism" or something. Quit blowing all my fucking money on kickback crap, lies, and cronyism.
If I am wrong, then let me be the first to die. I'll even sleep in a chicken coop for a week if you want. Fucking bird flu..........Jeez.
7 billion dollars is what "our" Government wants to spend on bird flu. Vaccinne, education, whatever. 7 billion dollars, because there's a pandemic on the way.
ABC News just broadcast a piece beginning with "Imagine hostipals overflowing with Americans sick with bird flu, and no way to help" blah blah.
They "estimated" 30% of Americans will get infected, and 1.9 million will die.
Pretty fucking scary.
Now lets get to reality- THERE IS NO WAY YOU ARE GOING TO DIE OF BIRD FLU. And the reason I know this is because there's a country called China, with about a billion people living in it who have been battling bird flu for 3 years. Total deaths contributed to this horrid disease: (drumroll)
163. People. Not 163 million people, which given what I just heard on the news is not outside the realm of possibility, but 163.
163 out of 1 billion people. And the people who were affected got it by literally sleeping with chickens. They were farmers with tons of sick chickens in their backyard.
When bird flu spread to Eastern Europe, it was a huge story. Total deaths there- like 20.
Let me help the Government here a little bit. Because maybe they're a little confused:
BIRD FLU KILLS BIRDS, NOT PEOPLE. IF IT'S GOING TO KILL PEOPLE, CALL IT SOMETHING ELSE.
1.9 Million American birds probably will die. See, if you just change one word, it gets a lot scarier. Let's change it back. Birds will die. Not people.
The people most at risk are going to be the people exposed to birds for long periods of time. Chicken farmers, like the ones in China, Laos,and Cambodia are going to have to watch it. But we're a lot more sanitary here, and we usually don't keep them in our backyards.
For the rest of us- 163 out of a billion is not gonna get me running to my doctor for a shot. Bird Flu is bullshit. 7 Billion fucking dollars and a lot of innocent people freaking out... Fuck You Government. Go fight "terrorism" or something. Quit blowing all my fucking money on kickback crap, lies, and cronyism.
If I am wrong, then let me be the first to die. I'll even sleep in a chicken coop for a week if you want. Fucking bird flu..........Jeez.
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