Television is good for you

I love television.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  From my earliest childhood, with  Sesame Street, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Captain Kangaroo, The Electric Company (the original, not that bullshit remake), Zoom (the original, not that bullshit remake), and a zillion cartoons, that big box has been a huge part of my life.

A lot of buzzkills argue that too much television is unhealthy.  My reply to them is, “Suck it.”  I learned to count to 20 in Spanish thanks to Sesame Street.  Schoolhouse Rock taught me about the parts of speech, and I can still sing the preamble to the Constitution.  And raise your hand if, like me, you learned to twirl your arms from watching Bernadette on Zoom.  Now tell me that trick hasn’t held you in good stead all these years.

I have learned much from TV shows over the years.  I’ve also drawn very important conclusions from my recent TV watching habits.  I’d like to share a few of them with you.

• Life insurance companies should automatically report to the police anyone who takes out extra policies on their spouses.   Per 48 Hours Mystery, Dateline, and everything else that runs on the ID Channel, this should be a no-brainer.  If you take out an expensive policy, you may as well be wearing a sandwich board that says, “I’m about to commit murder!!”  So just go ahead and report these folks to the police and save them some legwork.  (Note to Mr. Weebles:  That million-dollar policy I just took out on you is in NO WAY related to this.)
• Similarly, people with Crazy Eyes should be summarily reported to the police. Check out the perps featured on the ID Channel.  They ALL have Crazy Eyes.  I don’t care what profilers and psychologists say—ocular creepiness is the most reliable indicator of criminal intent.

These are Crazy Eyes.

These are not Crazy Eyes.

• No matter what day or time it is, some version of Law & Order is always on.  ALWAYS.  I find this oddly comforting.
• Any man who tried to call me “Baby girl” would get the asskicking of a lifetime.  Except for Derek Morgan on Criminal Minds.
• There are a LOT of aliens, chupacabras, sasquatches, and other mysterious creatures around us.  Be careful out there.
• Most ghost hunters are obnoxious dickwads.  They walk around allegedly haunted places trying to taunt the spirits by yelling, “Show yourself!!”  If I were a ghost, I’d scare these idiots so badly that they’d need diapers for the rest of their lives.  Just because you’re talking to dead people doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have good manners.

Surely, my friends, you have also gleaned crucial learnings from your TV viewing.  Please share.

Fuck You: Year-end (or World-end) edition

If you’re reading this, the world hasn’t ended…yet.  The Mayans didn’t say what time the end would come, or in what time zone, but let’s assume we have at least a few more hours.  If the world does explode today, I want to say farewell with a Fuck You medley.

Fuck you, gun nuts.  Fuck you and your arguments about how owning assault weapons protects us from tyranny.  The United States has the biggest arsenal on the planet.  If the government wanted to subdue the masses, do you honestly think a semi-automatic rifle would help you?  You could have a Howitzer in your front yard and it wouldn’t matter.  And you morons truly believe that arming everyone would prevent horrific shootings like the one in Newtown??  Rot in hell, you twisted, deranged scumbags.

Fuck you, cottage cheese.  I despise you.  I truly do.  If I were stranded somewhere and you were the only thing available to eat, I’d starve to death.  You’re disgusting.  You have icky curds and a funky aroma, and I still have PTSD from the one time I tried you.  People say you’re a good, healthy snack.  I disagree.  You’re nasty, and I hope you become someone’s prison bitch.

Fuck you, cancer.  You miserable fucking mutants.  You’ve killed millions of people.  You’ve tried to take out members of my family.  What is your fucking problem?  As long as I’m alive, I vow to fight you.  I will make sure everyone I know is vigilant about keeping you away and getting rid of you as fast as possible.  Drop dead.

Fuck you, Tom Cruise.  I hate you.  You’re a shitty actor and you’re insane.  And your voice annoys the shit out of me.  By the way, you’re about as suited to play Jack Reacher as I am.  Fuck you.  For the love of Xenu, go to the Scientology compound and stay there.  Permanently.  Do not speak or show yourself in public ever again.  You suck.

Fuck you, CEOs.  You’re greedy, evil motherfuckers.  You’ve destroyed so many lives with your callous disregard for your employees and your customers.  You’re soulless vultures who would sell your families for a few extra bucks.  I want to be there when the Universe doles out your karmic retribution.  I would mock you, laugh heartily, and eat popcorn while you suffered the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortune, as it were.  Blow me.

Fuck you, man sitting behind me on the plane.  You couldn’t gently put your tray back up—no, you had to slam it into the back of my seat.  Were you trying to give me whiplash or was that just a bonus?  And then you grabbed my seat back to hoist yourself up every time you changed positions.  Asswipe.  I reclined my seat in hopes of pissing you off but you didn’t seem to mind.  That just pissed me off more.  If I ever see you again, I will cut you into teeny tiny pieces.

Fuck you, dickwad standing behind me on line at the ATM.  Do you always stand that close to people you don’t know?  What the fuck is wrong with you?  You should have at least bought me a drink or asked for my name before you crawled up my ass.  I have three words for you: Personal space, motherfucker.

(Also, I really will be blogging about my party with Darla, Calahan, and Joe—as soon as the dust settles from Armageddon.)

Knowledge that will enrich your life

Not really.  Well, maybe.

I’m doing a post soon to thank and acknowledge everyone who has bestowed awards upon me.  When other bloggers accept awards, I enjoy reading their “10 things about me” or “answers to 7 questions” usually associated with the awards.  I like knowing about people’s quirks, random likes and dislikes, answers to wacky questions, etc.  So I decided to write a bunch of stuff about myself in lieu of doing the awards ones.

So here it is, a bunch of random shit about me:

• Whole portobello mushrooms scare me.  I’ll eat them, but not if they’re whole.  When they’re whole they look like little aliens and they creep me out.
• I’m an only child.  People ask me, “What’s it like to be an only child?”  I never know how to answer because I have no other frame of reference.  All I can say is, it was good.  And no, I wasn’t a spoiled brat—my parents made sure of that.
• For some reason I have a fascination with Victorian undergarments.  All those corsets and stays and petticoats and stuff.  Despite the fact that they were probably extremely uncomfortable.
• I love pistachio ice cream, but I dislike pistachio nuts.
• I detest honey (sorry, bees, I still love you).  Just the smell of it makes me queasy and hurts my teeth.
• When I was a kid I played the piano.  I haven’t played in years, so it would take me ages to get my chops back.  But I’d love to learn how to play the harpsichord and the pipe organ.   I’d have to buy a really ornate candelabra for that, though.
• Despite playing piano for many years, I utterly suck at reading music.  I literally still have to count the bars on the music to see which note it is:  “Okay, that’s one, two bars up, above the bar, so that’s an A.”  It’s brutal.  For me it’s much easier to play by ear.
• Third and final music-related fact: I’ve composed a jazz tune, although I haven’t actually written it down or arranged it yet.  It mysteriously started composing itself in my head when I was about 8 or 9.  I have no idea why.  It’s nothing I’ve ever heard, and to my knowledge it isn’t a song that already exists.  It’s a ragtime-style piece, and over time it wrote itself, adding more passages every so often.  The song is finished now, and I can hear the whole thing in my head with all the instruments.
• My elbows are double-jointed.  Mr. Weebles finds it alarming.  (And sadly, I am double-jointed in no other areas.)
• My favorite curse word is “motherfucker.”
• I cry whenever I watch movies or TV shows where animals are hurt.  Even if they’re computer-generated animals.  I sobbed my guts out at Godzilla, and I refuse to watch King Kong or Mighty Joe Young.
• Even though I’ve seen every episode eleventeen million times, I still laugh out loud at I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, and The Golden Girls.
• I really love practical jokes, as long as they’re not mean.  That’s the one thing I really miss about office life—playing pranks on my coworkers.

So there you have it—random info about Weebs.  It feels a little self-absorbed to do this but you know what?  It was fun.

But enough about me.  Let’s talk about you.  What do YOU want to know about me?

Search terms: Insane Weebles edition

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.

Fuck you, pantyhose

I plan on having a new “Fuck you” post every Friday, but this post had to be postponed from last Friday because of the blogging duel.  So better late than never.

This is a post mainly for the ladies, although there may be some male readers who have had first-hand experience with pantyhose.  That’s cool, I don’t judge.  But if you’re not one of those gentlemen, this post will probably be of little interest.  So for your enjoyment, I offer this classic:

And now for today’s “Fuck You.”

I loathe you, pantyhose.  You come in only two sizes:  Elephant Leg and Death Grip.  They both suck ass.  You have no redeeming features.  NONE.  You’re hot and sweaty, even in the winter.  You haven’t the slightest idea how to fit.  You pinch, bind, constrict, sag, bunch, and twist up inexplicably . . . why don’t you just jam bamboo strips under my fingernails, you hateful little shit?

And you know the worst thing about you, you stupid hose?  You’re weak and pathetic.  I can put on a brand-new pair of you and you start to run immediately.  I might be able to distract you briefly with a dab of clear nail polish, but invariably you freak out and run somewhere else.  Sometimes you spontaneously form giant holes just for funsies.  Thanks for wasting my money, you fucking losers.  I lost count of how many mornings you made me late for work, how many times you caused me to curse uncontrollably, how many times I wanted to rip you into shreds, set you on fire, and dump your ashes in that mystery liquid on the subway tracks.

Here’s how much you suck: criminals wear you over their heads so people can’t tell what they look like.  So you’re either directly causing harm by inflicting massive discomfort and misery when we wear you, or you’re indirectly causing harm by aiding and abetting felons.  Good job, assholes.

You’re proof that if there is a God, he’s definitely male.  Because a female God would never have allowed you to exist.  You are to humans what Windows is to PC users—we hate you, but we use you because we don’t have many alternatives.  I pray for the day when women everywhere realize how horrific you are and decide to banish you from the face of the earth.  You deserve it.  You’ve enraged us long enough.

Fuck you, you odious pieces of nylon.  Fuck you a lot.

The obligatory search term post

I’ve held off on posting about this because until recently, the search terms that bring people to my blog haven’t been all that funny.  But now I have a pretty decent crop to share with you.  None of them are dirty or really demented, though.  That disappoints me.  Obviously I’ll have to increase the naughty content here to get some good keywords for next time.

I’ve cut & pasted these directly from the stats page, no editing.  Thanks, crazy Internet people!

what is the psychic word for weebles
I think it’s “Veebles.”

whats is the metaphiscal word for weebles
Wow.  I would like to peer inside this person’s head to see what prompted this question.

what does it mean when everytime u see a weeble in yur house u think of a person
This puzzles me on many levels.  What’s with the Weebles in their house?  The way the question is phrased, it almost sounds like this person sees them unexpectedly.  Do they just show up?  Because I think that would disturb me more than anything else.  Also, what person do they think of when they see the Weeble?  Is it always the same person?  Or is it just someone at random?  And do they always see the same Weeble?  I have so many questions.

how long can you be nice to someone you hate
My personal best is about five minutes.

men with massive legs
Really?  Massive legs?  Hey, whatever floats your boat.

trust no man, fear no chicks
This feels like it should be the slogan for a modern-day He-Man Woman Haters Club (you get bonus points if you know what this is without Googling it).

he is my kryptonite and like superman, i am powerless in his wake
I’m going to need to see a photo of this guy.

i think a dead guy is hot
Join the club, honey.

does alex trebek know urdu
My guess is no.  But if he does, then I’m going to need to learn how to say “patronizing fucktard” in Urdu.

why are reiki practitioners so flakey
Because we’re made with many delicious layers of butter and puff pastry.  Also, fuck you.

The Scale of Funky

Recently Mr. Weebles and I were watching some TV show where they were talking about Bootsy Collins, who had once been James Brown’s bass player. Mr. Weebles said, “Could there be anyone on earth funkier than James Brown’s bass player?” And I said, “No, I don’t think that’s possible.”

I mean, being a bass player automatically confers a certain amount of funkyness upon a person. But James Brown’s bass player? That’s crazy funky. And Collins was later in Parliament-Funkadelic, which had “funk” right there in the name, for crying out loud. How much more funky could someone be? To paraphrase Nigel Tufnel, the answer is none. None more funky.

That’s what gave me the idea for the Scale of Funky. If Bootsy Collins is at the top of the funky scale, then Justin Bieber is at the bottom—the opposite of funky. And every person and thing can be graded according to this scale.

I’ve created a rudimentary scale for now. It’s subjective, but only to a certain degree; there can be no debate over the non-funkyness of Bieber, Ryan Seacrest, Clay Aiken, or the minivan. Everything else is open for discussion.

And now, some hot dead chicks

After posting several bits of male eye candy, it’s time to give the ladies a chance. So without further ado, may I present the following hot dead chicks for your consideration:

Ada Lovelace

Ada was the only legitimate daughter of Lord Byron, but that’s not why she was famous. From an early age she showed an aptitude for math and science. In 1833, when she was 17, she met Charles Babbage, who had just invented one of the world’s first computers, a contraption called the difference engine (which was basically a primitive calculator). Babbage was at work on a new computer called the analytical engine, and he told her about it. She was intrigued. She took his ideas and ran with them, eventually coming up with a program for his machine. Unfortunately the analytical engine was never completed, but Ada Lovelace is still considered to be the very first computer programmer. One of the original Geek Grrls, and a darned good looking one too.

Emma Hamilton

I’ll be honest, I don’t like this broad. She was basically a kept woman for many years before she married one of her keepers, Sir William Hamilton, an English ambassador living in Naples. While in Naples she became acquainted with Admiral Horatio Nelson of the Royal Navy. Lord Nelson had a wife in England, but that didn’t stop him from getting busy with Lady Hamilton. Pretty soon they were living as a couple, but oddly, they lived with Sir William (who was either the most understanding husband ever or the biggest doormat on earth). They lived very happily until Lord Nelson shipped out in 1803, at the start of the Napoleonic Wars. Nelson was killed during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Emma ultimately ended up penniless and died of alcoholism in 1815. Sad ending, and even though she was a homewrecker, she was a pretty hot piece.

Which diseases were the most glamorous?

Yes, yes, I know. Disease isn’t glamorous. You know that, and I know that. But tell that to the people in other centuries. Even though most diseases were regarded in history much the way they are today, some ailments had cachet.

So which ones could theoretically allow the sufferer to convalesce attractively in a day bed?

Gout. A very painful type of acute arthritis brought on by excess consumption of rich foods and alcohol. Gout was called “the disease of kings” because it was something only wealthy people had—they were the only ones who could afford such delicacies. If you had gout, you were obviously a privileged person. And thus, glamorous.

Consumption. This was what they used to call tuberculosis—a deadly and deeply unpleasant disease. But how many stories, paintings, and operas have there been in which our heroine died from consumption? Plenty. In fact, consumption was called “the romantic disease.” That’s massively glamorous.

Melancholy. Better known as depression. Theories on its causes ranged from demonic possession to an excess of what was called “black bile” (which was thought to be produced by the spleen). Starting in the 16th century, melancholy was actually seen as a desirable thing because it marked the sufferer as especially sensitive and thoughtful, and often, more creative. Very glamorous indeed.

The Vapors.  Not technically a disease, more of a symptom. And curiously, the vapors were always suffered by women. Because, you know, the “fairer sex” was just more prone to dainty fits and fainting spells. Fever, fatigue, anxiety, and PMS, among other things, could all be ascribed to the vapors. The classic Victorian image of a woman with the vapors is one in which she’s swooning on a couch. How much more glamorous can you get?

On the flip side, men often used the vapors as a diagnosis for women who were headstrong, didn’t obey their husbands, or were somehow “too emotional.” Which is not just unglamorous, it’s also misogynist crap.