Archives For What the fuck

I’ve got to switch things up around here.  My recent posts have been sentimental and/or introspective and frankly, I’m starting to annoy myself.  It’s time to break away from all that thoughtful shit and bust out a new batch of search terms.  For a refresher on the other mind-boggling search terms that bring people to my blog, please click here and here.

First, the newest members of my I Hate Alex Trebek club:
why is alex trebek such an insufferable prick
why does alex trebek think he’s hot shit
i fucking hate trebek
alex trebek isn’t a nice guy

I wish I didn’t like Jeopardy! as a game because I have such a hard time watching it with that smug bastard hosting.  I yell at the television at least once per episode, usually more:  “Fuck you, you little douche!”  “Shut up!  Stop talking!”  “Ass!”

What is WITH these people??
weebles boobs
weebles rack
weeble porn
weeble butt plug

Based on the disturbing popularity of these sorts of terms, I’m going to create a new literature genre: Weeblerotica.  There’s obviously an unmet need here.  A very twisted, baffling, unmet need.

Not quite the right URL, sorry:
heynicerack.com
loveyourtits.wordpress.com

If only I had thought of either of these for the name of my blog.  I could have been Madame Boobs.  Both of these domains are available, by the way.  I checked.

Some pressing questions that require answers:
can cats carry demons
Yes, but only if the demons are very small.   Cats can’t handle a big saddle.  Also, cats are pretty lazy.

what do i do i’m scared of weebles

Did they not read the title of this blog?  FEAR NO WEEBLES.

can i touch up my hair and raid it the same day

I suppose so, if you have a lot of bugs in your hair and you don’t mind that bug spray smell.  But you know, you may have more important concerns than your hair.  Just saying.

i wore pantyhose for halloween, now i can’t stop
I find this one particularly curious.  Is this person now addicted to pantyhose?  How does this happen?  What was their Halloween costume, anyway?

you see another brother in christ and you get nauseous
Whoa, is that any way to talk about a brother in Christ?  Let he who is without nausea-inducing qualities cast the first stone, dude.

Um, what?
prepare to fuck a new woman every day … but first read through our policies below

What the hell kind of organization is this?  I’m going to need to see these policies of theirs.  And is there a division for those who might wish to fuck a new man every day?

Variations on Fuck You:
fuck you american style
i fuck people like you in prison

Yes, well.  “American style” could mean so many things…  And although I’ve never been to prison, I watched Oz, so I know what’s up.  But if someone says, “I fuck people like you in prison,” does it mean that you’re a tasty piece or does it mean that you’re an obnoxious jerk who needs to become someone’s bitch?  It could go either way.

So many weevils, so many idiots:
how to make sure weebles aren’t in your food
what happens when you swallow a weeble
what to do if spaghetti has weebles in it

You mean like this? I usually just pick them out and lick off the sauce. It’s really no biggie.

If I had a dime for each search term where they obviously mean weevils and not Weebles, I’d be writing this post from my yacht on the Riviera.

My personal favorite:
geddy lee madame weebles in bed

Geddy, is that you????  Don’t be shy, baby.  Email me.

More search terms that would make great band names:
picturesque vagina
barricading the cheese
big pubes little dick
pantyhose ascendant
precocious tits
subway penis
dead marshmallow

Well shit, people

Madame Weebles —  January 10, 2013 — 213 Comments

I’m sitting here crying like a little bitch.  And it’s all Le Clown’s fault.  Look at this post.

That’s right, 45 years ago today, Madame Weebles was unleashed on the world.  I know, you thought I was a lot older.  I get that a lot.

So here I am, reading this EPIC birthday post that Le Clown wrote—he also managed to assemble an All-Star roster of bloggers to participate.   Birthday greetings would have been fantastic enough, but there are videos, fancy poems, photos, artwork…holy fuck, it’s incredible.  I can’t even imagine how much time and effort it took for Eric—or for any of you—to do this, but I am stunned and moved and flabbergasted and tickled pink and purple by all of it.  Good thing I hadn’t put on any makeup yet because otherwise I’d look like this:

Seriously, this is amazing.  You’re amazing.  I feel amazed.

Big hugs, sloppy kisses with tongue, inappropriate groping, “inadvertent” pressing up against you, and a flash of the boobs, to the following people (apologies for not linking to you, otherwise I’d be here all day): Le Clown, Sara, Fish, Darla, Boomie, Brigitte, Speaker7 (and Hugo), Rutabaga, Brother Jon, Adam, Carrie, Robin, Meizac, Honie, Timmer, Calahan, Emily, JM, Curmudgeon, Limmster, Bumble, Bill McMorrow, Ericka, Elyse, Vanessa, Margarita, Michelle, John Erickson, Guap, Leo, Joe Hoover, Misslisted, GingerSnaap, Tania, Jen Tonic, Becca, Marie, Cathy, La La, Vyvacious, Val, Red and Mrs. Red, Wendy, LouAnn, Rich, Tracy, Frank, and Nicole.

Many sleazy warm fuzzies to everyone who left birthday comments on the post as well!

Yeah, I laughed, I cried, I laughed, I went “AWWWWWW!!!!!”, I cried, I laughed, I cried.  I went through a box of tissues.  And they weren’t Puffs with Lotion, so now my nose is all red like Le Clown’s.

I don’t even know what to do with myself.  I’m beyond verklempt.  I’m zerklempt.  Thank you all, so so so so so much.  Even if I get viciously murdered later today, you’ve still made this the best day I could ever hope for.  Really, I’m not kidding.  A million thank yous.

And on a final, bittersweet note, please send your very best juju to my mom, the woman who did most of the hard work 45 years ago.  Mom is starting chemo today, and we all know how much fun that is.

I love you all madly.  Come on over to my place tonight for cake and a group bath!!

Well, this is embarrassing.

It appears that a huge fucking MEA CULPA is in order.  Thanks to Le Clown, who shared my last post via Twitter, one of the WordPress code wranglers learned of my plight.  He investigated, and it turns out that somehow my photo disappeared somewhere between one of my post saves and the Autosave.

No WordPress shenanigans at all.

I’m very sorry, WordPress peeps—thank you for NOT censoring me after all.  I have now put the “Die, Motherfuckers” photo in its rightful place, here, in all its glory.

So it seems that I’m just a colossal spaz in terms of checking my saves.  Oops.  But FUCK YOU, Autosave.  Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.  Also, bite me.

Also, even though it didn’t play a factor here after all, censorship can fuck itself anyway.  Always and forever.

First, that which vexes me today:

Over the past several years I’ve noticed a disturbing trend among newscasters and other media folk regarding the pronunciation of certain words.

It started with the words “harass” and “harassment.”  My understanding was that they were pronounced “har-ASS” and “har-ASS-ment.”  Then reporters started saying them differently all of a sudden: “HAR-ris” and “HAR-ris-ment.”

A similar thing happened with the word “details.”  I’ve always pronounced it “DEE-tails,” as does everyone else I know.  Except that on television, they now say “deh-TAILS.”

Two of the latest words to get a verbal makeover are “coyote” and “Neanderthal. ” Instead of “ky-OH-tee,” it’s “KY-oat.”  And “Nee-AN-der-THAL” has morphed into “Nee-AN-der-TALL.”  Yeah, yeah, I know, in other languages you don’t pronounce the “h” when it immediately follows a “t.”  I don’t care.  I’m not speaking other languages.

Also, obviously these people haven’t been watching enough Looney Tunes; Wile E. Coyote himself always said “Ky-OH-tay”—which I assume is a regional thing, but it’s still in the spirit of the original pronunciation.

I mean, what the fuck?  Who decided on this change, and why?  These newfangled pronunciations sound pretentious and stupid. As if I needed another reason to loathe people.

I don’t like it. I will continue to say these words as I always have. And if I have to, I will launch a grassroots campaign to stop the madness and to make sure no other words are so cruelly mangled.

And now, some announcements.

First, tune in tomorrow for the Great Unveiling—when I reveal to the world which of the ten photos seen in the Where’s Weebs? contest is, in fact, Weebs.

Secondly (and much more excitingly), I am titillated and overjoyed to announce my upcoming collaboration with two spectacular women…

Throughout history, there have been many legendary trios:

Rush
FDR, Churchill, and Stalin
The Three Musketeers
The Three Magi
Larry, Curly, and Moe

Soon, another three will join their ranks:

Madame Weebles, Speaker7, and Jen Tonic

That’s right, you read correctly.  Start taking your vitamins now so you can handle the awesome.
Continue Reading…

Seriously??

Madame Weebles —  November 14, 2012 — 35 Comments

The turnout for the Where’s Weebs challenge has been very low so far.  I am ensaddened by this.

I understand that it’s entirely possible that you’re overwhelmed by the extreme beauty of my photo.  It’s like looking at the sun, I know.  So dazzling.  Or, it’s entirely possible that you are so sickened by my photo that you haven’t stopped vomiting since yesterday.

But suck it up.  It’s for a good cause.  Wear dark sunglasses or chug Pepto if you must.  And no donation amount is too great or too small.

Also, if you’ve already donated to Movember, even if not for this challenge, I’ll let you play.  Because I’m a good sport that way.  And because I think it’s wonderful that you donated.

Go here now.  I’ll keep nagging if I have to.  You don’t want that, trust me.

Yeah, she paid us a visit. Dumb bitch caused a storm surge that flooded everything. Mr. Weebles and I had no electricity for a week and for several days we were trapped in the house.  Check it out: This was the scene outside my window the morning after the storm.  The Hudson River breached the seawall and ran apeshit.  We usually live about a half mile from the water.  I considered taking advantage of the opportunity to sell our house as a “riverfront condo” but the water eventually receded and ruined my plan.

For all of you living in the areas affected by Hurricane Sandy, I hope you weathered the storm safely and with minimal damage. May you all have much warmth, dryness, and comfort.

We were very lucky.  We had no property damage and lost power for a week—a loonnnnnnggggggg week, but still just a week.  There are many who are still waiting for heat and power, and I am incredibly sad and concerned for them.  Not to mention the people who experienced complete destruction of their property.  Awful.  Just fucking awful.

So my week sucked, but it could have been much worse.  And despite having no heat, I was warmed by the good wishes of you guys.  Margarita, Honie, Maggie, Nigel, Cathy, El Guapo, Mike, La La, Rollergiraffe, Sweet Mother, Michelle, Brian, Meizac, Fish, The Ringmistress, and of course, Le Clown—thank you so much for emailing. I was so moved by your kind thoughts and your offers of help and support.  And to all of you who posted to me on Facebook or sent along your good wishes via other bloggers—I can’t tell you how much the outpouring means to me.  It never really occurs to me that my absence might be noted, as pathetic as that may sound.  You are fantastic, caring human beings, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  As always, your kindness humbles me.

And you know, going through an experience like this teaches you a few things.  I want to take a few minutes to share some of the lessons I learned.

It is not a good idea to use your butane lighter to heat up your microwave popcorn.  Unless you really, really, really love those burnt kernels.  And setting your hair on fire.  And turning your house into an inferno.

Do not use your butane lighter to warm up your sex toys or your lube.  I cannot emphasize this enough.

It is considered rude to use a hospital ER waiting room’s outlet to recharge your laptop.  Okay, so they were on generator power.  But it’s not like I was pulling the plug on someone’s respirator or life support, for crying out loud.

Men really do need to have at least some light when they’re using the toilet.  If you choose not to heed this advice, do not go into your bathroom barefoot.  Consider yourself warned.

Pioneers weren’t better than we are, they were just bored as fuck.  That’s why they invented so much stuff.  Forget everything you’ve heard about our forefathers having enterprising spirits. These people weren’t driven by grand visions or a desire to create things to help humanity.  They were driven by mind-numbing, soul-crushing boredom.

Oh, little electrons, I will never take you for granted again.  Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever.

NOTE:  Let’s all send our love and good thoughts to Brigitte.  She also experienced power outage, and it’s quite possible that she hasn’t had her power restored yet.  In this cold, snowy weather, I wish I could do more than send virtual hugs.  

You’ve no doubt heard of Crohn’s disease, a chronic inflammatory disorder of the bowels.  My heart goes out to people with Crohn’s because it can be very debilitating and difficult to live with.

However, there’s another condition with a very similar name, and this is the one I want to talk about today.  It’s not easy to discuss, but I need to face my fears and tell my story.

My friends, I suffer from Crone’s disease.  I don’t have full-blown Crone’s yet, but it’s just a matter of time.

Medical literature on the subject is scant; patients generally present with very vague signs and symptoms.  Because there are no tests for Crone’s, proper diagnosis can be made only when the disease is already advanced.

I vividly remember when I noticed the first symptom.  I was at a bar and the music was really loud.  Probably no louder than the music at other bars I had been to, but on this night the volume really bothered me.  I was seized by the overwhelming urge to tell the bartender to “turn down that fucking noise.”  This was accompanied by a strong desire to reflect loudly and at length on how much better the music was when I was in high school and college and how “bands today all sound the same.”

I had never experienced anything like that before.  It scared me.

Several years later, another alarming symptom reared its ugly head.  I was out with some friends.  We had a great time carousing but after so much debauchery I needed to call it a night.  I looked at my watch.  It was 11pm.  That can’t be right, I thought.  It’s got to be around 4am.  My watch must have stopped.  How could this be, that after only a few hours I was tired and wanted to go home?

I didn’t know it then, but I was in the early stages of Crone’s.

Other symptoms emerged recently. Not long ago I used the phrase, “Kids today have NO IDEA.”  I sometimes mutter under my breath at loud groups of young’uns in their 20s and 30s.  And when people discuss celebrities, I frequently have no clue who they’re talking about.  Blake Lively?  Who’s he?

I babble about how U2 was really great “back in the day.”  I bemoan the fact that people born in the 80s and 90s are co-opting The Breakfast Club and calling it a movie for their generation.  Yeah, well, I’ve got news for you, you little punks:  you can’t possibly know what it was really like back then.  I was there, bitches.  So why don’t you just run along and play with your Xbox or something?

Doctors don’t talk about prognosis when it comes to people with Crone’s.  But I’m not stupid.  I know what’s in store for me.

“Get off my lawn, you rotten kids!”

I’ll start saying “I’m too old for this shit” more often.  My joints will make odd cracking noises, like an old house settling.  It will take me ten minutes to get up after sitting on the floor.  Certain foods will no longer agree with me but I’ll insist on eating them anyway and complaining when my stomach hurts and I can’t sleep.  My glasses will crap out and I’ll be forced to read stuff by holding it either really far away or right in front of my eyes.

I won’t even get into the visible manifestations of Crone’s disease because they’re too numerous and horrifying.  But I will say this: grey hair is associated with an increased risk of Crone’s.  As you know, I already have a touch of hag.  My future is grim.  Eventually I’ll have to accept my fate.

For those of you who think you might have Crone’s, please know you’re not alone.  You shouldn’t suffer in silence.  Instead, you should bitch and moan to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.  It’s the only way.

Since my last post on search terms, another crop of nutjobs has been hard at work trying to get the 411 on some deeply strange subjects.  Many are Weeble-related search terms so I’m grouping them according to Category of Weirdness.

In the “It’s Weevils, Not Weebles, You Pinheads” Category:
how to get rid of weebles
weeble spray
weeble bug killer
weeble bugs in flour

So this means that people truly don’t know the difference between bugs that infest flour and/or cotton crops, and small toys that wobble but don’t fall down.  I weep for humanity.

In the “Sweet Fancy Moses, What Is WRONG With You!?” Category:
pictures of sleeping weebles
weeble torture
weebles never spill the blood of christ
weebles dying under the skin of a horse
chick masturbates with weebles

Who ARE these people???  Sleeping Weebles?  Weeble torture?  What the fuck??  Are they aware that Weebles aren’t actually living creatures?  “Weebles never spill the blood of Christ” baffles me because I’m not sure how that’s possible.  I’ve been to Mass, and the eucharistic ministers were pretty good but they had hands with opposable thumbs.  How would Weebles be able to manage NOT to spill the blood of Christ?  Then we have Weebles dying under the skin of a horse.  I’m not sure if I feel sadder for the Weebles or the horse.  How do Weebles get under the skin of a horse, anyway?  What sick bastard put them there, and why?

And the chick who masturbates with Weebles.  Where do I begin?  Obviously she’s running the risk of getting Weebles lodged in some unusual places.  This is not an easy thing to explain to one’s ob/gyn.  Also, for the love of all that is good and decent, I hope she doesn’t let her kids play with those particular Weebles.

If these searches continue, I’m going to establish the ASPCW (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Weebles).  Because this is just wrong.

Now for the more random search terms:

redneck elevator
I think this would be a great name for a Japanese punk band.  Aside from that, I’m in favor of redneck-only elevators—this way the rest of us don’t have to be trapped with them.

if your vagina is as big as my hand
I’m curious.  Does this person have really tiny hands or freakishly large, acromegaly-type hands?

good day for a regatta if i was a douche
I’ll bet plenty of douches do, in fact, enjoy regattas.  I love this line because it can be adapted for use in so many situations:  “It would be a good day to talk at the top of lungs on my cell phone if I was a douche,”  “It would be a good day to wear Axe Body Spray if I was a douche,” and so on.

this is a law office we don’t use comic sans
I kind of like the idea of lawyers who use Comic Sans.  You know they wouldn’t take themselves too seriously.  They might not even really have law degrees.

america because fuck you
This should replace E pluribus unum as our official U.S. motto.

You may have read this already—I linked to it recently, and some of you may have read it when I originally posted it back in April.  In any case, I’m reposting it with an addendum.

It was one year ago today that Mr. Weebles finished radiation and chemotherapy.  He is one of the most extraordinary people I have ever had the privilege to know.
————————————————————————-
This may be my very last blog entry because Mr. Weebles may kill me after he reads it. He’s a private guy, and he probably won’t love that I’m devoting an entire entry to him. But I’m doing it anyway. (What can I say, honey, you knew what you were getting into when you married me.)

I’ve mentioned Mr. Weebles in many entries here, and you’ve even seen comments from the man himself. Now I want to tell you more about him.

The first thing you need to know about Mr. Weebles that he is truly awesome. He doesn’t even know how awesome he is, which makes him even more awesome.

We’ve been married for almost 6 years—our anniversary is nigh—and we’ve been together for about 8 years total. Before I met Mr. Weebles, I had pretty rotten luck with relationships. During my dating life I encountered textbook examples of almost every disorder listed in the DSM-IV.

And because dating in NYC is only slightly less painful than tweezing your legs, I decided to cast as wide a net as possible to meet guys. I went online. That’s how I met Mr. Weebles. In fact, I saw his profile and wrote down his profile name so that I could write to him. But he beat me to it—I got a message from him the next day. And that’s how it started.

I knew pretty quickly that he was The One. Many, many years ago I asked my mother, “How do you know when a guy is the right one?” And she said, “You’ll just know.” At the time I thought it was a load of horse shit (sorry Mom), but of course she was right. With Mr. Weebles, I just knew.

He and I are very similar—sometimes when two people are so much alike it can cause friction, but in our case it’s just comical. One of us will say, “I want to use the brain today, you got to use it yesterday!” because we finish each other’s sentences and thoughts so often that it creeps me out in the best possible way. We get annoyed by the same things (although to be fair, he doesn’t get nearly as annoyed as I do), our neuroses compliment each other’s, we care about the same things, and we have the same sensibilities and opinions about how life should be.

He puts up with my crankiness. He tolerates the fact that I’m a Yankee fan (he is not). He takes it in stride when I’m randomly bitchy. He humors me when I do silly things. He talks me off the ledge when I’m really upset or worried. And I’m very lucky to have found a guy who can cook, is handy around the house, takes out the trash more often than I do, and often gets my coffee ready for me in the morning when I’m running late. Plus, he’s 6’3″ so he can reach stuff on the top shelves.

Mr. Weebles is a very funny guy. He doesn’t just make me laugh—he makes me cackle. I don’t know how he thinks of half the stuff he says. His brain just works so quickly, and it works in amazing ways. He’ll make some off-the-cuff comment about something on television or whatever, and invariably it will be the cleverest, funniest thing I ever heard. (Until the next time he says something clever and funny.) I always wonder, “How does he DO that??” And he has one of the most creative minds of anyone I know. If you could attach a megaphone to his head and hear him think of things, you’d laugh your ass off at how funny he is and how many great ideas he has.

He’s the kindest, most decent soul I’ve ever known. I don’t mean that in a treacly sort of way. I mean that he is truly the best person I know. He has an extremely honest, caring, and thoughtful nature. There is more integrity in his toenail clippings than many people have in their entire bodies. And he has a great deal of compassion. Stories about injustice upset him deeply. He’s far more savvy about world events and politics than I am, so he knows about all the awful things going on here and around the world. When he hears about the latest corruption scandal or about people who are being mistreated in some way, he gets riled up to the extent that you’d think it happened to him personally. And I mean that as a compliment; it’s one thing to think, “Gee, what a shame,” but it’s another thing to contemplate how these miscarriages of justice affect us all somehow. Mr. Weebles does that. If he were ever to inflict pain on someone, it would be because that person deserved it in spades.

But the acid test, of course, for determining whether people are truly good, is seeing them interact with animals. When Mr. Weebles and I first started dating, I had a cat whom I’ll call Kitty Emeritus because she’s in the Great Catnip Patch in the Sky now (although she never did like catnip so I’m not sure how thrilled she is about that). Kitty Emeritus was a fearless cat with a ridiculously well-developed sense of entitlement. You had to work hard to impress her. She was friendly and tolerant of every human I ever saw her with, and she usually gravitated towards men (I was so proud of her for that). But she loved Mr. Weebles. And the three cats we have now—the Weeblettes—also love him like crazy. They climb all over him and follow him around the house. And as anyone who has ever had a cat knows, when you have the love and trust of a cat, it’s because you’ve earned it. Mr. Weebles has earned it and then some. He’s the best Kitty Daddy a feline could hope for.

But wait! There’s more!

I learned that the awesome Mr. Weebles is more extraordinary than I even knew already. I found out in a way that people shouldn’t have to find out, but sometimes these things happen.

Last year Mr. Weebles was diagnosed with cancer, at the age of 40. Ironically—and cruelly—this cancer was a long-term side effect of the radiation treatment he received for an entirely different type of cancer when he was 21. Last summer he went through surgery, radiation (different type of radiation than the first time, fortunately), and chemotherapy, and now he’s doing great with an excellent prognosis. Overall it could have been much, much worse, but it still sucked pretty royally. For those of you who have cared for sick loved ones, you know how awful it is to see them suffer. It was brutal, knowing there wasn’t much I could do while Mr. Weebles went through treatment. All I could do was focus on the light at the end of the tunnel and keep him as comfortable and as stress free as possible in the meantime.

What I discovered, though, was that Mr. Weebles is one tough hombre. Even tougher than I thought. He’s fucking badass. The radiation and chemo regimen he endured was nasty. He hated going through treatment, but he did it. And he did it with class and dignity.

If I were in his shoes, I would have been spitting fire. Having cancer? Again? At the age of 40? Because of the treatment for the first cancer? I would have been mad at the entire world. I would have been a raging, self-pitying, sobbing basketcase and I would have been mean as hell.

But not Mr. Weebles. He was very upset, of course. And as far as I’m concerned he would have had every right to be a raging, self-pitying, sobbing basketcase himself. But he just has a different perspective on things—maybe because he’s been through this before, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. He just did what he had to do. And he was still polite to everyone. He was like a cowboy who rides into town, gets into a vicious shootout with the bad guys, drives them out of town, and then tips his hat, riddled with bullet holes, saying, “Bye, folks, be seein’ ya.” Fucking badass.

Watching him go through such an ordeal gave me an even greater appreciation for him and everything he’s about. I’m insanely proud of him. He inspires me to be a better human being. The world needs more people like Mr. Weebles.

If I could just get him to wear a combat uniform or some sort of Victorian gentleman’s outfit, he’d be perfect.

I still got nothing.  This is a recurring theme.  It vexes me.

So why don’t I just pour some coffee and tea for everyone and we’ll have a nice chat, shall we?  The cookies will be out of the oven shortly.

Since I have nothing interesting to say, I’ll tell you a bunch of uninteresting things.  So if you’re already bored, I urge you to click away from this page now.  It’s only going to go downhill from here.

For starters, I think Hurricane Isaac is a dick for hitting the New Orleans area.  Come on, dude, haven’t the people in the Gulf suffered enough??  And Hurricane Katrina hit on August 29, 2005—-nice 7th anniversary gift, asshole.

Ah, there’s the buzzer, the cookies are done.  I’ve made a few different kinds.  Chocolate chip, peanut butter, oatmeal raisin, and maple prune.  Those last ones were an experiment but they don’t look very appealing.  I’d give those a pass if I were you.  Careful, they’re heavy.

The other day I heard “Empire State of Mind” by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys for the first time in a while.  I really don’t like that song.  This is the best you could do as a tribute to your hometown, dude?  Because if so, your best sucks.  As a native New Yorker, I’m offended.  I could make a recording of subway trains coming to a screeching halt, with Joe Pesci’s voice dubbed in, and it would still sound nicer than that song.  I want the ghost of Frank Sinatra to come down and kick the shit out of Jay-Z for writing that earsore.

Would you like coffee or tea?  Personally, I like my cup of coffee the way I like my men: strong, hot, and bottomless.

Now where was I?  Right.  Rambling aimlessly.

You know what I’d really love to do?  I’d really love to have my own old-fashioned ice cream parlor and soda fountain.  With tin ceilings, marble countertops, wrought-iron fixtures, and the type of soda fountain they used to have in pharmacies back in the day.  Like these:

     

Except I’d have much more comfortable tables and chairs.  And I would serve fancy ice cream sundaes, sodas, phosphates, and all kinds of other wacky concoctions.  But I’d add a bakery section too.  This way if you’d rather have cookies, pastries, or cake (hi Sandee!), or if you want ice cream and cake (and who doesn’t??), you can have your cake and eat it too, so to speak.  I think that would be nice.  A nice 19th-century-style confection emporium.  But to give it a little twist, the staff would all be dressed like saucy Victorian whores.  Including the men.

More coffee?  More tea?  No?  You suddenly don’t feel well and have to go home immediately?  Oh, what a shame.  You didn’t try those maple prune things, did you?  That’s a relief.  Why don’t you stop by tomorrow?  Oh, you’ll be busy.  Okay.  How about Saturday?  I see.  That’s so nice of your dentist to be open on the weekend.  Good luck with those root canals.  Want me to come over on Sunday to see how you’re doing after the dental work?  A silent retreat at your church after Mass, how interesting.  Isn’t that funny, I thought you were Jewish.  My mistake.

Well anyway, it was great to visit with you, we’ll have to do this again soon!