You know what I hate? Tickling. That's right. As in, "I'm going to poke my rigid fingers into your armpits and make you squeal" type tickling. Yes, I know that tickling is "fun" and "cute" and "game-like" and that children seem to "enjoy" it. But come on, children also enjoy eating Play-Dough and wiping their own shit on the walls. Nuff said.
The deal is that I suffer from an ailment called hyper-ticklitis. It's a serious disorder. It can cause heart attacks, nervous breakdowns, blood clots to the brain, and, in severe cases, peed-on panties. My husband has been exploiting my condition for the past 10 years, and he's recently certified my children in "mommy tickle torture" as well.
They think it's funny when they tickle me. Why? Because I laugh hysterically. I roar. I howl. I chortle. Yet I'm miserable. There is no worse torture. But my loved ones don't understand this. Because I'm laughing. He he. Laughing. What we do when we're IN A GOOD MOOD. Talk about a mixed message! Now I know how date rapists feel.
I'm pretty sure God was drunk when he hard-wired our bodies to crack up when being tortured. Oh well. I'll cut the guy some slack; he did only have seven days.
Nevertheless, I stand by my opinion that tickling sucks. When my husband rubs his harsh 5-o-clock shadow all over my tender neck and I roar so loud the house shakes, contrary to what he likes to believe, we're not bonding. Meanwhile, he's convinced I like it. Convinced it's therapeutic. Hearty laughter and a thorough pants-pissing. That must be good for me.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Five Things I Truly HATE
You know what I hate? Pretty much everything. It's really not my fault; everyone is just sooooooo annoying. Maybe it's the sweltering humidity (it's NOT a dry heat by the way) or maybe it's the fact that it's Day 23 in my cycle. Whatever it is, shit's gettin' on my last nerves. Where do I begin?
#1) To the mutant parents who brought their roly-poly adult child to see Monster House last night -- YOU SUCK! Why, when you could choose pretty much any seat in the entire theater, did you choose to park behind me and my children? (who, by the way, are the appropriate age to be seeing a children's film. Unlike your man-child.) And why, when you're so fat that you can't sit down without pulling on the back of my headrest so hard that I am reclined against my will, don't you BUY A SMALL POPCORN and SKIP THE NACHOS? And tell me I didn't just hear your white-trash husband burp out loud -- twice. Tell me I didn't. And as for your heavy breathing, I'm sorry that I had to turn around and stare at you. Honestly, though! I thought maybe it was Paul Rubens fondling himself.
#2) To the pimple right smack in the middle of my forehead: I HATE YOU! Because no matter how good my hair might look and how perfect my makeup might be, I'm sporting a unicorn horn! I'm too old for this. You're a pus-filled bastard and I'm doing DOUBLE benzyl peroxide on your sorry ass.
#3) To the lady at the gym who finds my 12-minute mile on the treadmill so intriguing, I'm about one step away from GOUGING YOUR EYEBALLS OUT! Keep your eyes on your OWN treadmill instrument panel. YES, I've been going for 23 minutes and 20 seconds. YES, I have burned a whopping 114 calories. Yes, my heart-rate is elevated. Why is my control panel so much more interesting than yours? Huh? Why? Mind your own freakin' business!
#4) To the morons at JcPenney (yes, I'm a glutton for punishment), PAY ATTENTION! What do you see in the picture below? A pair of pants with the anti-theft device still on them. But wait -- aren't these pants ON MY COUCH? Yes, they are! You didn't remove the anti-theft device. So now I have to drive my hot and cranky self back to skanksville or wear a pair of ink-splotched cullottes! And another thing: these pants were on clearance for $5. Has the neighborhood really become so ghetto that a pair of five dollar camos are treated like a fur coat?
#1) To the mutant parents who brought their roly-poly adult child to see Monster House last night -- YOU SUCK! Why, when you could choose pretty much any seat in the entire theater, did you choose to park behind me and my children? (who, by the way, are the appropriate age to be seeing a children's film. Unlike your man-child.) And why, when you're so fat that you can't sit down without pulling on the back of my headrest so hard that I am reclined against my will, don't you BUY A SMALL POPCORN and SKIP THE NACHOS? And tell me I didn't just hear your white-trash husband burp out loud -- twice. Tell me I didn't. And as for your heavy breathing, I'm sorry that I had to turn around and stare at you. Honestly, though! I thought maybe it was Paul Rubens fondling himself.
#2) To the pimple right smack in the middle of my forehead: I HATE YOU! Because no matter how good my hair might look and how perfect my makeup might be, I'm sporting a unicorn horn! I'm too old for this. You're a pus-filled bastard and I'm doing DOUBLE benzyl peroxide on your sorry ass.
#3) To the lady at the gym who finds my 12-minute mile on the treadmill so intriguing, I'm about one step away from GOUGING YOUR EYEBALLS OUT! Keep your eyes on your OWN treadmill instrument panel. YES, I've been going for 23 minutes and 20 seconds. YES, I have burned a whopping 114 calories. Yes, my heart-rate is elevated. Why is my control panel so much more interesting than yours? Huh? Why? Mind your own freakin' business!
#4) To the morons at JcPenney (yes, I'm a glutton for punishment), PAY ATTENTION! What do you see in the picture below? A pair of pants with the anti-theft device still on them. But wait -- aren't these pants ON MY COUCH? Yes, they are! You didn't remove the anti-theft device. So now I have to drive my hot and cranky self back to skanksville or wear a pair of ink-splotched cullottes! And another thing: these pants were on clearance for $5. Has the neighborhood really become so ghetto that a pair of five dollar camos are treated like a fur coat?
#5) To mother nature -- MY SHRUBS ARE SHRIVELING! That's right. SHRIVELING!!! Because you continue to spoil all of Arizona with rainstorms while leaving my particular neighborhood DRY. My backyard is dying. Dying. I hope that makes you feel sad. And selfish. Because you are. You favor the east side. The north side. Rich Scottsdale bastards. What about us inner-city folk? What did we ever do to you? Is it too much to ask for a drop or two? Geez.
That's it. I'm done. For now anyway.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Go Tarts
You know what I hate? Food designed for miniature people. Food like Tic-Tac's and grapenuts and McDonald's small fries. Things you could picture Emmanuel Lewis or Verne Troyer eating.
Especially when it comes to fatty and greasy garbage. If I'm gonna clog my arteries and increase my latitudinal spread (i.e. fat ass), I damned well want to do it with some substance! Extra large. Super sized. Bell Grande. That's what I'm talkin' bout.
Sunflower seeds? Wayyyyyyyyyyyy too much work. Mini M&M's? I let them melt together then eat them as a single fused cylinder. Chiclets? I pop 7/8 of the pack just to blow a 1-inch bubble! Sissy food. All of it!
Which brings to mind this new "venture" from Kelloggs. They're called "Go Tarts." They're about the size of my big toe. For breakfast, I need the entire box of 10. It would be cheaper for me to have the buffet at The Pointe.
Go-Tarts, though, you have to admit, are a genius concept. I mean, come on, you can now eat your "pop tart" "on the go." Wow! No more using up your grandma's good china and silver cutlery to serve up the traditional Pop Tart. Now that's progress. I'm surprised it took them this long to think of it. A pop tart that you can take with you. Pioneers, those Kellogg's folks. Damn; they're good.
Especially when it comes to fatty and greasy garbage. If I'm gonna clog my arteries and increase my latitudinal spread (i.e. fat ass), I damned well want to do it with some substance! Extra large. Super sized. Bell Grande. That's what I'm talkin' bout.
Sunflower seeds? Wayyyyyyyyyyyy too much work. Mini M&M's? I let them melt together then eat them as a single fused cylinder. Chiclets? I pop 7/8 of the pack just to blow a 1-inch bubble! Sissy food. All of it!
Which brings to mind this new "venture" from Kelloggs. They're called "Go Tarts." They're about the size of my big toe. For breakfast, I need the entire box of 10. It would be cheaper for me to have the buffet at The Pointe.
Go-Tarts, though, you have to admit, are a genius concept. I mean, come on, you can now eat your "pop tart" "on the go." Wow! No more using up your grandma's good china and silver cutlery to serve up the traditional Pop Tart. Now that's progress. I'm surprised it took them this long to think of it. A pop tart that you can take with you. Pioneers, those Kellogg's folks. Damn; they're good.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Claire Clux Clan
You know what I hate? When it becomes painfully obvious that you've failed as a parent. When, despite the infinite love you show your child, you realize that she has strayed in a direction that is contrary to your intentions as a parent.
I tried to create a racially harmonious home. Really, I did. We watch Oprah. We rock out to Lenny Kravitz. We eat Neopolitan ice cream.
So, where have I gone wrong? Perhaps we watched too much Full House and not enough Moeesha. Too much Little House and not enough Erkel. Listened to too much Alan Jackson and not enough Michael Jackson.
Ahhh, the pain. The pain and humiliation I will suffer as my 5-year-old starts drawing little swastikas on her first-grade composition notebook. When she begins using sidewalk chalk to draw fiery, burning crosses in the neighbor's driveways.
A pair of scissors and paper towel. Craft-time used to seem so innocent.
I tried to create a racially harmonious home. Really, I did. We watch Oprah. We rock out to Lenny Kravitz. We eat Neopolitan ice cream.
So, where have I gone wrong? Perhaps we watched too much Full House and not enough Moeesha. Too much Little House and not enough Erkel. Listened to too much Alan Jackson and not enough Michael Jackson.
Ahhh, the pain. The pain and humiliation I will suffer as my 5-year-old starts drawing little swastikas on her first-grade composition notebook. When she begins using sidewalk chalk to draw fiery, burning crosses in the neighbor's driveways.
A pair of scissors and paper towel. Craft-time used to seem so innocent.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Fudgies in Feenix
You know what I hate? Phoenix. It's 116. You crave a fudgie. You buy a box. You bring it home. You bust into one after dinner.
(scroll)
I could say more, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to.
(scroll)
I could say more, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
1980s Victorian -- my favorite era!
You know what I hate? False advertising designed to "draw you in". Like I'm stupid enough to buy something after I've been duped. Come on.
I like to check Craig's List on a daily basis for good deals on antique furniture and shit. The other day, I saw a listing for a Victorian couch -- for only $45!!! I pictured myself lounging bare-legged across the cool smoothness of the satin brocade fabric, admiring the hand-carved wooden legs, marveling at the immaculate piping around the perimeter of this fabulous 19th century gem.
I didn't picture myself with a mouth full of Fritos 'n bean dip, holding a Coors Light while watching the Pittsburgh Steelers. Yet that would be more-than appropriate given what the couch really looked like when the "teaser" was clicked and a photo revealed.
1980's-era La-Z-Boy. 1800's Victorian. It's all the same....
to this moron!
There's 20 seconds of my life I'll never get back. Thanks dude.
I like to check Craig's List on a daily basis for good deals on antique furniture and shit. The other day, I saw a listing for a Victorian couch -- for only $45!!! I pictured myself lounging bare-legged across the cool smoothness of the satin brocade fabric, admiring the hand-carved wooden legs, marveling at the immaculate piping around the perimeter of this fabulous 19th century gem.
I didn't picture myself with a mouth full of Fritos 'n bean dip, holding a Coors Light while watching the Pittsburgh Steelers. Yet that would be more-than appropriate given what the couch really looked like when the "teaser" was clicked and a photo revealed.
1980's-era La-Z-Boy. 1800's Victorian. It's all the same.... to this moron!
There's 20 seconds of my life I'll never get back. Thanks dude.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Peach Pustules
You know what I hate? When I'm eating a peach and I find an embryo sac in it.
Check it:
I know. It's gross. What is it, seriously? Whatever it is, I'm thinking we could make some serious scientific progress using this fuzzy little guy if Bush would just change his stance on stem cell research.
Or maybe it's not embryonic afterall. Maybe it's a larvae of some sort. A yet-undiscovered species of the caterpillar genus. Persicum cattus, or "Peach Caterpillar."
Or perhaps it's a peach pustule. Like, there was an infectuous outbreak on the peach farm and Farmer Ned injected antibiotics into all the peaches, but this little fella was hiding behind a giant leaf because he hates shots.
Or maybe it's of a phlegm origin. Perhaps a peach with a cold. Or chronic asthma.
Or perhaps it's the remnants of the one-night stand this peach had with her cute next-branch neighbor.
Or maybe the peach was lactating. Sad to think her baby peach is still hanging on the vine, probably starving.
I guess we'll never know...
Check it:
I know. It's gross. What is it, seriously? Whatever it is, I'm thinking we could make some serious scientific progress using this fuzzy little guy if Bush would just change his stance on stem cell research.
Or maybe it's not embryonic afterall. Maybe it's a larvae of some sort. A yet-undiscovered species of the caterpillar genus. Persicum cattus, or "Peach Caterpillar."
Or perhaps it's a peach pustule. Like, there was an infectuous outbreak on the peach farm and Farmer Ned injected antibiotics into all the peaches, but this little fella was hiding behind a giant leaf because he hates shots.
Or maybe it's of a phlegm origin. Perhaps a peach with a cold. Or chronic asthma.
Or perhaps it's the remnants of the one-night stand this peach had with her cute next-branch neighbor.
Or maybe the peach was lactating. Sad to think her baby peach is still hanging on the vine, probably starving.
I guess we'll never know...
Friday, July 07, 2006
Opinionated Dumb Ass
You know what I hate? Opinionated dumb-asses. I don't mind people being dumb-asses and I don't mind people being opinionated, but together, it's a terribly annoying combination.
First of all, this is probably my fault. Because not only was I shopping at the white-trashiest of department stores (Penney's), but I was also at MetroCenter where the clientele is, well, let's just say, "interesting." No, actually, let's not say "interesting." Let's say, "freakishly gang-like."
Despite the colorful mix of characters at Penney's (and I don't mean 'colorful' in a racist way, so shut the hell up), there were sales to be had. Awesome sales -- 50% off the lowest ticketed clearance price! I know, huh? Wow!
So, I found a few items marked down to $5.99. Fifty percent off the lowest ticketed price, remember. So I headed to the check-out counter expecting to pay roughly 3 bucks each for these items.
They rang in at $4.69.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "But aren't those supposed to be 50% off the lowest ticket price?"
"Yes. Fifty percent off of the $5.99 price. That's $4.69."
Here presents that precarious moment where you want to call the sales clerk a big retard but you hold back because you don't want her spitting loogies in your cullottes, which you've seen a hundred times on those hidden camera shows.
"Ummm. Actually, wouldn't 50% off of $5.99 be about 3 dollars?" I'm being kind. I should really ask her why she chose to smoke pot instead of going to 3rd grade math class. Meanwhile, she's employed and I'm kissing the state's ass to earn my $214 per week. That's fair.
And here's where 'dumbassed' segues into 'opinionated'...
"Well, they're not all marked exactly 50 percent. Some of them are a bit less."
This is the point at which I know she's a bit fat liar. Because 4.69 is around 28% off of 5.99 and what kind of store marks things 28% off?? So, I say, nicely...
"Can you perhaps ask someone else?"
"For what?" I've offended her. I'm afraid the loogie into the cullotte might now be inevitable.
"For a second opinion?"
"No. The price is $4.69."
"Okay," I say meekly, as I put the items back. Then I decide that I may be back to speak to this lady again. I'm thinking she'd make a great business partner. We'd split things "50/50".
First of all, this is probably my fault. Because not only was I shopping at the white-trashiest of department stores (Penney's), but I was also at MetroCenter where the clientele is, well, let's just say, "interesting." No, actually, let's not say "interesting." Let's say, "freakishly gang-like."
Despite the colorful mix of characters at Penney's (and I don't mean 'colorful' in a racist way, so shut the hell up), there were sales to be had. Awesome sales -- 50% off the lowest ticketed clearance price! I know, huh? Wow!
So, I found a few items marked down to $5.99. Fifty percent off the lowest ticketed price, remember. So I headed to the check-out counter expecting to pay roughly 3 bucks each for these items.
They rang in at $4.69.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "But aren't those supposed to be 50% off the lowest ticket price?"
"Yes. Fifty percent off of the $5.99 price. That's $4.69."
Here presents that precarious moment where you want to call the sales clerk a big retard but you hold back because you don't want her spitting loogies in your cullottes, which you've seen a hundred times on those hidden camera shows.
"Ummm. Actually, wouldn't 50% off of $5.99 be about 3 dollars?" I'm being kind. I should really ask her why she chose to smoke pot instead of going to 3rd grade math class. Meanwhile, she's employed and I'm kissing the state's ass to earn my $214 per week. That's fair.
And here's where 'dumbassed' segues into 'opinionated'...
"Well, they're not all marked exactly 50 percent. Some of them are a bit less."
This is the point at which I know she's a bit fat liar. Because 4.69 is around 28% off of 5.99 and what kind of store marks things 28% off?? So, I say, nicely...
"Can you perhaps ask someone else?"
"For what?" I've offended her. I'm afraid the loogie into the cullotte might now be inevitable.
"For a second opinion?"
"No. The price is $4.69."
"Okay," I say meekly, as I put the items back. Then I decide that I may be back to speak to this lady again. I'm thinking she'd make a great business partner. We'd split things "50/50".
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Unexpected Visitors
You know what I hate? Unexpected visitors. And no, I'm not talking about an early period that stains your favorite panties. I'm talking about neighbors coming to visit "just for the heck of it" when I'm white-trashing it up in a house just slightly more sanitary than a crack-snorting dog breeder's.
My neighbor, who's as nice as could be and whose house is always immaculate and smells of Downy and Pine-Sol, decided to stop over with her two-year-old at around 3 p.m. Three p.m. is just about the time I'm gaining consciousness ("momma's nap time -- go put a movie on kids"). So here's what I remember about the course of events... And remember, this is honest-to-goodness A TRUE STORY.
1 p.m. -- "Kids -- clean up your lunch mess. Kids? Clean up your lunch mess. Hello? Kids? Ooooh. What's this on TiVo? The Little House on the Prairie where Laura steals Nelly's music box? Awesome! Hey Kids? Oh what the hell. We'll clean later. But first, let me throw all the cushions from the couch on the floor. Ahhhh. Now it's like a big comfy bed. BoeDee? Come here, boy. Do you want to lick my ice-cream bowl? Good boy. Oops. The spoon fell out. I'll get it later. Good boy."
2:30 p.m. -- 30 minutes into momma's nap... "Mom. BoeDee just peed in the kitchen. It's running all over the floor. It's in the cracks. I stepped in it and now it's all down the hall, too."
"Okay. Momma's still sleeping. I'll take care of it when I wake up."
2:45 p.m. -- the sound of water running. "What's that sound?"
"What sound, mom?"
"That water sound?"
"Oh, that's just me doing an experiment in the bathroom."
"An experiment of what?"
"Toilet paper and water."
"Oh. Okay then."
3:00 -- Ding Dong!
3:01 -- (in a whisper) "Mom. Do you want me to put a barstool over the place where BoeDee peed so Ryan (the innocent and tidy 2-year-old) won't step in it."
"Crap! Yes. Put a barstool up. Thanks, honey."
3:02 -- "Come on in."
"Did we wake you?"
"No, no. I was just catching up on some television. I like to turn the couch into a bed. Heh heh (nervous laugh). Let me just get these cushions. Wooops. How'd that spoon get attached to this pillow. Riiiip. There we go. Let's just put that back up. My house is a mess. I'm sorry about that."
"It's really okay. Mine's always a mess too (lie). Ryan? Where'd he go? Ryan? (Walks down the hallway) Where are you? Ryan! You come out of that bathroom." (At this point, I get my first glimpse of the "laboratory" where the toilet paper and water experiment took place. There are lots of wods, some wet-haired barbies and various polly pocket body parts in states of disarray. My 5-year-old sociopath's trail of destruction.)
"Oh!" (what else can I say?)
3:03 -- Back in the living room. "This summer heat just makes me so sluggish. I don't feel like cleaning or anything."
"It's really okay. I understand."
3:04 -- I look over at my daughter, who is spraying her legs with the water bottle I use to discipline my dogs. Good conversation-starter, I think to myself.
"Roxanne! What are you doing, you silly?!?"
(suddenly taking on a hillbilly voice) "Water. It keeps the bugs off me."
Nice. We don't even have bugs. Yet.
3:05 -- "Ryan? Where'd he go again? Ryan? Oh, I think he's in the kitchen."
"That's okay. He's fine in there. There's nothing he can hurt. He's probably playing with the magnets. My neice likes that, too. He's fine."
"Ryan? Ryan? Come here. Oh; I'll go get him."
(inside my head:) Maybe the dog pee will look like a little spilled orange juice. Maybe it's dried by now. Maybe she won't notice cuz of the barstool over the top of it.
(as I see the reality of the situation:) There's a barstool dead center in the middle of my kitchen with liquid running from all avenues leading out. The dogs are sniffing it curiously. The two-year-old is leaving piss-prints everywhere he walks. I think we're going to need to move.
3:06 -- "Well, we should probably head home now. It's getting pretty late. Daddy will be home soon. Come on Ryan. Let's go honey."
"Okay. Well, thanks for visiting. Come back anytime!"
My neighbor, who's as nice as could be and whose house is always immaculate and smells of Downy and Pine-Sol, decided to stop over with her two-year-old at around 3 p.m. Three p.m. is just about the time I'm gaining consciousness ("momma's nap time -- go put a movie on kids"). So here's what I remember about the course of events... And remember, this is honest-to-goodness A TRUE STORY.
1 p.m. -- "Kids -- clean up your lunch mess. Kids? Clean up your lunch mess. Hello? Kids? Ooooh. What's this on TiVo? The Little House on the Prairie where Laura steals Nelly's music box? Awesome! Hey Kids? Oh what the hell. We'll clean later. But first, let me throw all the cushions from the couch on the floor. Ahhhh. Now it's like a big comfy bed. BoeDee? Come here, boy. Do you want to lick my ice-cream bowl? Good boy. Oops. The spoon fell out. I'll get it later. Good boy."
2:30 p.m. -- 30 minutes into momma's nap... "Mom. BoeDee just peed in the kitchen. It's running all over the floor. It's in the cracks. I stepped in it and now it's all down the hall, too."
"Okay. Momma's still sleeping. I'll take care of it when I wake up."
2:45 p.m. -- the sound of water running. "What's that sound?"
"What sound, mom?"
"That water sound?"
"Oh, that's just me doing an experiment in the bathroom."
"An experiment of what?"
"Toilet paper and water."
"Oh. Okay then."
3:00 -- Ding Dong!
3:01 -- (in a whisper) "Mom. Do you want me to put a barstool over the place where BoeDee peed so Ryan (the innocent and tidy 2-year-old) won't step in it."
"Crap! Yes. Put a barstool up. Thanks, honey."
3:02 -- "Come on in."
"Did we wake you?"
"No, no. I was just catching up on some television. I like to turn the couch into a bed. Heh heh (nervous laugh). Let me just get these cushions. Wooops. How'd that spoon get attached to this pillow. Riiiip. There we go. Let's just put that back up. My house is a mess. I'm sorry about that."
"It's really okay. Mine's always a mess too (lie). Ryan? Where'd he go? Ryan? (Walks down the hallway) Where are you? Ryan! You come out of that bathroom." (At this point, I get my first glimpse of the "laboratory" where the toilet paper and water experiment took place. There are lots of wods, some wet-haired barbies and various polly pocket body parts in states of disarray. My 5-year-old sociopath's trail of destruction.)
"Oh!" (what else can I say?)
3:03 -- Back in the living room. "This summer heat just makes me so sluggish. I don't feel like cleaning or anything."
"It's really okay. I understand."
3:04 -- I look over at my daughter, who is spraying her legs with the water bottle I use to discipline my dogs. Good conversation-starter, I think to myself.
"Roxanne! What are you doing, you silly?!?"
(suddenly taking on a hillbilly voice) "Water. It keeps the bugs off me."
Nice. We don't even have bugs. Yet.
3:05 -- "Ryan? Where'd he go again? Ryan? Oh, I think he's in the kitchen."
"That's okay. He's fine in there. There's nothing he can hurt. He's probably playing with the magnets. My neice likes that, too. He's fine."
"Ryan? Ryan? Come here. Oh; I'll go get him."
(inside my head:) Maybe the dog pee will look like a little spilled orange juice. Maybe it's dried by now. Maybe she won't notice cuz of the barstool over the top of it.
(as I see the reality of the situation:) There's a barstool dead center in the middle of my kitchen with liquid running from all avenues leading out. The dogs are sniffing it curiously. The two-year-old is leaving piss-prints everywhere he walks. I think we're going to need to move.
3:06 -- "Well, we should probably head home now. It's getting pretty late. Daddy will be home soon. Come on Ryan. Let's go honey."
"Okay. Well, thanks for visiting. Come back anytime!"
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Fireworks are Dumb
You know what I hate? Fireworks. They're ugly. And dumb. And terribly anti-climatic. Yet everyone loves them. You know why? Because we've been watching fireworks go off for hundreds of years and nobody has bothered to question it.
Newsflash: THIS IS THE ELECTRONIC AGE! This isn't 1906 when a few sporadic flashes of light in the sky makes us about jizz our pants. We have America's Funniest Videos and myspace and blogging and gaming and lifelike images on our Plasma TV's ("oooooh, aaahhh"). We can make a song on our own computer, or visit a webpage devoted solely to people who like to pierce themselves in strange places, or have someone read a book to us through our MP3 players.
We don't need no stinkin' fireworks anymore.
I'm not completely un-American. We did what any good white-trash family would do: we watched them on TV. Until about 5 minutes into it when my 7-year-old said, "This is boring. Put on Sponge Bob."
Newsflash: THIS IS THE ELECTRONIC AGE! This isn't 1906 when a few sporadic flashes of light in the sky makes us about jizz our pants. We have America's Funniest Videos and myspace and blogging and gaming and lifelike images on our Plasma TV's ("oooooh, aaahhh"). We can make a song on our own computer, or visit a webpage devoted solely to people who like to pierce themselves in strange places, or have someone read a book to us through our MP3 players.
We don't need no stinkin' fireworks anymore.
I'm not completely un-American. We did what any good white-trash family would do: we watched them on TV. Until about 5 minutes into it when my 7-year-old said, "This is boring. Put on Sponge Bob."
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Laugh Tracks are Ruining Our Youth
You know what I hate? The laugh tracks on kids' shows. Unfortunately, my daughters are now really into Nick Jr., otherwise known as "Nick everyone is white, rich and beautiful." Hillary Duff got her start on Nick Jr. in the "Lizzie McGuire" series if that tells you anything. Now she's a skanky anorexic. Fabulous child role model.
Almost every show on Nick Jr is totally banal. But I'm used to that on television. I mean, it's American entertainment. What do you expect? But what bothers me is the laugh track on these idiotic shows. They are set to go off after just about every line. And the lines aren't funny! The dialogue will be like:
"Little Joshua, do your homework!"
"Gosh, mom, you don't have to yell at me."
laugh track: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
No wonder just about every kid I meet is a little retard. Look at what they have to aspire to. Seriously, when I visit my daughters' classrooms, the kids in the class always crack jokes that just aren't funny. This is the fall-out from those faulty laugh-tracks! And what do we parents do? We laugh at the dumb joke so the kid feels good about himself. What are we teaching these youngsters? That self-induced retardation is acceptable behavior?
Did you watch William Huang sing on American Idol and wonder how the hell this little mongoloid-ish freak came to believe he could compete on that show? It's the laugh-track theory. Children today have no sense of reality. Parents dote on them unconditionally and they are taught that no matter how dumb-assed a comment is, everyone will still laugh at it!
It's time we add a little dose of reality back into our childrens' lives. If your kid tells a bomb of a joke, tell him he's an idiot. If your little diva of a daughter puts on an outfit that makes her act like she's hot, tell her she's a whore. If your kid is just plain ugly, point and laugh.
Okay, okay. Settle down. I'm just joking. I know children are sensitive and impressionable and easily beaten down. So I take it back. Don't call your daughter a whore. And don't point and poke fun at your homely little offspring.
But please, please, please don't continue to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Because the children of today will be writing the television of tomorrow. And I'm scared.
Almost every show on Nick Jr is totally banal. But I'm used to that on television. I mean, it's American entertainment. What do you expect? But what bothers me is the laugh track on these idiotic shows. They are set to go off after just about every line. And the lines aren't funny! The dialogue will be like:
"Little Joshua, do your homework!"
"Gosh, mom, you don't have to yell at me."
laugh track: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
No wonder just about every kid I meet is a little retard. Look at what they have to aspire to. Seriously, when I visit my daughters' classrooms, the kids in the class always crack jokes that just aren't funny. This is the fall-out from those faulty laugh-tracks! And what do we parents do? We laugh at the dumb joke so the kid feels good about himself. What are we teaching these youngsters? That self-induced retardation is acceptable behavior?
Did you watch William Huang sing on American Idol and wonder how the hell this little mongoloid-ish freak came to believe he could compete on that show? It's the laugh-track theory. Children today have no sense of reality. Parents dote on them unconditionally and they are taught that no matter how dumb-assed a comment is, everyone will still laugh at it!
It's time we add a little dose of reality back into our childrens' lives. If your kid tells a bomb of a joke, tell him he's an idiot. If your little diva of a daughter puts on an outfit that makes her act like she's hot, tell her she's a whore. If your kid is just plain ugly, point and laugh.
Okay, okay. Settle down. I'm just joking. I know children are sensitive and impressionable and easily beaten down. So I take it back. Don't call your daughter a whore. And don't point and poke fun at your homely little offspring.
But please, please, please don't continue to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Because the children of today will be writing the television of tomorrow. And I'm scared.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)