Thursday, July 12, 2007

Rock the Pants Rant!

Sorry to come back from a long silence with a bitchy, bitter rant but hey, it's busy and I'm hot and cranky. (Besides, this blog needs to earn it's name!) If you'd rather avoid, you can bail now...I won't think any less of you. (I understand the need to self-preserve above all else! LOL) Otherwise, if you have the stomach for a rant, read on, read on...

Dear Boyz:

K. You're driving me crazy. And not in the pleasant Fine Young Cannibals, quasi-sexual kind of way. Sadly, you're not even close to that benchmark. No, you are driving me crazy in a "I totally want to kill you because your cluelessness and capacity for Teh Stupid is at Level Red" kind of way. And that's no good.

(Oh yes, Momma's sharpening her pitchfork for this one. Last chance to bail while you can.)

Men, in recent months, several of you have expressed to me that you will only accept a hot woman as your girlfriend. I understand this. Really, I do. Biological imperative rules your life. Genetics demands that you select only the best. Hormones force you to think about sex every nine seconds on average. (or was that every nine minutes? Nnnaaah! That totally sounds wrong!) You ogle hot women. You lust after them. You weigh and measure and gauge with your eyes...that is, until a perfectly attractive friend (who maybe weighs 100 lbs soaking wet), expresses aloud her need to go on a diet. Well then the horror and confusion and judgment gets marched out. "What?" you cry sanctimoniously, "you don't need to go on a diet. Why are you going on a diet? You're Perfectly Fine the way you are."

And yet, you won't date your Perfectly Fine Friend. Funny that. And your Hawt Girlfriends look nothing at all like your Perfectly Fine Friend. Oh my! What a coinkydink!

::rolls eyes:: Seriously. Lead (densest element known to man) practically floats compared to your heads!

Let me explain human cause and effect to your dumb asses. When you tell the world that you will only date hot women, it's a bad thing. It's not a measure of your virility or your attractiveness or your worthiness. It is the Mark of a Stupid Man. You might as well fly a red flag that reads"I's a Completely Judgmental, Insensitive Clod With NO Social Intelligence. Oh yeh baby, I's a winner!" And, correct me if I'm wrong, but won't this red flag adversely affect your sex life? The one you keep obsessing about every nine seconds or so? Advice to the clueless: Zip! It! Say nothing. We women enjoy honestly but not when it's coming from someone who's completely delusional about his resemblance to any of the cast members of Oceans 11. If the only standard you can measure up to is the Double Standard, you should run, not walk, to the nearest exit.

We women know that we are not all blessed with Teh Hawtness. We know we can't go to Starbucks and order up Teh Hawtness like one would order a latte (tall, skinny, half milk, extra hot). We KNOW this. We don't need you to tell us. Why the hell do you think we deliberately starve ourselves, exercise our bodies to exhaustion and Botox our brows into stiff submission? Because we like it? Hell, no! Because we're vain? Probably. But we're not vain in a vacuum. You're right in the middle of Teh Vain Suckage with us, complicit as can be. Don't! deny! it!!

(BTW, You should know that after a Botox treatment, we actually aren't more amazed than usual at your manhood. The fucking Botox has frozen our faces into a perpetual expression of "wow!" That's what injectable toxic matter does to your face, asshats! Enjoy it while it lasts.)

Being Hawt is a lot of work. And for some of us, putting in the work is no guarantee of attaining Hawtness. So...don't fucking judge us. Zip! It! Or else, karma will bite you in your rather large and overly hairy ass and make you it's bitch one day. And we'll cheer when that happens because nobody loves a loudmouthed SmartyMcNastypants who thinks he's witty (not) and forthright (not!) and deserving (oh, SO the hell NOT!).

You know I'm right. It's already happening...karma has struck a slow, dripping poison. I know you've seen them: the waxed and oiled lithe boy-men with the killer six pack abs in the magazine ads. They're the crest of the slippery slope. Your cash – the once useful enticement for the less discerning woman? Totally useless if you can't Bend it Like Beckham. The sad truth is already here: if you can't rock the pants, you will most assuredly not be rocking the headboards. Yes. You SHOULD be panicking. And doing a ridiculous number of ab crunches. And nibbling delicately on the salad (with dressing on the side) to stave off the hunger. Welcome to our world, bitches. Hope you enjoy your stay.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Billy, Don't Be a Hero: The Sequel

Billy, Billy, Billy...

Dude! You know that I respect and appreciate you, yo? I mean, we don't always see eye-to-eye on the bigger issues but hey, you have passion, you have drive. I totally dig that. I really do.

But I have to tell you Billy, I know that you've been f*cking with my cats. I know this. Don't. Deny! Now, I know you be hatin' on me 'cuz I told you to get Fall Out Boy to help you with your campaign. But I was only talking truth, man. You need help from some bigwigs. That's all I'm saying, you dig? So just chill, okay? There ain't no call to be all nasty and sh*t. I mean, seriously f*cked with my cats. I have proof. Look! Look what you did to my cats!


Dude, that's just cold. Where's my respect, yo? I deserve better than this. So I'm asking you nicely to stop this now. Don't you mess with my cats. If you keep this up, I will come over there and give you the beat down. You know I'll do it. I love those cats, man. Those cats are innocent. You leave 'em alone, y'hear?

Peace out,

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Traveling with the 'rents!

Mom tricked me into going onto this trip. Well, that’s not entirely true. First she guilted me into going. “Your dad and I are too afraid to travel on our own anymore. Death is practically beating down our door. Dad has HEALTH problems, remember? (But I’m perfectly healthy like a 28 year old, just so you know.)”

Then, when my will was completely broken and I lay in a crumpled heap on the ground sobbing “yes, yes…anything!! Just please, STOP the guilt!”...that's when she tricked me.

She: We’re going with a Chinese tour group.
Me: Oh god, noooo! Not again!
She: What was that?
Me: Er…ah…I’m…I’m hot? Yes, Hot. Hot again!
She: In November?
Me: The fireplace has been going all day and I’ve been…uh…cooking. Yeah! I think?
She: Ooh-kay. [aside]Strange kid. I think there was something off about the egg that created her.
Me: What?!
She: I said I booked us on a cruise.
Me: WHAT?!! Hellz no!
She: [said using the Voice of God] Excuse me?!?
Me: [whimpers]
She: That’s a good girl.
Me: [quiet sobbing]

So that’s how I ended up going on a tour with my parents to Las Vegas. That sojourn was followed by a short jaunt on a cruise ship (aka “The Floating Prison”) heading to that wonderfully exotic, bestest of all locales…Vancouver! I shit you not. We went on a cruise from L.A. to Vancouver and saw a lot of flat ocean. And Victoria. Whoop-di-f*cking-doo.

My friend laughed his ass off when he found out about my predicament. “Did you draw the short straw?” he mocked. He suggested that I make the most of my situation. “Find yourself a rich old man to marry while you're on the cruise,” he advised. “Just make sure he has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

On the whole, however, the trip turned out much better than I’d anticipated. Las Vegas was actually hella fun. Outlet shopping, Cirque du Soleil, and the fantabulous swimming pool were all hits with the ‘rents and myself. Unfortunately, the High Desert heat and dryness were not. Temps started at 35 degrees Celcius and went up from there. I could feel the water being sucked from my lungs even in the air conditioning. Still, the surrounding mountains were starkly beautiful (think Georgia O’Keefe in her Arizona phase), and I saw my first Joshua Tree enroute to the outlet mall. (U2 lives! So does mass consumption!)

Best of all – there were endless things to mock in Vegas! I was in complete and utter snarking heaven. There was just so much cool/weird stuff in Vegas that you can’t find up here in Canada: cigarette vending machines (Joe Camel lives! So does cancer!) Hawai’ian Villas with white hula girls and a South Asian (East Indian) restaurant (but no Hawai’ians); video poker terminals in the local grocery store. Dad sarcastically snarked that there were probably slot machines in the toilets of the lower end hotels.

There was one symbol, however, that came to encapsulate the spirit of Vegas for me:

You can't tell from the still photo but the sign actually glitters and sparkles. Seriously. How can you NOT love this?!? It is totally teh awesome!

Paris, Vegas was also pretty cool.

I know it’s not the Eiffel Tower. But 1) palm trees silhouetted in front = fantastic; and 2) you have to snicker when you see French-hating, Freedom Fry-lovin’, red state-livin’ Americans totally losing their shit over this replica. Would you like a side of irony with those Freedom Fries, ma'am?

Surprisingly, I did not see any Elvis impersonators anywhere. But I did see the four? eight? wedding chapels at Caesar's, a drag queen in full make-up but no wig, and a billboard for Celine Dion. (She was wearing a far-too-revealing sequined mini. My eyes practically melted out of their sockets and I'm still having PTSD flashbacks.)

Cool highlight: The fountains at the Bellagio.
I know it’s totally teh cheese. But honestly? I heart the fountains. The fountains totally rocked. Classical music on a blaring p.a. + expensive mood lighting x unfortunate spurty male symbolism = f*cking cool! Plus, it was the only place on the Strip where I didn’t feel my skin crying out for moisturizer.

After Vegas, we boarded a bus for L.A. Ahead lay The Death Cruise. But first: a pit stop. McD's, tacky souvenirs, and this little gem:
In case you can't tell, the chess pieces are "cowboys" and "indians." o_O !! This piece speaks for itself, I think, and it's saying some really socially awkward and highly inappropriate things. Gaaak!

For the most part, the cruise was surprisingly enjoyable. The ship was tastefully decorated, the staff were incredibly courteous, and the food was mostly decent. There were a lot of young families and singles on board so the portable defribrillators weren't marched out all that often. Which is a pity. Because I certainly needed my heart started again when I beheld this during an evening performance:Yes, those are red/pink metallic pants. And to add insult to my (visual) injury, dude proceeded to sing Tina Turner and MIMIC HER DANCE MOVES. The 'rents and the woman sitting next to me could not figure out why I was screaming "auuuugh! auuuuugh!" under my breath. Luckily, my dad fell asleep a third of the way through the performance, giving us the excuse to jump out and escape this monstrosity.

Dude, by the way? Thirteen time winner of Star Search. He'd better hope the Fug Girls don't get their hands on him.

I managed to catch Little Miss Sunshine onboard and there was a very funny kickass juggler/comedian as well, so I started to believe that red metallic panted Tina Turner channeling guy was a glitch. I confidently strode back into the auditorium to watch the Sapphire Princess dancers perform with some piano playing dude. And this is what I got for my faith and effort:
An ode to Liberace. LIBERACE, MIND YOU!! And in case you're wondering what's on top of the nearly nekkid dancer's head to the right, it's a candalabra. One where the bulbs flash on and off in a rotating pattern.

Dear god...I felt sorry for those kids until this pink monstrosity showed up on the stage. Then I knew they were complicit and my pity died stillborn in my dark, black flinty heart. Seriously...if you don't resign on the spot when faced with this shiteousness that passes for a costume, you deserve what you get.

So...I survived my travels with the 'rents and a good time was had by all. Any trip where you don't push a parent overboard is a good one! Unfortunately, I've just been told that my mother is raving about the trip and that my Dad wants to go on another cruise soon. Gaaaaak!! I think I'll make the brother go next time. I'm still waking up in the night screaming about the monstrous pink tulle gown lurking under my bed.

Monday, May 28, 2007

Billy, Don't Be a Hero...

WARNING: Rant dead ahead! May be offensive to Christians

So, Billy Graham has an advice column. Who knew?!? Check out this little gem.

Billy Graham Advice Column

Billy, don't you know that in our post-, post-modern world, Jeebus no longer lives in our hearts? He lives in the condo three doors down from my friend Abigail. He has a miniature chow named "Princess" whom he walks religiously every day. And he gives the best dinner parties. I have no idea where he gets his wine from but it's like the best homebrew, ever! I really must order a kit for myself this summer...

Seriously, Billy, WTF?!? I get that the whole point of right wing evangelism is to recruit but cannot be telling me that you are giving love – LOVE, mind you – the smackdown?? And y'all wonder why the common people are running away from the church in droves? Bitch, please! You need to tell Pat Sajak that you want to buy a clue. No, scratch that. You should not, in fact, still be playing "Wheel of Fortune" when everyone else has moved onto "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?". That totally will not dovetail into your recruitment strategy.

Call me. We'll talk. Between you, me and Fall Out Boy, we'll have 'em packed in the pews in no time.;)

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Home again, home again, jiggity jig...

Lots to blog about from the travels with the 'rents but first must gush about the quality of martinis in Vegas. I dunno about you but I would watch Sex in the City and wonder what in hell those women saw in cosmopolitans. I mean, I've tried them here in Vancouver and as far as I could tell, they were pretty red drinks consisting mostly of fruit juice and a polite amount of timid vodka. (I like my vodka bold and of high quality. Hmm, come to think of it, I like many things bold and of high quality...hee!...but I digress.)

Then, I had a cosmopolitan in Vegas. It was $12 USD but I swear to the gods, it was totally worth it. What follows is (nearly) verbatim my description of the experience to a friend:

"...had the best cosmopolitan EVER in Vegas. The stuff that they serve up [in Vancouver] is fricking fruit juice in comparison. If I were comparing it to kissing, it would rank out like this:

Vancouver cosmopolitans – soft, lingering lip contact, sweet and lovely. An "I think you're great – let's do this again" kind of drink.

Vegas cosmopolitans – head grabbing, being bent over an arm, firm lip contact with tongue. A "you are a total sexybeast and I want you in my bed NOW" kind of drink.

Damn...who knew a cosmopolitan could be like that?!? If I could keg the damn stuff and IV drip it into my system, I totally would! LOL!"

I repeated this story at a dinner party tonight and every person there (including the two men) agreed that they wanted the cosmopolitan behind Door No. 2.

I'm currently taking names for the next trip down to Vegas. Sure, it's overly neon and glittery and full of too many tourists. But the martinis kick ass, the shopping is awesome, the desert is amazingly beautiful and did I mention that the martinis kick ass? Woot!

Saturday, May 5, 2007

Scenes from Birdland...

Sorry for the lack of new material. It's been a hella busy week. Aside from which, the only real funny occurrence this past week happened at the Reifel Bird Sanctuary. I know, I know. There is nothing funny about birds! Well, not usually anyways... but put me together with my smart-ass friend and our particularly odd brand of anthropomorphizing and you've got grannies with birdscopes chasing us down wooded paths because they want to give our disrespectful asses the beat-down. Good times!

Scene: Duck Blind #2
My friend and I are sitting at the far end of the duck blind. A young woman in her mid-20s is meditatively seated at the other end of the blind with tiny but expensive high powered binoculars in hand. She's attractive, but a bit prissy in a smug "I'm now at one with nature. Do you see me being at one with nature? By the way, I only eat organic food" kind of way.

Friend: Hey, are those female buffleheads?
Me: Are those the small brown ones with the deformed skulls?
Friend: They're not deformed.
Me: Their heads are practically square.
Friend: Like all females.
Me: Nice one. Die, asshole.
Friend: hehehe!

[shocked stare from the young woman]

Friend: Hmm. A couple of those buffleheads could be males who don't have their colours yet.
Me: Older women with younger men? Those ducks are cougars? Woo-hoo! You go, girls!
Friend: Yep, I'm pretty sure that there's a couple of immature males in that flock.
Me: [grins]
Friend: Yes, yes, I know. "All men are immature."
Me: Admitting it is the first step to recovery.
[Friend smacks me on the shoulder]
Me: Ow! Quit it! [I smack him back]
Friend: You quit it!

[flurry of smacks back and forth.
Young woman sniffs in our general direction, leaves duck blind. Older couple enter the blind. They whisper in low, reverent tones "look! Over there. A mated wood duck pair..." My friend checks out the water.]

Friend: Hey, look. There's a trio of wood ducks over there. Do you see 'em?
Me: Hang on. [scans water with binos] Okay. Yep. I see 'em. One male, two females.
Friend: Oooh! Lucky guy.
Me: Luckier than you.
Friend: Ha, ha, bitch. Nice one.
Me: I try! [grins]

[couple stops whispering and stares their disapproval]

Friend: Actually, I've never seen two females wood ducks stalk one male before. They're usually in pairs at this time of year.
Me: Maybe the odd one out is trying to poach the male?
Friend: You mean the extra female is a nest-wrecker?
Me: Sure. Maybe her guy got eaten. Or maybe he was the "hump 'em and dump 'em" type.
Friend: So she's trying to jump some other female's mate?
Me: Hey man, survival of the fittest.
Friend: [blows a raspberry] Pbbbtt! NEST-WRECKER! Floozy! Pbbbtt!

[bench scrapes back suddenly. Couple grumbles audibly and leaves in a huff.]

Scene: Path along the dike. We're trying to entice black cap chickadees to eat from our hand. They're nowhere to be found. (Prolly gettin' bizzy!)

[liquid musical bird chirps]

Friend: Ah, I really love bird song. Doesn't it sound great?
Me: You know what they're saying, don't you?
Friend: They're just singing because they're happy it's spring, aren't they?
Me: Nope. They're saying "Fuck off. This is my turf."
Friend: What?!
Me: Well, sure! Songbirds are ubër-territorial during mating season.
Friend: ... I don't believe you.
Me: Well...alright. They might not be saying "fuck off, get your own tree." They could be also be saying "Yo, girl! Whassup? Yeah, dat's right. I'm sex-aaaay!"
Friend: They are NOT saying that.
Me: Or they could be saying "See how pretty my song is? Somebody, please...take me home!! I want to get laaaaaaid. "
Friend: .... [stares at me and shakes his head]
Friend: I don't know why I come here with you.

[multiple bird chirps]

Me: Ooh, that one sounded pretty angry. I'm pretty sure he said "back off or you're getting the beat down, bitch!"
Friend: I'm leaving now.

Friday, April 27, 2007

The most awesome cover evah!!

This is the cover of the Wednesday, April 25, 2007 edition of 24 Hours.

I know that many of you have probably already seen this but I still get a HUGE chuckle out of it everytime I see it.

The day before this was published, I was suggesting to some chinese colleagues that we all march down to the temple and offer some BBQ duck on rice to the gods. The 'Nucks can use all of our sympathetic magic right now...

And no, he is NOT wearing that jersey while he works. Note how clean it is. No BBQ duck juice anywhere. Only an idiot (or a man with magical laundry grease remover) would wear a $150+ jersey while he's working in a very messymessy job.