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."

Vacation

Please look for new blogs coming November 5th!!

Itty Bitty Teetie Committee

Note: I will not be posting anything again until Nov. 5th as I'm vacationing in California!

You know what I hate? Today's youth. Not for the reasons you'd think, though. Not for the fact that they have no respect for adults or the fact that they spray paint gang insignia on the back of my block wall. Not for the fact that smoke cigarettes in my alley and leave their used condoms on the playground of the park. I guess I expect all that. I hate today's youth because they're way better lookin' than I was as an adolescent.

There's this phenomenon amongst teenage girls these days. I'm not sure if you've noticed it. In addition to being uncommonly good looking, they're....well...amplified. They're waaaaaaaaaay more endowed than me and all my friends were when we were entering puberty circa 1982. If you still aren't sure what I'm talking about, let me state it in layperson's terminology used by my always-eloquent 80-year-old grandpa, "them big-tittied blondes." (Oh yes he did say that.)
What the hell? Where are were my boobs? I got gypped! I belonged to Flatties R Us club and was treasurer of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee (IBTC).

My husband comments frequently on his feeling cheated as well. He went to high school with a bunch of deflatees. Cause that's what most of us were back then. He often pontificates about whether high school boys appreciate the gift bestowed upon them by the breast Gods.

A lot of articles suggest it's the boobie growth hormone (rBGH) found in non-organic milk these days. Greedy farmers inject their heffers with it so they're teets get really gargantuous. Interesting theory, but I drink a lot of milk and....

...I'm still planning events for the IBTC.

Anyone got any better theories???

Stand and Work

You know what I hate? Cheap businesses. First they start laying Americans off and sending work to India, then they jack up the prices their employees pay for health insurance, and now...this?

What? Is it too much to ask that employees have a chair to sit on? Apparently it is, because while searching the Microsoft Clipart site for photos of computers, I found not just these, but many other pictures of people subjected to the inhumane torture of standing while working on the computer.

Look at the contorted grimace on the face of the grandma lady in the picture. She's like, "only 2 effin' years until retirement you cheap bastards!" Or maybe she just has gas. Or engorged varicose veins. Or a torqued syatic nerve. Whatever. The point is that she's hurting. Badly. All due to her company's greed.

Thank goodness my company doesn't make us stand up while we work! However, we do have an employee "good ideas" box in the lunchroom. Maybe I could suggest it? Imagine the money saved if we cut cut the cost of chairs. I mean, those things ain't cheap! Especially the ones made for our big-boned population, because they not only require extra padding but also extra springs and shock absorbers. Hmmm...do I see a bonus in my future? Perhaps.

Now, this lady doesn't seem too terribly upset about having to stand-and-work. I'm guessing she just porked the CFO in the janitor's closet and will be cashing in on her own little bonus. Nothing else would quite explain that smile .

And then this. THIS if freakin' genius in the world of cost-cutting. I mean, not only did this company auction their chairs off to the St. Vincent De Paul, but they're also making these two share a computer AND phone. So out of the box!

Damn that capitalism -- always thinking of the great ideas before I do.

Crappy Husbands

You know what I hate? Marathon Movements. No, I'm not talking about sprints and fartleks and speed intervals during a 26.2-mile race! Not those kind of movements. I'm talking about the 3-hour crap-fests that my husband celebrates at least once per day. You know the phrase "shit or get off the pot?" This was invented by my husband's mother. Really.

So, you're probably going, "ahhh, come on. Cut the guy some slack. I mean, a man's gotta poop, right?" But you've obviously never lived with someone as fecally-endowed as my husband. Two hours or more per day on the pot? Come on. That's not right. Or normal. Ever hear of a spastic colon? Yeah, my husband hasn't either. But he's probably heard of its counterpart, the Relaxed Colon. Or, the Spastic Colon On Ritalin. Yes, I'm certain he's heard of those.

Alright, so maybe I'm being a little bit dramatic. But honestly, I do think my husband's love affair with the porcelain bowl is a passive-aggressive ASSault on our marriage.

Let's just be honest. Marathon-movementing husbands: I'm gonna share something with you. We wives know what's going on. I mean, we're not dumbasses. We know that you're looking for a quiet repreive away from us. We know you prefer the "crapper" over our non-stop "yapper." We know that it's not coincidence that your bowels start to percolate at the exact same time that we decide we want to share an interesting story about getting our period a day early or buying makeup that was one shade too dark. We know you're in there, hiding away from us, mock-flipping through the pages of your Newsweek, and thinking you have pulled a fast one on us. You haven't. We're on to you.

So there. Excessive pooping is a form of neglect. And I don't like being neglected. Am I a needy wife? No. Do I sometimes wish the house would spontaneously combust while my husband is half-way into one of his 3-hour fecal fests? You bet.

I don't like sharing my husband's attention with 'the john' but I've come up with a few tactics for getting him out quickly. Neglected spouse everywhere, these are for you:

1) Wrap lightly on the door, and in your nicest voice say, "honey? what are you doing?" He is forced say, "pooping" which makes him feel feeble and vulnerable and generally a flush is within 3 minutes from this annoying interuption.
2) Drop something and say, "OH MY GOD!" really loudly. He'll think the TV fell on you or something and generally come to your aid within 5-10 minutes.
3) Stand at the door and continue the conversation you were having when he started gathering up his magazine and unbuckling his belt. Somehow, it's just not the same and he'll flush that pot within seconds.
4) Say: "Oh sweetie, you should put that down. I don't think Daddy would like that you're playing with his (insert favorite man-toy here)." This one yields a very fast result; perhaps too fast. If you do the laundry in your household, you might need a clorox pen for his undies.
5) In the other bathroom, plug in your hairdryer, flattening iron, cd player and fan then turn it all on at once. The power WILL go off. And he'll be left in a dark tooter room. Oh well; I mean, it's not like we control the power grid. Cheesh!
6) Wait until one of the kids is in the second bathroom then start jumping around the front of the bathroom door yelling, "hurry. I'm gonna go right here if I can't get in there really, really fast."
7) Put "UFC Unleashed" on the TV -- loud enough so he'll hear it, of course.
8) Tell him you're naked.
9) Call his cell phone. He'll hear it ringing and think it's one of his friends.
10) Just go in, start the shower up, and pretend he's not there.

You're welcome.

Tip for Success: Skip the First Grade!

You know what I hate? Rich retards. Poor retards, or even middle-class retards, are generally acceptable. But rich retards are just too much of a contradiction. Like, they boggle my brain.

Do you all remember the first grade? Playing dollies with your friends. Chasing boys. Learning how to make a simple sentence. Good times.

But wait? How is it that rich retards seem to have missed the first grade altogether -- particularly that lesson on sentence construction? And how is it that they now make double what I make? And last, how is it that they are finding me contract jobs as a, gasp...writer?

Here is a sample of a sentence written by the rich retards at the consulting firm that is prostituting me out to other companies for a profit. This comes from their "official" HR manual:

"Clients tell us this...97.5% Client Satisfaction index, over 92% of our Associates welcome back...are just some of the ways that say so."

I did NOTHING to this sentence. I swear! I didn't add the ellipses, didn't make it sound worse than it already was, didn't make it up.

Sad. So terribly sad.

The lesson: screw the first freakin' grade! Who needs it?

Elevator-riding Smokers

You know what I hate? Elevator-riding smokers. These are the people who holler "hold the door" just when you think you're well on your way to floor #4; the people who cram their bloated up smoker's arm in between the metal doors; the people who, once their summer-sausagesque hand interrupts your ride, climb aboard and fill the (recirculating) air with a puke-a-fied Pall-Mall stench; the people who, in an unprecedented act of selfishness and disrespect, have the GALL to push the #2 button on the elevator, not only doubling your ride time but also making it extremely putridsome to stand next to you.

YOU SUCK, Elevator-riding smokers. Get some dignity. Some self-respect. Some non-blackened lungs that can haul your sausagey self up one flight of stairs! I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nobody in the elevator likes you. In fact, we all want to kill you. Or key your car. Which is probably parked in handicapped. But then again, you do have a little black lung.

For you, elevator smokers, here are the socially acceptable rules of elevator riding which I'm going to assume you've never read:

1) In a 4-story building, it is acceptable to ride to both the 3rd or 4th floor. It is more acceptable to ride to the 4th floor, because research shows that perspiration occurs when climbing three+ stories. However, some theorists argue that 3rd floor riding is also socially accepted and I tend to agree, even though I take the stairs for anything under the 4th floor.
2) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are crippled.
3) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are gigantically fat, though we co-riders would prefer that you didn't haul your greasy hashbrowns up with you.
4) For all other circumstances, it is NOT acceptable to ride the elevator to the second floor. This includes the circumstances of laziness and nicotine-induced weeziness.

So there, you little lazy-ass stinkoids.

Goin' Granny

You know what I hate? Getting all old. Shit's breakin' down and fallin' off . I'm not talking about the shallow insecurities that other women of my age stress out over: wrinkles, saggy boobs, fat gut. I expected all that crap. It's some of the more unexpected treats of aging that are pissing me off.

Statements such as, "have you seen my (enter body part here) lately honey?" and "what the hell? that wasn't there yesterday" and "honey, can you push this (enter body part here) back into place?" are some common phrases in my household now that I'm past the age of 35.

So, yeah, getting old sucks. I don't recommend it. And here are the top 10 reasons why:

1) Pubes aren't just isolated to the private parts anymore! That's right -- it's sproutin' up all over the damned place. If you're wrinkling up your nose and saying, "gross" and acting all superior right now, just stop! Because that would make you a hypocrite. Because I know and you know that you have hair growing out of nooks and crannies that haven't seen the light of day since your wild college partying days. Be honest. Have you ever heard of a breast beard? Nah, me neither.

2) Somewhere around age 32, I stopped being able to laugh, cough or do step aerobics without pissing myself. I'm the one in your aerobics class doing the dumb, half-assed one leg out to the side while the rest of you whipper snappers with tight cagles are doing jumping jacks.

3) I never saw, owned or needed a callous remover prior to age 30. But now that my heels look like this...

... I'm always having to saw it off with special sandblasters and shit. Sometimes pebbles and crumbs and woodchips get stuck in the crevices then I saw the crust down until the pebble or crumb or woodchip is liberated. The good news is I haven't needed to buy 300 grit sandpaper in years. I refinished an entire armoire with these things.

4) Why does every meal have to now be topped off with some sweets? That's such a grandma thing. "Them was some good vittles. Now, where'd I put that mince-meat pie?"

5) I used to have a lot of freckles. They were cute. I looked so youthful and fresh and huggable. Kristy McNicholish. Tatum O'Nealish. Freckles, however, with very little coaxing, will jeckyl and hyde themselves into age spots and moles. And we all know what grows out of moles.... (cross reference to issue #1).

6) Libido Schmido. I've renamed it to Nobido.

7) Should I feel my ovaries shriveling? Cause I do.

8) Two things I never had to do as a kid: sit on the pot or run quickly to the pot. So what the hell? I just want my ass to make up its mind: regular or highly irregular. Which is it, ass?

9) Yelling at neighborhood kids. One minute you're one of them, and the next minute you're standing out front waving your arms like a banshee yelling, "get your mini-bikes out of my alley you little hoodlums."

10) My ability to use the phrase "bless her little heart" in a sentence at least 10 times a day.

So, for all you youngsters out there reading this, heed my warning. Getting old is the pits.

Canal Fishers

You know what I hate? Canal fishers. Yeah, these are my lovely neighborhood peers who haul their grubby little Igloo coolers down to the canal banks of downtown Sunnyslope , toss a line in, and wait for a beheaded body catfish to hook itself on the lure.

I'm sorry, but are we really this hungry in Phoenix? Cause I'm thinkin' starvation is a better course of action than eating catfish from the banks of Sunnyslope. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'd be better off eating a spinach leaf with a hyperdermic needle stuck to it than you would eating a crud-water carp. Have you looked into the depths of a canal lately? Seriously. Let's think about this: canals are serial killers' preferred venue for dumping their bodies. This can't be a good sign!

I won't even talk about the fact that a canal is the poor-man's bidet. The poor, homeless man who has the runs due to eating a rotten hotdog from the QT garbage (true story, courtesy of my husband). I won't talk about that. Because I want you to enjoy your crap-flavored carp.

Or maybe this isn't about the food. Maybe we're not that hungry or desparate in Phoenix. Maybe it's about the sport. Yeah, the sport. As in, "kids -- go get your fishin' poles; we're headin' down to the wastewater treatment facility to have us some fu-uuun!" To this, I say, good for you. Good for you, canal fishin' dad, for taking the li'l ones for an afternoon outing they'll never forget.

They'll never forget the bloated prostitute torso floating by, or the used condoms bobbing in the water like a few slightly off-kiltered synchronized swimmers, or the brown engorged baby diaper, or the shardy crack pipe pieces or the bum washing his ass after eating a rotten QT hotdog. They'll never forget that day. These are the things from which memories are made.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take the kids to the Nuclear Power Plant to roast some marshmallows. Family fun for all!

Semicolon Bunglers

You know what I hate? Semicolon bunglers. I would normally say, “You know who you are,” but, in fact, you don’t. Because semicolon bunglers are pretty much clueless. And dumbassed.

One thing that significantly feeds my superiority complex is my ability to use the semicolon properly. It’s an elite club. To join, you must be able to punctuate a sentence using a semicolon in a non-retarded fashion. This, unfortunately, is reflective of about 1 percent of the American population. So, yeah, I’m in the club. And if you're reading this, you most likely aren’t. I'm sorry; I know that's harsh. But I don't make up the statistics; I just report them. It’s okay; I still like you. Just don’t go trying to crash my club. Don’t be like that greasy-haired dork who thinks he can sit at the jocks’ table. People will know you're a fraud.

So, how can you know whether you’re using the semicolon correctly or incorrectly? Let’s dig into the details. First of all, know this: the semi-colon is not the Leatherman of punctuation. It can’t be used to group your dependent clauses, end your sentences, OR open your can of beans. It doesn’t work like that. It’s a very special symbol with a very special purpose. So stop bastardizing it!

Here is a real-life example of someone who has clearly not learned proper use of the semicolon. On a side note, he has also clearly not had enough oxygen during childbirth.

"I sent this information out before; if you develop any automation scripts for BUSA; you have to follow the procedure listed below; the metrics have to be captured; You need to follow the below procedure for any script that you have already running; and scripts in development."

No, I’m not joking. This email came to me a few days ago from a well-respected colleague. He should be put into an abuse program for overuse of the semicolon. Semicolons Anonymous or Retards-R-Us or something.

While this is extremely annoying, it at least demonstrates a willingness to embrace the semicolon. Many others, anticipating the tedious rigmarole of pledging to the Semicolon Sorority, simply shut down, refusing to even try using it correctly. These are the people who turn to the ellipsis in times of distress. The people who preserve the integrity of one grammatical symbol while mutilating another. You’ve surely seen it before…however, you might not have noticed. The ellipsis just sneaks in there like it’s lived there all along.

People: punctuation marks are not inter-changeable! You can”t just go, and, put ? them in strange: places *willy-nilly*@.

So, I’m sure that I’ve intrigued everyone to learn how to PROPERLY use the semicolon, and lower their "special needs status" to a respectable level. Well, lucky for you, Sunday is National Punctuation Day. For those of us in the elite Fraternal Order of Punctuation Snobs (FOPS), this day is in our honor! Thank you, Jeff Rubin!

For the rest of you, stop being so abusive to the semicolon! What did it ever do to you?

http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/semicolon.html

Meet Potty Grunters

You know what I hate? Potty Grunters. Potty Grunters is wife to Gym Grunters, who I wrote about in an earlier post. Potty Grunters thinks we should all know about "her business" -- "her business" being piss and shit.

Yes, Potty Grunters is the ma'am in the handicapped stall next to you. She isn't handicapped unless spastic colon qualifies. Potty Grunters sounds as if she's giving birth to an alligator -- teeth first. Like her husband, Gym, she has no vocal restraint whatsoever.

Potty Grunters doesn't only grunt when squeezing off a baseball bat-sized turd; she actually finds every task difficult. Sitting down, standing up, flushing. The CACAphony coming from her stall makes me want to toss a hand grenade in there with her. That's right -- if Irritable Bowel Syndrome doesn't kill Potty Grunters, I might.

Sadly, Potty Grunters is JUST the type of person who sometimes skips the hand-washing. I mean, the world revolves around POTTY GRUNTERS, so get over her stinky poo germs already!!!

If the Cuddler fits, wear it!

You know what I hate? The fat-lady-ailments that doctors are starting to test me for. Things like diabetes and hyperthyroidism and circulation. Should I be taking a hint from this?

The latest esteem-busting test was for heel spurs, as in "your dense body is crushing your feet." I got an x-ray for that one. Heel spurs? Check.

The worst thing about heel spurs is that my leg swells up like a Walrus flipper. Check out this picture of my cankle thighkle.



The second worst thing about my heel spurs is that I had to go to Kmart and buy "Cobbie Cuddlers." Have you heard of "Cobbie Cuddlers?" Yeah, they're designed for nurses and fat girls. They're really comfy. Really cuddly.

Unfortunately, the Cuddlers don't come in that many varieties. So, when it comes to footwear, I'm pretty much lookin' like my grammie. Here is a picture of a Cobbie Cuddler in case you can't get the full appreciation. Beautiful, huh? I think Bea Arthur wore these to the Tony Awards once.

I hate to say it, but my Cuddlers are so pleasurable to my feet, that I'm falling in love with them. I can only imagine what's next in my premature fashion aging: some stretch denim, a cross-your-heart bra and a hairnet?

The runs

You know what I hate? Food that gives me the runs. But you know what I hate even more? Food that already IS the runs. Case in point: the new "Whips" yogurt by Yoplait.

No, I'm not kidding. This is, indeed, edible. At least that's what the container said. I personally don't dine on anything that looks like it came out my dog's ass after said dog consumed a half disintegrated roof rat and 4 cat turds from the litter box. However, apparently, some people are buying this crap by the flats.

You might be wondering why the hell I bought this if it's so gross. The answer: clever advertisting. Look at the container. I mean, it represents this fecalish mess in such an innocent, if not downright mouth-watering, way. I mean, look at how "Whips" is all frilly and cursive. I would use that type of font to describe something good and tasty. Unfortunately, that's not the type of font I would use to describe assgurt. Yes, I was duped.

My husband and I had a slight disagreement about the origins of this product. While I thought it seemed very scattish in nature, he thought it looked like brain matter. Unfortunately, being a cop, he's seen his share of brain matter. We had a slight tiff over what the yogurt most resembled. In the end, we decided it didn't really matter. Brain dumplins or frothy feces -- either way it was NOT going to be eaten in our house.

College: It Ain't What It Used to Be

You know what I hate? Academia. Even saying that word makes me feel like I'm trying to act smart. It's so pretentious. I prefer the term "school" or "a place to get some smarts."

As many of you know, I've decided to go back to school and get a Master's degree so I can be an elementary school teacher. I hadn't stepped foot on a college campus for the past 13 years....until Wednesday night. A lot has changed. And not necessarily for the good. My main observation: when did everyone get so dang dumb? Honestly, people. You are retarded. God help the youth of tomorrow if you people are going to be teaching them.

Where to start, where to start. Whoa, nelly. Here we go...

First of all, did you know that Granny Clampett is still alive? Yeah, she is. I know because she's in my class. You thought she was old in her Beverly Hillbillies days -- you should see her now! She needs to have everything repeated twice. She takes notes at a speed of 1/10th the time I take notes. And, she can't see a damned thing. Thus, the instructor reads lengthy URL's to her, letter-by-letter! Poor Granny. Shame on Jethro and Jed for spending all of the Clampett fortune and leaving Granny with no other option than to turn to a career of teaching. Greedy boys.

There is also a poor 40-something year old woman in our class who, bless her heart, has been living in a cave for the past 20 years. I know, huh? How horrible. How horrible that she not only hasn't changed her hair since emerging from the cave, but that she also completely missed out on the roll-out of the Personal Computer! "What's Powerpoint?" "I've never cut and pasted; how do you do that?" and "Could you show me how to log into our student website one hundred more times?" were some common phrases coming out of this poor soul's mouth. Twenty years is a long time to have been in a cave. I'm not sure if she'll be able to come up to speed within the 2 years of this program -- at least before someone in the class kills her.

Imagine my surprise when entering the class to find that there were 23 women and only 2 men. Shocking! And then one of the two men told us his name: "Bible Boy." Okay, that wasn't really his name but it may as well have been. He loves the Lord. Okay. We get it. Move on. No, but really, he loves the Lord. Like, really, really, really loves the Lord. Yeah, okay. But let's get a start on our assignment, okay? But you don't understand: he LOVES THE LORD. What the hell is wrong with you people? HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. He even proudly stated that he was able to put personal differences aside to read Steven Covey's "Seven Habits of Successful People" book. I didn't know what this had to do with the Lord, but then Bible Boy clarified it for me. STEVEN COVEY IS A MORMON. A MORMON I TELL YOU. And Bible Boy still managed to read his book. What a good Bible Boy. Jesus loves you, Bible Boy.

Then there was the instructor. He was really and truly a nice guy. And he seemed to pretty much know what he was talking about. But dude, 'Boolean' is pronounced "Boo-lee-in" not "Boleen." Come on. You have a PhD. And you're like the superintendent of a hundred slummy schools in the hood. We should know these things. We doctors. I can't help but say I'm a bit ashamed. But I'm willing to let it slide cause you let us out 15 minutes early. Thank you.

I can't end this post without admitting my own college shortcomings. As I said, it's been awhile. So, when doing a "skill inventory" for our Learning Team (Learning Team = retarded concept that everyone should work on homework together), I asked, "Who's good at doing library research." I received a lot blank stares. Girl who just graduated (possibly young enough to be my offspring) says, "Oh. I've never been to the library. Not once." Apparently, all research is now done online. I found myself wondering what inhabits the huge underground "library" on ASU's main campus. The one that I had to lug my shit down into for each research paper during the '90s. The one that I sat in front of many a microfilm machines twisting two knobs in random patters until my page appeared. The one whose bound-up old magazines I had to locate and blow the dust off of just to get a reference. What is in that building now? I want to know. Spin classes? A Starbucks? An oxygen bar? Does anyone reading this go to ASU?

Despite it all, I'm really excited about college. I mean, how many people can say they know a cavegirl, Granny Clampett and a real, live Bible Boy?

Meet Gym Grunters

You know what I hate? Gym Grunters. I know, when you say that aloud, it sounds like the name of a real estate agent with bushy sideburns. But I'm not referring to that Jim Grunters. I'm referring to those really annoying buffheads at the gym who think they're being impressive when they make orgasma noises while working out.

Here's a newsflash: KNOCK IT the EFF OFF! You are not cool. You are not sexy. You do not make me want to 'do' you. You do not impress me. You are not as strong as you think you are. You look like an idiot. You look like a retard. You look like a retarded idiot!

Let's just get something straight here: I pushed an 8-pound child through my 1-inch-diameter hoo-ha and didn't grunt as much as the idiot at LA Fitness this morning. The entire building shook. There were large ripples in the olympic-sized pool. Fat ladies' cellulite shimmied. All because of our hero, Gym Grunters, who undoubtedly ended his workout with a cigarette and nap.

Honestly, I was ready to murder him. I'm pretty sure I could have gotten away with it -- you know, the 'self-defense' defense. Like, "were I not to kill him, I surely would have killed myself." But instead of taking an ax to his grunting head, I skipped my second set of the lower bitorsal lunge presses and headed for home. Now my bitorsals will be all off balance. One side bigger than the other and shit.

Thanks, Gym Grunters! Thanks a lot.

P.S. My apologies for not posting more often. I received some very shocking and horrible news recently...I got a job. Alas, my year of unemployment ends. It was quite a ride. While I haven't yet started (Sept 5), I find myself trying to milk my last moments of laziness. The good news is that "where there are people trying to act important, there are many a blog to be written."

Cracker Jaxass

You know what I hate? The Cracker Jax. I don't want to hate them. I want to love them. Want my big front teeth to crack the caramel coating only to expose the spongy sinew of the popcorn inside. Want to bust a bridge on the Boston Baked Beanesque peanuts. Want to revel in the fact that I'm eating a healthy snack, because the box tells me it's Fat Free.

I've loved the Cracker Jax in my past. They've been good to me. Cheered me up when I was low. Comforted me when I was lonely. When Fiddle Faddle came in and tried to monopolize the candy-coated popcorn market, I'd have none of it! Because the Cracker Jax was yummy. And it was a snack with a toy "surprise" in every box. That, in my book, is called a Happy Meal. And what kid wouldn't commit to a life of loyalty to the brand that tosses a toy in every box?

But my love affair is dwindling. My loyalty sharply waning. Why? It's all because of that damned little toy "surprise."

Let me just premise this rant with this observation: Lately, the "surprise" is finding a peanut in the box! It used to be that you'd get at least a nut in every bite. And then, once you got to the bottom of the box…two words: peanut frenzy. Cuz peanuts like to lay low. I respect that. In fact, this low-laying theory introduced me to my first scientific principle: Things in motion tend to stay in motion; things that are really tasty but heavy tend to fall to the bottom of the box, so go ahead and open that effer up from the wrong end. Or something to that effect. I haven’t been to school for 15 years, so I don’t remember it exactly.

But the chinziness with the nuts is actually the least of my worries. What really, really concerns me is the caliber of “surprise” that they’re passing off as “fun” lately.

I’ll admit it – I get an increased pulse when I open a box of the Cracker Jax, bottom’s up, and rattle my hand around until I feel the little square “surprise”. I’m thinkin’…tattoo, sticker, tiny coloring book, maybe something involving harmless dyes and my tongue. I’m pretty easy going.

But then I tear the perforations off and find this bitch?!?

First of all, never heard of this dude. What century is he supposedly from? Secondly, I am a girl. I don’t like sports or the guys who play them. B-O-R-I-N-G. Thirdly, you expect me to read a bio in the name of “fun” and “toy” and “surprise”? Since when did reading become fun? I missed that memo.

And check out the front of the “surprise.”

Collector’s Item? Really? So, like, in 100 years, my great-great grandchildren can book their flight to the Smithsonian and cash in on ma-maw’s mint-condition baseball bio? Sweet! I’m gonna go ahead and spend the inheritance I’ve been saving up. Clearly, they won’t need it.