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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.

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.

Bad Smells Fridge

7 Jun

Sucky Googlers Unite! You’ve found me.

I am so proud. At least you were closer than the sacrament pictures person.

Also, redneck bingo card searcher, here you go:

It’s as close as I can get. I hope you score the illusive and elusive ‘left to right’ diagonal. It’s the most fun.

rat tails always free

Things That Suck

3 Jun

Three words that I see continuously around the internet and I hate them:




Other things I hate that I will list just because I am in a shitty mood:

Quotes on email



Personal inventories

Baby Showers

YouTube clips on Facebook


Blowing hand dryers

And things that are always empty when you really need them:

Tampon machines

Slot A-7 that holds the Twix


Your gas tank

This list brought to you courtesy of PMS.


28 May

A clean desktop is the sign of a sick mind.

I am not a big fan of the Favorites feature. I am relatively old school when it comes to things like addresses and phone numbers. I have had friends say that they couldn’t make a call because they don’t actually know any phone numbers; they let their Smartphone du jour handle it all. Not really that smart, when said phone is staring up at you from the bottom a gas station toilet, now is it?

Looking at my list of Favorites is like a stroll down memory lane. If you are in Favorites it is because I have just found you, or you have a service or question that I needed answered, but knew in my heart of hearts that I’d never in a million web pages remember where I found you. A stroll through Favorites is akin to cleaning out a junk drawer. A matchbook with a phone number scrawled on it, hmm, was this a good thing? A recommended plumber? A newish friend? A hot bartender? One thing is for certain, I thought I needed it, enough to keep it in the junk drawer, draw from that what you will.

My list is not very long, but it is quite disturbing. Want to check it out? Of course you do. Going through someone’s Favorites is a bit like looking in their pantry, or in my case, medicine cabinet. Apparently I know a lot of sick people.

Favorite number one: Anactoria. Really, I have no idea. I am going to guess that someone, somewhere cited some work and me, being as clueless as I am, needed to look it up. Then and now, it makes no sense at all.

Continuing: Cryptococcosis and HIV. And you thought WebMD could give you nightmares. (I am an HIV advocate), not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The Bloggess.  She was listed on some blog award thing and I found my way over. Then I drunkenly emailed her about my possibly vampire bitten Corgi that wouldn’t die, and, btw, Jen, he’s 19 now, so I think my original question was valid, if awkwardly stated. No, I do not know what the question was.

Ezra Klein. No explanation needed here. The only reason this is in Favorites was that he had the audacity to go get famous and move to the Washington Post.

The EPA. Nothing gets me hotter than the Renewable Fuel Standard Program. Apparently.

VRBO Studio in Paris, Marais (4th arr.), sadly, this is my idea of a good time.

Hospital bed assembly. Seriously, do not attempt on your own.

Oh My God. I just googled the Anactoria one. Can I take that one off? So, to recap: I may be a Lesbian, with an opportunistic lung infection, who has a bizarre sense of humor, likes cute Jewish boys and alternative fuels, and would vacation in a shitty studio if only there were someone to set up the hospital bed. Or something like that. Now that’s a personal ad.