The Insomnia Monologues

List of Characters:
Madame Weebles, your performer and insomniac
Mr. Weebles, who can fall asleep just thinking about sleep
Cupcake, a beautiful, un-declawed, 18-pound kitty

Setting:
The bedroom, in the middle of the night.  It’s dark.  Mr. Weebles is asleep.  My alarm clock is taunting me with those giant glowing red numbers, pointing at me and snickering.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I can’t believe this is happening again.  I’m so tired.  Why can’t I just go to sleep?  It’s 2:00am.  If I get to sleep by 3:00, that’s still four hours of sleep.  I guess that’s not too bad.

I could read but I’m too tired for that.  And I’m too tired and lazy to get up and go to the computer.  But my brain is spinning.  I don’t get it.  How can my brain be spinning when I’m this tired??  Maybe I’ll try that deep breathing thing I read about.  Innnnnnhaaaaaaaaaale.  Exxxxxxxxhaaaaaaaa—forget it, this is boring.

What’s on television?  Hey, Law & Order: Criminal Intent is on!

Ooop, someone just jumped on the bed.  It’s Cupcake.  Hi Cupcake!  Such a good girl.  Come here, let me pet you.  Ow, don’t stand on me, you’re concentrating all 18 pounds on one paw.  It really hurts.  Just lie down, pumpkin.  Come on, lie down.  No—please, don’t walk on me.  Ow, the claws.  Oh no.  Please, not there, Cupc—oww, NOTTHERENOTTHERENOTTHERENOWOWOWAWWWWW, look at you, you’re so cute!  See, isn’t this nice, lying down?  Yes, this is much nicer.

4:00am.  If I fall asleep in the next half hour, that’s two and a half hours of sleep.  Sigh.  At least it’s something.

Uh oh. There’s that poor limping dog—it’s that ASPCA or Humane Society commercial again. I need to change the channel.  What did I do with the remote?  Dammit, now I have to grope around for it with my eyes closed, I can’t watch these animals, it’s too sad.  Where’s the remote??  WHERE IS IT?!?!  I have to switch channels immediately!!  Lalalalalalalalalalalala I’m not listening lalalalalalalalalalalalalalala oh here it is.  **click**

4:30am.  Yay, I’m finally getting really drowsy.  I should be asleep pretty soon.  What a relief.

BRRRRRROOARRGGGGGGGGGGHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!

Fucking motorcyclist.  I hope he wraps his bike around a lamppost and it bursts into flames.  Asshole.

5:15am.  My heart is still racing from that motorcycle scaring the shit out of me.  I want to find that motherfucker, tie him to a stake, baste him with honey, and set fire ants on him.

Look at Mr. Weebles, sleeping so soundly.  That smug bastard.  How does he do that?  He looks so peaceful and cozy.  I really hate him.

6:00am.  If I fall asleep RIGHT NOW, that’s an hour of sleep.  That’s barely even a nap.  Fuck my life.  Is it possible to smother oneself with a pillow?

I want to make a voodoo doll of that biker and puree it in the blender.

6:45am.  Sonofabitch.  I can’t believe I haven’t slept all fucking night.  This is BULLSHIT.  I may as well just get up now since my alarm is going to go off in fifteezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……….

THIS is why the world hates America

I’ve just seen a commercial for a new TLC show called Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.  This Honey Boo Boo creature, who is 6 years old, is one of the stars of another TLC train wreck, Toddlers & Tiaras, and is a regular on the children’s beauty pageant circuit.

Now this little monstrosity has her own fucking show.  Because when TLC deliberately scraped the bottom of the barrel last season, they apparently still weren’t satisfied.  I haven’t checked the weather forecast for the week yet but I’m expecting locusts and frogs.

Here’s a video clip to give you an idea of what we’re dealing with here.

That “special juice” she’s talking about, by the way, is a mixture of Mountain Dew and Red Bull that her mother concocted for her.  She calls it “Go-Go Juice.”  No wonder the kid has the crazy eyes.

This is going to be one hell of a show.  A children’s beauty pageant contestant, her nightmare pageant mother, and the rest of her trailer trash family (although they don’t actually live in a trailer).  The daughter is an obnoxious, mumble-mouthed brat who’s cruising for a bruising if the parents continue to encourage that attitude of hers.  Mom is a brash, ignorant fame whore and a diabetes disaster waiting to happen.  And one of her other daughters proudly proclaims that they’re not rednecks because “we have all our teeth.”  With all that Red Bull and Mountain Dew?  I doubt that, honey.

And if that weren’t enough, the mother is a self-confessed “coupon queen” and one of the teenage daughters is pregnant.  TLC won the Extreme Reality Jackpot with this crew.  They must have wet themselves when they realized they hit the dysfunctional mother lode.

And before anyone starts yelling that I’m unfairly going after Southerners, rest assured that I also have plenty of venom for Snooki and her vacuous, sun-fried friends on Jersey Shore, the shrieking harpies on Real Housewives (all of them), the snarling shrews of Bridezillas, and most other reality-show “celebrities.”  They’re the worst of every possible stereotype.  I’m sure the producers edit the footage so that they seem as appalling as possible, but surely that doesn’t require much effort in most cases.

Networks will continue to put this dreck on the air as long as we keep watching it for our guilty pleasure.  Reality shows about well-adjusted people sitting around reading on their Kindles just doesn’t make for riveting television.  The problem is that these programs end up spawning legions of increasingly self-absorbed, brain-dead lemmings who want their 15+ minutes of fame.  They celebrate and encourage ugly behavior.  And they make us look bad as a country.  It’s embarrassing.

Sure, the world hates Americans because we’re big bullies and we know think we’re better than everyone else.  But big deal—that’s been the case for decades.

No, it’s these literacy-free cretins who really ruin it for us.  They’re why people in other countries think we’re fat, lazy, arrogant assholes with the intelligence of a speed bump.  For better or worse—mainly worse—in today’s world, these reality shows, like Hillbilly Handfishing, My Teen Is Pregnant and So Am I, Bad Girls Club, etc., end up serving as our nation’s ambassadors.

So forget about our ham-handed approach to world affairs, our penchant for going to war, and the fact that McDonald’s can now be found in even the most far-flung locations on earth.  Our reality shows are why everyone hates us.  Can you blame them??

Hey, nice rack

Yes, this post is about what you think it’s about.  It’s about boobs.  Cans.  Hooters.  Melons.  Jugs.  Sweater meat.

My friends, I am not a flat-chested woman.  I’m packing heat.  I’ve wintered well.  My cups overfloweth.  Mind you, I’m not complaining.  It comes in handy quite often.  I’ve got a built-in popcorn catcher.  And it’s a convenient place to keep a tissue or money when I have no pockets available.

There are, however, some drawbacks.  The most annoying being unsolicited comments from representatives of the XY chromosome pairing.

I started getting comments and catcalls when I was a teenager.  Now that I’m in my 40s I don’t get as many but it still happens occasionally.  And it’s not like I’m pulling a Sue Ellen Mischke, walking around wearing just a bra.  I can wear the baggiest of sweaters and some slack-jawed idiot will still zero in on my chest.

Do I find it icky when guys make lewd comments?  Ewww, yes.  Do I think it’s sexist and degrading?  Fuck yeah.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about launching asshole-seeking missiles at these knuckle draggers.

But my other feeling is, if you’re going to make a sleazy remark, you should put some thought into it.  Make it memorable.  Pithy.  Because I’ve heard a lot of really lame stuff.  Loud kissy noises, a variety of animal-type grunts, many yells of “Woooooooo yeah!!!!” or words to that effect.  Once a guy came up real close to me, gaped at my torso and said, “BIG ONES!!” in a voice that sounded eerily like that of Cheech Marin.  And for international flavor, I’ve gotten a lot of “Ayyyyyyy mami!!!”

Come on, fellas.  Don’t phone it in with a disgusting noise or a wolf whistle or something juvenile like that.  Those are all really played out.  You can do better.

I’m not saying you should doff your hat and proclaim, “My dear lady, your mammaries are quite bountiful and luxurious indeed.  Good day to you!”  But if you’re going to be a douche, at least make an effort not to be a stupid douche.

The best line I ever heard was when I was about 17 or 18.  Anyone remember those t-shirts sold by Haagen-Dazs back in the glory days of the 80s?  They had the H-D logo on the front and an ice cream flavor on the back.  I had one (mine said Coffee).  One day when I was wearing it, I was walking down the street and saw a guy ahead of me leaning against a parked car.  I had a feeling he was going to be a problem.  I just looked straight ahead and hoped he would leave me alone.  He didn’t.  As I passed him, he said, “Haagen-Dazs, huh??  Nice scoops you got there, honey!”

Now that was clever.  Respect, bro.

What’s your kryptonite?

Unlike many of you, I am a mere mortal.  I have many weaknesses.  You know how Superman was powerless against kryptonite?  There are many things that are kryptonite to me.  Some in a good way, some in a bad way.

For instance, certain accents are kryptonite to me.  Yesterday we were treated to The Reclining Gentleman’s English accent.  The English accent weakens my knees pretty quickly.  But the accent I’m most powerless against is the Irish brogue.  I can’t resist it.  Can’t.  Won’t.  It doesn’t even matter if the speaker is male or female.  I’d pay good money just to listen to an Irish person read aloud from the dictionary or the phone book.

There are several other things that are guaranteed to evoke a visceral reaction in me, such that I am unable to resist swooning, making an ass of myself, and/or indulging in to an unspeakable degree:

• Cute animals—anyone who doesn’t turn into a mess of goo with cute animals is probably Hitler reincarnated.
• French fries—this should require no further explanation.  They’re delicious, greasy, salty proof of God’s existence and benevolence.
• Carvel ice cream—for those of you not fortunate enough to live in an area with purveyors of Carvel, Carvel is like Dairy Queen or Mr. Softee, except much, much, much better.  See “proof of God’s existence and benevolence” above.
• This guy—at this point he should need no introduction.
• Flea markets—where you can find all kinds of crap you never knew you absolutely must have.
• Bookstores—at least, until Amazon destroys them all, anyway.
• Las Vegas—over-the-top decadence and debauchery at its best.

Then there’s the bad sort of kryptonite. Things that are so heinous and awful that I can’t stand looking at them, hearing about them, or being in the same room with them:

• Disgusting holes—we’ve discussed these.
• Roaches—Satan’s emissaries on earth.
• Any of those interminable ASPCA and Humane Society commercials—why don’t you just waterboard me, it would be less traumatic.
• Cottage cheese—to some, a healthy snack.  To me, a vile poison.
• Honey—to some, a delicious topping for toast and other things.  To me, a vile poison.
• Kevin Costner’s voice—want to send me into a homicidal frenzy?  Force me to listen to the audio from Dances With Wolves.
• Tom Cruise—my hatred of him is even more intense than my hatred of Alex Trebek.

So how about you?  What’s your kryptonite?

Bless me, bloggers, for I have sinned…

My friends, it’s time for a deep, dark confession.

Many of you, here and on other blogs, have remarked on my kindness.  And I appreciate that very much.

I’ve looked at some of my recent posts to see how I might come across to someone reading them.  I suppose I do seem kind of kind.  And I am.  Sometimes.

But then there’s this post.  As well as this post.  And this one and this one.  Also this.

You see, dear readers, I’m really not all that nice.  I am not a people person.  I get ticked off extremely easily.  I’m one of the most impatient people I’ve ever met.  I have a temper that goes from 0 to 60 in 2.5 seconds.  I get road rage as a pedestrian.  So I think I’ve done the world a great service by choosing not to have a driver’s license.

The message on my cross-stitch pattern is not strictly tongue-in-cheek.

I have no qualms about ripping someone a new one.  There are few things more satisfying to me than taking an arrogant asshat down a few pegs or dressing down an incompetent co-worker.  I enjoy it a lot more than I should.

And then there are my interactions with tourists.  I’ve given plenty of them something to tell their friends back in East Buttfuck:  “Hey, I was cursed out by a New Yorker on the E train!”  If you congregate in front of an escalator or subway door, or if you walk aimlessly while staring at your giant maps, I’m going to make sure you get the hell out of my way.  I’ll start by being polite, but after that all bets are off.

Just the other day someone told me it’s not healthy to be so type A and that I should really slow down and chill out.  But that’s the thing—slowing down and chilling out is what annoys me.  I don’t want to slow down.  I want everything else to speed up.  I feel most Zen when I can go at the speed I want.  Richard Belzer did a great stand-up bit many, many years ago, about how someone said he talked too fast—to which Belzer replied, “No, Sparky, you just listen too slow.”  I understand this completely.

But I digress.

I wanted to share all of this with you because I actually like you guys and want you to know more about who you’re reading here.  So yeah. I’m not Mary Sunshine.  Unless Mary Sunshine is a bitchy 40-something who can be recreationally confrontational and gives basilisk stares to people who piss her off.

Now who wants cookies?

History as posted on Facebook

UPDATE:  It seems that I’m pretty clueless about what the kids today are reading—these are from a published book.  So I’m probably posting these excerpts illegally. Eh.
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A friend of mine emailed these to me ages ago—I don’t know where he got them so I can’t give appropriate credit, unfortunately.  But I thought they were pretty damned funny so I thought I would share them with you.

This would be a fun way of teaching history, actually.

Somebody’s looking for me

Lately there have been an awful lot of clicks to my blog from searches for “Madame Weebles” and “madameweebles.” And today I found the search term “Who is Madame Weebles?”—complete with question mark.

I’m not sure what they expected from that last one. It’s not like Google can spit out a dossier on me. Or can they? Google’s getting a little creepy with the amount of information they have, so who knows.

Now I’m wondering if one of you blabbed to the authorities about my tissue killings (yeah, I’m looking at you, Summer Solstice Girl). Or maybe Interpol is still trying to find me after that incident in Prague—which was not my fault, by the way.

So I’ve purchased the mask shown above to disguise my identity. They’ll never find me now.

I committed murder this weekend

And it wasn’t the first time, either. I’ve done it before. And I know in my heart that I’ll do it again. It’s taken me a few days to come to grips with it—as it always does—but now I’m ready to admit my heinous crimes. Because admitting that you have a problem is the first step.

Mr. Weebles is aware of my crimes. He doesn’t condone them. But he knows he is powerless to stop me. He knows I will kill again and again. And again.

I don’t do it on purpose. I’m not proud of my actions. I have no hatred for my victims. It just . . . happens. I can’t help myself. I try to take precautions so that I don’t cause any harm, but sometimes I forget myself and before I know it, there’s another one. Dead. I’ve lost count at this point, but I would estimate that I’ve killed anywhere between 50 and 100 innocents.

My friends, what you are about to see isn’t pretty. In fact, it’s gruesome and grotesque. I would advise those of you with small children to make sure the little ones are as far away from your monitor as possible before you view these so you don’t scar them for life. You shouldn’t view these while you’re at work either in case your company’s IT department monitors this type of thing.

If you have a sensitive nature, please be warned. These are the kinds of images that will stay with you forever. They’ll haunt you to your core. You cannot unsee them once they have been seen. They will be permanently etched on your retinas. I cannot emphasize this enough. Do you have any Valium or Xanax? You might want to take some now and wait until it kicks in. Or have a stiff drink to numb your senses to what you are about to see. Even I still get sickened, and I’m the murderer. I’ve seen it all first hand. I’ve stared at the corpses and cleaned them up. I never get used to the carnage. And yet I continue to commit these terrible acts.

I’m so sorry, little tissues. I didn’t mean to wash you. I just keep forgetting that I have you in my pockets and then I forget to check my pockets before I do the laundry. You have no idea how much it hurts me to see you like this, all shredded and brittle. Sometimes I have to look away for a moment. I cry when I pick your little remains off my clothing. You were so kind, and soft, and you didn’t deserve this fate. I will mourn each and every one of you until the day I die.