This post goes out to all those über-hipster Apple Store employees who look at the rest of us as if we are something they've plucked from the bottom of their shoe when we have the audacity to step into their Blessed Domain in order to spend nine zillion dollars on a piece-of-shit electronic gadget in a sleek skin that was made in China like everything else in the world and we absolutely DO NOT NEED.
Nice Fruits in them there Looms, Mr. Apple Store employee!
The Goat is in possession of a mysterious list that advises him on the material with which each marital anniversary gift is supposed to be constructed. For example, the one year anniversary was paper (I got tiny paper mache Christmas ornaments). I suspect the 25th year is silver and 50th is gold.
The internet undoubtedly could reveal the mystery list to me. Due largely to my profound belief in hubris, however, I do not seek this knowledge.
The Goat and I were married 18 years ago today and this morning I discovered this venerable year goes to porcelain.
Despite my magnificent photographic skills, its difficult to see that the rose is porcelain (it is). Happy anniversary Goat.
I swear I can hardly keep my pants on.
* * *
UPDATE 7:10 p.m. EST Nov. 28, 2010: That ol' Goat had a little dark blue box for me at dinner.
I love my Goat when he gives me porcelain roses. I love my Goat when he gives me little dark blue boxes.
2) If a straight married chick makes out/plays boobie squash with Cat Cora, is that considered adultery? Please advise.
3) The Goat's smoked turkey was 100 percent kick ass yesterday, but you can't make turkey bone soup out of a smoked turkey carcass. That is what is known as a cruel irony, people.
3.4) Leftover candied yams for breakfast? HELL YEAH.
5) This note is included because you can't have a list with just four items on it.
5.7) The numbering system for this list is the product of a complex equation involving a high-thinker, editing and dumbassery. Don't ask any goddamn questions.
Oh dear reader, you cannot know how blissful I was tramping among this venerable graveyard, my fearless associate in tow as I clicked and sighed and nearly wept with the undiluted joy of life.
Upon this hallowed ground men trudged to work 120 years ago in Ohio's November gray in their gray rough dungarees, their lunch pails filled with cold meat pies baked by women they'd made love to just hours before.
Bricks and rails and smokestacks, craft and shape and motion. Beautiful, majestic rubble.
This place was never more alive.
And then, oh dearest reader, oh then did my eyes spy something so spectacular, it nearly paralyzed me with disbelief.
Was it full up with feral animals? Dangerous caving floorboards? A menacing villain thumping upon a peg leg?
No.
My fearless associate and I found none of that. Mr. Myer's sturdy factory held only a host of secrets, a vial of magic and a couple of ghosts. For them, I am very thankful indeed.
sometimes when i have leftover steamed green beans i take them straight from the fridge and make a sandwich with wheat bread and a layer of sour cream and then a real perfect-like layer of beans lined up like matchsticks and then i drizzle hot sauce on that. if i don't have sour cream i use cottage cheese or cream cheese and i love it
in the photo is steamed broccoli chopped fine mixed with Kashi (the breakfast pilaf) cooked way perfect and then there is some tamari and olive oil and hot sauce in there and it is weird as shit and i eat it i don't care. click on that pic and take a look at how weird it is. you eat this and man-o-man your colon will so thank you. i'm no way saying anything about the reese's stick mo fo's.
this is the worst thing ever but i don't care. sometimes i take the ice cream carton and a jar of peanuts, open it all up on the counter, and i get a spoon of ice cream and i put three or four dry roasted peanuts (whole effing salt not reduced or any shit like that) right on top of the ice cream and when you put that mother in your mouth it is so good you will praise Jesus. the other little known ice cream trick is to take a regular ritz cracker and put a good spoon of ice cream on that effer and put another cracker on top and eat your mini ice cream sandwich over the sink cause it is a major crumb-o-rama but it kicks serious ass
i make and cook and eat regular stuff too but let's face it nobody cares about manwich
Guy gets his naked picture taken, gets felt up, whatever. He boards his plane, flies to his destination.
He gets off the plane, rents a car and drives to Joe's Guns-N-Donuts. The guy buys a donut (glazed chocolate cake, no sprinkles), buys a gun.
He gets back into his rented car (a Toyota Camry, ice blue) and drives to a mall. He walks through the perfume cloud in front of Macy's, goes by the carts selling sunglasses and remote control helicopters. The guy eats his donut.
He shoots seven people, kills three of them--a mall walker guy, a woman who was looking for a goddamn pair of jeans that fit, and a 17-year kid in a droopy eminem tee.
The intrepid O'Brien is still Hard at Work with her Important Work. Hence, her faithful readers are obliged to continue forging on, making due with these dreadful inanities for the time being.
The O'Brien thanks her faithful readers for their patience and continued support. Original content to return eventually. Until then, unsatisfied readers may choose to enjoy some classic O'Brien.
"When they were out in the Boston Harbor, they weren't arguing about who was gay or who was having an abortion," said Tea Party Patriots national leadership council member Ralph King.--from Politico
A Budweiser-on-tap/utility grade bar opened up on the same site as this place, which they gutted and rebuilt. The Goat and your humble hostess had a drink there last night.
Your humble hostess took the last available seat. The Goat stood.
* * *
Bartender: What can I getcha?
Your humble hostess: Canadian Club and soda.
Goat: Canadian Club and water.
Bartender: Short? (holds up glass for display) or tall?
Goat: Short.
Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" blares from unseen speakers as Bartender pours, then delivers drinks.
Bartender: That'll be $7.25.
* * *
The Goat and your humble hostess asked no questions, just blissfully enjoyed their respective three dollar and 62.5 cent cocktails.
The only subject the Queen shall have shall be Sexual Education.
The Queen's entire body shall be anointed with precious oils by the handmaiden's of the Queen, who shall then draw the excess oil from the skin of the Queen by slowly and gently passing a portion of whale bone over the landscape of the Queen's voluptuous corpus.
The Queen, having further considered the implications of the Queenly Oil Anointment Procedure (such as how to employ the excess oil), shall withdraw the previous decree and instead anoint herself with Suave Mango Mandarin body lotion.
The Queen Shall determine which words Shall And shall Not be Capitalized.
There shall be a monument erected in honor of the Breasts of the Queen.
Per the Queen, the word Breast shall only be capitalized when used In reference To the Queen.
The Queen shall be served massive bowls of Ruffles Reduced Fat potato chips and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer by a shirtless David Muir.
The Queen shall consider the employ Of Bejeweled Marital Aids.
Using the word "Bejeweled" amuses the Queen.
The Queen shall take her chocolates on queen-like furniture such as expansive chaises upholstered with luxuriant tufts of purple velvet.
The chocolates of the Queen shall include (but not be limited to) fun-size Butterfinger Crisp.
For $2000, a person should expect something that a) has a better name and b) packs more punch than a 5" tube that's a mere 2/3" in diameter for chrissakes. Who cares if it's emblazoned with hand-written lyrics from Dave Stewart (of the Eurhythmics)?
You can buy a cucumber three times that size at the discount grocery for 79¢. So it doesn't vibrate. So what? Your "Little Steel Tonight" only packs a two-out-of-five on the intensity scale anyway. Strap your $7 Spinbrush to your cucumber if you want to get your buzz on. You're still way ahead of the money game and when you're done, you can make a salad*. Now that's green living.
At best, this is a mutant Hot Wheels wannabe. At worst, it's a slew of amputated tongues rotating around an unseen axis.
That said, I'm pretty sure that if you give that thing enough gas and set it on the ground, It'll either make it halfway to Nebraska or mysteriously transform into a bevy of mothers-in-law. Either way, my knees are crossed tight.
Go on and click that link to view the single most depressing object ever realized by humankind. That thing will never ever achieve erection. You want to destroy a woman's self-esteem? Give her a limp dildo. Broad'll take one look at that thing; think even my dildo can't get it up for me and well up with tears for the next three days.
Christ awmighty.
Yes, smartass, I realize that this is an ill begotten fashion accessory designed for a) someone of the feminine persuasion who wants to laugh in the face of penis envy, b) a gent who's own manhood is so negligible, he sports a visual prosthetic to inspire confidence, or c) other.
Yeah, yeah. Mr. Right is a hapless schmuck who will never find his groove, or Viagra Falls for that matter.
The glory he does enjoy--those delighted gasps courtesy of stolen glances as he struts through the club on a glittering Friday night--are born of deception and woefully short lived. Can you imagine what happens when the zipper is finally down and the jib is finally up? When the cards are on the table, this is no winning hand, just a full house of flaccid.
People, the active ingredient in "Liquid Virgin" is alum, the same stuff that gives pickles their pucker. Call me crazy, but applying a pickling agent to your zorch just sounds like a bad idea.
You want me to get my Vlasic on, baby? Get makin' with your Polish dill.
I admit it: the Form 2 is sort of cute with its two curiously vibrating fingertips. Only trouble is, they're attached to that bulb-like base just like the roots of that goddamn Tommy Tooth model in every dentist's office.
Although the Doc no longer takes Tommy apart for me in order to display the hidden workings of decay, the mere site of the tooth-like Form 2 catapults me back to the most nightmarish moments of my youth, spent squirming beneath a screaming drill in the dentist chair, beads of sweat popping from my forehead.
In this realm, the phrase "open real wide" is anything but sexy.
That said, how darling is this vid? I love the part where the Form 2 tooth gets a nice little bath!
There's no telling whether it was liberal or conservative gods meddling with my Blogger account, but it has been a' meddled. Therefore, this morning's post shall be short and to the point.
Congratulations to all of the 2010 election winners and condolences to the losers. May not one penny of my tax dollars go to the funding of John Boehner's perpetual tan.
Other than that, I shall proudly don egg on my face regarding the publication of one Conservative Eulogy for the Cleveland Scene on May 6, 2009 and offer this commentary to the Democratic Party:
You dumbasses.
On the upside, I look forward to Sarah Palin's venerable grizzly mama teeth sinking into the genital areas of Newt Gingrich, Tim Pawlenty, Mitt Romney and any other unfortunate rightie male who gets between her terrible incisors and the 2012 Republican presidential nomination.
Chew, Sarah, chew, chew, chew!
Thank you as always for your continued support and God Bless America.
As you can see, the sons of bitches over at Proctor Gamble have pulled a fast one.
It's a bit difficult to see in today's graphic, but essentially we're looking at one hell of a lot more box here than tissue--about a one inch differential. So instead of the Puffs box being filled with Puffs, it's filled with 90 percent Puffs and ten percent deception.
And here I am, with no idea how long I've been pulling a Puff from a box and blowing into a goddamn postage stamp. Is it any wonder why I've been using two tissues every time I get a serious runner?
Talk about your embarrassment. I'm usually on top of this sort of thing. I see what the corporate bastards are doing. I'm onto the 59-ounce "half gallon" of orange juice. And yes, the O'Brien checks and makes sure that she's getting a full 12 ounces in her can of shitty beer. I bought a twelve pack of that nancy Stella Artois beer? I get it home? What do I see? Eleven POINT TWO ounces in the goddamn bottle!
Your Pabst boys wouldn't try to pull that off on a PBR drinker. Your PBR drinkers know which side of the bread is buttered, baby.
I am not the only one onto these shitbags. You are not going to believe this, but dig what "Monika, Puffs Team" told "NoticesDetails" on the Puffs consumer comment page:
We are often faced with difficult choices when our costs rise, we can change the package, product or price. I hope you understand and continue be Puffs loyal.
I think I'll go blow my nose in Monika's hair, the silly little broad.
(Who says some shit like "Puffs loyal?" And how irritating is that "K" in Monika? How much you want to bet when you meet that silly little broad and say, "Nice to finally meet you in person, Monika," that she gives you a tight-lipped smile and says, "Actually, it's pronounced Moe-KNEE-ka." Screw her.)
DO NOT start talking about how the Puffs box has the tissue dimensions listed right where I can see them. This here is a small tissue in a big cardboard box that I cannot see through and I AM NOT going to take a goddamn ruler to the goddamn discount grocery store and start measuring kleenex boxes like some sort of half-ass consumer advocate. It's bullshit.
This is worse than the goddamn one-and-one-half-quart of ice cream that used to be a half gallon. At least that's honest. At least the box fits the product. And that "pound" of Eckrich smoked sausage announces its 12 ounces of sodium nitrate-infused goodness right on the label.
Maybe I'll get a hankie and carry it in my back pocket like a dude. Blow my nose in there and shove it back into my pants just like that.
Nah.
But to hell with those Proctor Gamble shitbags. You hear this Moe-KNEE-ka? The O'Brien isn't going to be one of your "Puffs loyal" blowers anymore.
There was a "Puff off" post here, but I think Christine O'Donnell cast a spell on my blog and deleted it as well as all the comments. Try this cached version.
Maybe I'll try to fix it later. In the meantime, sorry about that, folks.
