Archive | June, 2010

And About This….

11 Jun

Please, please, please fucking quit or at least take turns.

Totally fucking annoying. Makes watching a match about as fun as being pecked to death by chickens, ears first. Come on South Africa, we are trying here. Ease up on the death squad of pissed off wasps. Or get us all an aural Epi-Pen.


Christ, I Lost Mom Again.

11 Jun

Or reasons why I should not be your Power of Attorney.

In my family, I have always been the Chief Justice on our Supreme Court of Death decisions. Every family pet that didn’t have the good sense to die in a timely fashion has met my particular death panel of one. It isn’t easy being the Grim Reaper of the family, and apparently, like the Court, it’s a life appointment. Take today for instance.

My sister has had Mom’s cat since Mom died a dozen years ago. Sassy has, over the past 18 months, lost a considerable chunk of her sass, ass, vim and vigor. She is not a well cat. She is 15, glucose, fructose, lactose, gluten and possibly air intolerant. Jamie has done everything possible to save her, from daily insulin injections, special diet, frequent trips to the vet, to healing crystals and a pet psychic. No wait, that’s for the epileptic, bionic-legged dog. Have no doubt, every attempt at cat health has been made. Cat, much beloved. Still, not healthy.

I hate to start spouting my Quality of Life bullshit at times like these, but I tend to view every creature as if were me. Like, would I be happy to live like that? Probably the reason why I got the position in the first place. My niece, it seems, has inherited the POA/Grim Reaper authority for the next generation and I am happy to pass the torch. Boo, btw, as long as Aunt Tay Tay can remember the words to Bad Romance, please do not pull the plug. Also drink and smoke, but the presence of any one of those three things should be considered reason for life sustaining and prolonging treatment. Thanks.

Anyway, where were we? Oh, right, the cat. The court has ruled. It’s a very end (where end = sad, yet expected and natural) thing. It’s extremely easy to be swayed by emotions and attach more to the situation than what’s actually called for, which is where I, and my particular brand of death panelishness actually come in handy. One could argue that this is extremely traumatic and is like saying good-bye to Mom all over again, and that ‘one’ would be my sister. And then there’s me. To illustrate, our pending cat death conversation snippet below:

Me: Dude, if Boo is the new Grim Reaper, so do not make her POA!

Sister: Oh Hell no, man. I’m not leaving it to Bun, he’ll try and save me forever and then forget I’m still plugged in. Oh Hell to the no.

Me: Well, you know, the body is just a vessel. I wouldn’t have asked for Mom’s ashes if I had it to do over. I don’t even know where she is now. Somewhere in here lost, collecting dust. I mean, if I spilled her tomorrow I’d just vacuum her up.

Sister: You would? That’s harsh. But if you do spill Mom can I have the urn? I always thought they’d make super nice bookends…

Me: Sure. That’ll be a fun conversation when and if we meet again…”Hey Mom! I made you bookends! No really….”

Sister: You’re a sick fuck.

Allez Les Bleus?

11 Jun

Veronique, very optimistic about her team's chance.

Grigio, the Italian Greyhound, remains pessimistic.

Hello! It’s World Cup opening day. If you are not from the US, you will know this sport as Football. If you are from the US, you most likely don’t realize that this is a sporting event. Ha, ha, yeah, whatever. Americans don’t like the soccer.

As I discussed it with my dear friend Pinecroft, he said, “you mean they game where they can only touch it with their feet? Except for the two guys that can? And everybody else that spends half the game using their hands to throw it back in to play?”

Yes. Point taken.

I am not here to debate the beautiful game, only to register my thoughts on the French team. I am not sure that I can state it any more succinctly than an announcer just did. “It’s as if you took a Rolls-Royce engine and dropped it in a golf cart.” That hurts. But the truth always does.

The French team has a whole shitload of trouble right now. The entire world hates them more than usual and even more than their press, which is remarkably hard to do. There’s a sex scandal, the coach that everyone loves to hate, and of course, the hand ball against Ireland. If you add all three together it should mean that they win the World Cup, because that’s just how France works. Kind of like us Americans, only with better bread. Rag tag team with no shot at all? Win. Best players money can buy and high hopes? Lose.

Right now we sit at the 66 minute mark of a nail-biting 0-0 game with Uruguay. No, really, if by nail-biting you mean, I’m going to chew off my hand if one of you fuckers don’t score soon. Nevermind. I love the coach. He just put in Gignac, the hottest player on the team. Got to go now!


Damn. I just finished that Le Monde article that I linked to. That is some harsh shit right there, fuckers. First of all, a national paper calling your team the ‘black-blanc-beur’? Yeah, okay, I get it, you’re kind of dicks. You’re pissed that everyone on the team isn’t an Emmanuel Petit, or a Benoit, Lambert or even a Martin. Two words. Chad Ochocinco, you all can kiss my ass. Also, white French people running Le Monde, I am sorry that being white and French doesn’t automatically qualify you for your national team.

However, one salient point is the national anthem. I get this one, I really do. I understand if you choose not to sing it at home, you know, like before dinner or in the shower, but you are on the world fucking stage, sing the damn anthem. It’s not like your President called you scum or anything. Oh, wait. Right. Well, bygones and all that. At least do the chorus. Everybody knows that. No? Well here you go.

Aux armes, citoyens, To arms, citizens, Formez vos bataillons, Form your battalions, Marchons, marchons ! Let’s march, let’s march! Qu’un sang impur May an impure blood Abreuve nos sillons !

No one knows what that last part means anyway.

So, to close, here are the results of Le Monde’s online poll:

44.9% of French people think Les Bleus won’t make it out of the Group stage.

20.8% believe that they will be eliminated in the 8th final round.

14.7% think it’ll be in the quarter finals.

5.5% delusional French see them in the half final.

1.2% see them in the final.

13% are bat shit crazy and think they will win the Cup.

The analysis? 80.4% of the French polled are against them or have very little hope. Is there a more difficult country to play for? Probably not. So from one red, white and blue adorned fan to another, Allez Motherfuckers.

Excuse Me?

8 Jun

*Fog not included.

We prefer the term Fairy Princesses.

Thank you.

Groupies Are Eternal

8 Jun

Grandma, hotter than Megan Fox.

As long have there been boys to strum guitars and throw balls, there have been girls there to fawn over them. I know this because I am currently living with one who is 90 years old.

Grandma had the golden egg in her youth. She was beautiful and she had a lot of brothers. Boys, being boys, have boys as friends. But one brother stood out among the band of brothers. Bob was the brother in a band.

Bob played guitar, along with his band mates, they’d hit the local taverns for a gig. Same as today, no one expected much in terms of money, just a paid bar tab and a piece of ass. I do just love how the more things change and all that…

Grandma met Madelyn at one of these taverns. How they became friends is a muddled story, just like we do it today. Everybody has that one friend and asks the eternal question, ‘how did we meet?’ and there is always that one friend for which there is no good answer. Kind of like maybe your dog, or that third cat. Alcohol may have been a factor.

Madelyn was married to Joe, brother of a really, seriously-famous baseball player of that time. She loved to entertain her Brother-in-Law and his team mates when they came to town (St. Louis) for games. Grandma loved all things taverns and parties and apparently, men. It must be said that during all of this time, Grandma was married. But in her defense, please see Guilt Cards. Everyone was married. It was what you did. There was only one ticket out of Mom and Dad’s and it was stamped and filed at the court house.

One afternoon, I’m assuming after some hair of the dog, Grandma found herself surrounded by Major League ballplayers, courtesy of Madelyn. Bob had played with the band the night before, my Dad was with his Grandma and who the fuck knows where Grandpa was. Madelyn brought up swimming as a pre-dinner diversion.

Grandma didn’t have a suit. Turns out that ball players on the road don’t really care. Same as today, as long as you’re wearing your good underwear, you can pull it off. As she told me this story last night, she wrapped it up with, “and they were really nice boys.”

I am so not putting that through the Grandma translator.

Grandma. Groupie. Fuck Yeah.

Grandma Enjoys Wanda Sykes, Wonders If She Is Lesbian.

7 Jun

Grandma loves Wanda.

Wanda, not Grandma. Wait. That’s even worse. Wanda probably does not wonder if she is Lesbian. Grandma does not worry that she is Lesbian. This whole title is a Lesbian version of Who’s on First.

In the interest of clarity: Grandma, not Lesbian. Wanda, Lesbian. Grandma’s musings, probably bi-curious.

You’ve not really experienced anything shocking until you have watched Wanda Sykes ‘I’ma Be Me’ with your 90 year old Grandmother. To Wanda’s credit, Grandma was able to follow her for about an hour of the hour and twenty-six minutes. Not bad at all given the number of times she (Wanda) said fuck (994) and dick (852). Grandma limited herself to one dick, and no fucks. Kind of like her marriage. She laughed throughout. Kind of like her marriage.

I cannot believe the shit I do with Grandma. Who said old people aren’t fun?

Не зборувам Македонски.

7 Jun

built in the year 905 and officially the oldest building I have ever been in by at least 300 years!

No, really. I don’t. I can’t help you.  Ctejci. (Stacey)


Ceux qui parlent le français sont les bienvenus.

*Title totally snagged from google language tools, proof again that I don’t speak Macedonian, so really, knock it off. If it’s fucked up, that’s why. The only part I get is the ‘Macedonian’ part, the hat looking thingy is like a D, ‘h’s are ‘n’s and backward ‘n’s are ‘i’s in English. That is absolutely all the Cyrillic I know.

Тоа е вистина.

(True story)

Also, Macedonia is beautiful. You should go there. But for fuck’s sake, not in July.