The Half Sneeze

You know what I hate? The half sneeze. The half sneeze is when a sneeze with really high potential fizzles into nothing but a pierce-pitched sigh, leaving you with the sensation of pop rocks detonating in your nasal cavities.

Here's the thing about a sneeze: it needs to come out. And if it doesn't, your schnoz with tickle. All day. And your eyes will water. And when your eyes water, people assume you're either sad or farting, neither of which is desirable.

Did you happen to know that a sneeze would launch your eyeballs right out of their sockets if you could manage to keep your lids open? It's true. I learned about it on an urban legends site. The sheer force. The magnitudal velocity. A sneeze has somethin' to say.

But the half-sneeze doesn't get to speak its peace. It crescendoes beautifully...

ahh...AHHHH...AHHHHHHHHHH... AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
then..
psflt

Sissy sneeze.

About the only thing worse than a half-sneeze is a sneeze that is thwarted by a violent tongue-biting, otherwise dubbed "the half sneeze plus blood". If I were a man, I would guess that this sensation would be the equivalent of having my nads hammered right before "climax."

Incomprehensible!!

You know what I hate? Feeling retarded.

I am actually pretty conceited when it comes to things of an "intellectual" nature. I fancy myself well-educated, well-spoken and well-read. I can play the pretentious cards with the best of 'em. I can recite parts of the Canterbury Tales in OLD ENGLISH. I can tell you how Romeo and Juliet ends. I know, I know. You're pretty impressed about now. I also use some big words now again -- like "fatitious" and "myriad" and "juxtaposition."

And, of course, "incomprehensible."

Incomprehensible means, according to Webster, "impossible to effin' understand."

As in "the way I felt when I came across THIS PARAGRAPH while researching a topic for my MASTER'S DEGREE (that's right -- I'm just tossin' it in there for added validity) paper."

Departing from the assumption that focus is nonuniform (Drubig 1994; Kiss 1998) this paper takes preliminary steps toward a typology of focus and focus constructions. Focus is taken to be a syntactic feature assigned freely to word-level categories at numeration, licensed either by integration into a wider domain (presentational focus constructions) or by overt/covert movement to a functional projection headed by a polarity formative (focus operator constructions). Cross-linguistic variation in the target position of focus movement (sentence-peripheral vs. verb-adjacent) supports the stipulation of two polarity projections, one in COMP and one in INFL, with different effects on interpretation. A serious problem confronts the movement analysis of narrow focus in a number of languages that show striking parallels between focus and relative constructions (Schachter 1973): in some languages of this type sentence-peripheral foci bind resumptive pronouns without weak crossover or island effects. In this paper I propose a cleft analysis for this type of focus construction and discuss its typological implications.

In case you're wondering, "yes," it is in English. I sent it through an online translation program just to be sure.

Seriously. Does anyone understand this thing? (Don't answer if you do -- I don't need to be shown up by stuck-up smarty-pants bastards. Kevin.)

So, I didn't like the way this particular paragraph made me feel. Lesser-than. Dumb. Foolish. White-trashy. Ass-like. Arkansasian.

This phrase alone makes me what to pull my hair out: "sentence-peripheral foci bind resumptive pronouns without weak crossover or island effects." The guy who wrote this needs to move in with his fellow Mensa nerds and they can write this crap then read it aloud at their circle-jerk campfire.

And no, I'm not bitter. Just dumb, apparently.

Going Once, Going Twice...

You know what I hate? When I miss out on a really good deal. You know, like when you stay nestled in your bed on Black Friday instead of heading out for a $3.00 computer at WalMart or a ten-cent 5.1 mexapixel digital camera. Sometimes, I splurge on grocery store items that I just CAN'T live without. Like Cookie Crisp. And Doritos. Then, I go in the next week to find they're on sale. And I curse myself and toss a few more bags of Doritos in the cart cuz now I'm depressed over my financial misfortune.

So, you can imagine how dissapppointed I was when I missed the boat on the deal offered in the picture below! (go ahead; scroll down) Dammit! Now I'll have to pay the full price.

I really hate throwing money away.

Raw Buns

You know what I hate? Panty lines. Lately, when I turn sideways to view my silhouette, I've noticed that I'm lumpy. I think I might possibly be the only woman in dress slacks still wearing cotton briefs.

So I got myself a thong. I know what you're saying: "REEEEEOWWWWWWWW." But hey, I ain't trying to be sexy. I'm oversized, remember. I know about the disgust that accompanies the juxtaposition of thongs and big boned girls. I, myself, have snickered and scoffed upon witnessing the top of a thong peeking out the waistband of a size-18 girl's leggins.

And now I'm one of them. A fattie in a thong.

But I assure you that my thong isn't hanging out the top of my pants. Why? Because it's tightly fused to the inside of my ass.

Let me say this: wearing a thong all day with polyester pants really isn't so bad...

...if you like the feeling of crawling across a tight-rope in your birthday suit. Or going on an off-road hayride wearing your favorite crotchless panties. Or having an 'Indian Burn' done on your anus.

The good news is there was ne'er a panty line to be seen on me today. The bad news: I'm going to have to ask my husband to rub some salve in my crack.

Happiest Place on Earth???

You know what I hate? The happiest place on earth. In case you don't know what this is, it's the cute little moniker that some over-zealous and acid-tripping marketing numskulls gave to Disneyland many, many years ago. The problem I have is not necessarily with Disneyland itself. Because Space Mountain rocked as much last week as it did when me and my best friend Missy hopped on that sweet-ass gravity defying wonder circa 1982.

No, the problem I have is with that slogan. Come on. The happiest place on earth? Have the marketing people at Disney never been to a Dunkin Donuts when the sales staff is being generous with the munchkin allotment? That's what I'm talkin' bout.

I really think they missed the boat on this one. I mean, I could think of a hundred better adjectives that would depict the Disney experience. Like...

The most expensive place on earth (my husband already stole my thunder on this one) or...

The white trashiest place on earth. Did we stand in the Thunder Mountain line with a grown man sporting a big fat hairy torso while being called "paw-paw" and wearing overalls with no shirt underneath? Yes. Is the image burned into my gray matter forever and ever? I certainly freakin' hope so!

The most sexually confused place on earth. If you're a man, with a wife, and you're donning not just Mickey Mouse ears, but GOLD 50th anniversary Mickey Mouse ears, while also proudly displaying your Lion King pin collection on a decorative ribbon around your neck, then you might want to go have a talk with George Michael about gettin' some shit straightened out (or unstraightened out as it were -- har har). Just sayin'.

The most Chineseiest place on earth. Come on. Don't act like I'm being racist. You and I both know that there's a reason the showerhead in our hotel only came up to my boobies. Crap in Disneyland is designed for the little Asians.

Case in point: we saw lots of this...

And this...


And, of course, this....

Well, as they say in China: "Man who run behind car get exhausted. Man who run in front of car get tired."