i should hire someone to think of titles.

Everyones favorite week of the year is here, and while all the cool kids are off getting drunk on the beach, I'm kickin it in Virginia with my sister Val and her husband Jake.

I try not to make anything on here too personal because I'm not kim kardashian and nobody cares about my life. Even though I've probably accomplished more than she has. My sisters idiot dog who can't even urinate outside has accomplished more than she has.

I digress. The point is that being somewhere new, and being forced to partake in things Val enjoys (I shouldn't say forced; whatever makes Valerie happy truly makes me happy, just totally NOT my style) provides for a wide variety of new things to observe. Observation leads to thinking, thinking leads to writing, and writing leads to this.

So, with my hosts in bed and nothing to do at night, extensive writing will ensue.

VIRGINIA DAY 1

Flight at 6 am. The last time I was up this early was probably in high school. The airport is packed, I'm half asleep, I dont know where the B gates are because I've never flown east.

I get to the front of security.

"Ma'am step up to the right please"

I step up.

"The other right" (which was actually left.)

"ookay."

good start.

Now I get to put all my stuff in the little taupe colored boxes. I decide against taking my 349075028 bracelets off but I do take off my belt. Apparently I thought THAT was gonna be the thing that would set off the alarms. Like I said; half asleep.

I'm standing waiting for the fat little ray of sunshine on the other side of the metal detector to motion me through, but I am interrupted by the guy on the other side of the conveyer belt.

"You gotta get your stuff through the scanner" he says to me.

Ok, for those who are unfamiliar with airports, the boxes in which you put your carry-on items to be scanned are to be placed on a long conveyer belt, halfway made up of a series of little rolling cylinders, halfway made up of an automatic belt like in grocery stores. My box was like, .01 nanometers away from the electronic part.

He seriously could not have nudged it for me? Luckily he had enough energy to alert me of the situation. It's 5 in the morning. Thanks, douchebag.

My stuff went through and they concluded that I was indeed NOT a terrorist, but as I put my shoes back on I noticed a man with whom lady luck was not so generous. I watched in empathetic, disgusted amusement as the pretentious tsa agent felt up a guy who looked like he was on his way to Disneyland with his family.

America: 0

Terrorists: 1

I could go on and on about the airport but let's skip to the part where I land in Virginia.

Val and Jake picked me up...blah blah blah...boring sister stuff that you'd care a lot more about if our names were Kim and Khloe..........and THEN

she made me watch The Bachelor.

ok. WTF. IS UP. WITH THIS SHOW.

Is it real? seriously. is it?

All of these women compete for a guys "love" over the course of 6 weeks, and then BREAK DOWN AND CRY WHEN THEY GET REJECTED?

uhhh. k. where do I even begin.

The bachelor hooks up with all of these different girls, "gets to know them" (hahahaha) and then chooses one to whom he proposes marriage. And right before said proposal, he sees another girl who has met his family and is all dolled up, tells her he has real feelings for her and can't deny the spark, but he's in love with someone else. ?!?

And then she cries, because girls are stupid.

Then he confesses his undying "love" for the chosen one, and she is glowing with excitement and adoration, after STARING INTO THE FACES OF THE OTHER GIRLS ON THE SHOW DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY KNOWING THAT HES BEEN DOING THE SAME THING WITH THEM.

And then she accepts, because girls are STUPID.

I can sum that show up in one word: it starts with 'p' and rhymes with synthethic - just like all of those people's personalities.

turds with friends

Now trending among smartphone users: a game that has been around forever but not popularized among the younger generations until it was modified to a version on which the mentally insufficient could easily cheat.

For the most part, people write the same way that they talk. I definitely do, I usually sound like I'm speaking in verse; be it Shakespeare or a rap song. This is how I know for a fact that people are googling the letters they have and picking a word.

I don't want to play with any of you back-handed low-life scum. As soon as you put in a word that I have never heard you say, I know you're cheating, and I've already won.

Besides, words with friends is really only popular in the first place because people can play it while they're sitting on the toilet. Sit your ass down at the table and play scrabble like a man.

NOW WHO WANTS TO PLAY ME??? thug.nasty.

memo

to anyone who reads this: thank you.

to anyone who enjoys it: you're welcome.

through the looking glass

Today changed my life forever.

Not really. But I guess you could say I had a check off my "bucket list" (can anyone even hear those words without thinking of that movie with Morgan Freeman? I haven't even seen that movie and I think of it every time) except I didn't know it was on my bucket list (Morgan Freeman) until it happened.

I was stuck in standstill traffic, which usually makes me want to claw people to death starting with their eyes and ending with the soles of their feet, when something happened that made me grateful for the few seconds of stagnation that gave me the time to absorb as much as I could.

I pulled up right next to a girl driving my exact same car.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my car because of the stereotype that comes with it; I do not relate to the typical "bug driver" and I almost resent being put in that category. Luckily, the windows on the other girl's car were just as clear as both my own windows, and the reassuring proof that I definitely DO NOT fall into that category. Even in the little blue monster.

Her bug is in mint condish; paint perfect, all 4 original rims, clean as a whistle, shiny silver license plate frame, flowers in her little dashboard vase. Immaculate. Adorable.

She's in there in her cute little outfit juggling her phone and her mascara, her nails all did, writing in her rhinestone planner with the glitter pen she took out of her giant pink purse. Feminine and put-together. She was probably listening to something by Taylor Swift. Or kesha. Or some other popular pathetic girl singer.

And then there's me. Staring at her. Wearing more of my roommates clothes than my own. My bug looks like it just got back from Nam. The paint has sun damage from never being in a garage. Caked with dirt. Busted headlight. Rims from walmart that are spray-painted black, the vase is empty except for a leaf and some trash. I'm trying to listen to tech9 but my water bottle just spilled all over the passenger seat, totally drenching my ipod making everything sound like distant static. And now traffic's moving. And I'm trying to fix the sound. And soak up the water. And shift gears. And watch bizzarro Madeline, who seems to be unphased by all the commotion transpiring on my side of the black hole.

And then she drove down Paradise and out of my life.

the colossal superbowl catastrophe of 2011

The truth is that the halftime show is included in the Superbowl only to give wives, girlfriends, and other viewers that, for whatever reason, feel forced to watch football a brief intermission from pretending to be interested in the game. It also gives fans a chance to list all the mistakes the teams are making (why do they hire coaches when the fans are so much more knowledgeable?)

That does not mean that the halftime show shouldn't be awesome, though, because the Superbowl is a fairly big deal to many Americans and the exposure is huge; the talent of the performers should be at least equivalent to that of the players.

ie: NOT the Black Eyed Peas.

Synthesizing microphones, flashing electronic light-up costumes, bedazzled microphones, and hundreds of glowing back up dancers were still not enough to distract from the total lack of virtuosity among the headliners.

The four group members just congregated in the middle of the stage moving in sporadic, unsynchronized flailing gyrations and wailing like tortured animals, relying on their autotuners to correct their many vocal mistakes and their shiny LED ensembles to trick audiences into misinterpreting their chaotic motions as choreographed dance.

Slash's solo was cool for about three seconds until Fergie invaded his personal space screeching out Sweet Child Of Mine in a nasal whine that would send Fran Drescher running, and giving a disturbing visual demonstration of what an overpaid 40 year old Jezebel with the stage presence of Terry Schiavo looks like.

If Fergie ever had a "prime," she is way past it.

Usher's appearance was a relative highlight (albeit a short one; less than 2 minutes out of the 13 minute ordeal), though his support of that one preteen girl with Gender Identity Disorder does cost him points in the 'respect' category.

Conversely, consider Michael Jackson's 1993 haltime show. One man, a few fireworks, and a handful of backup dancers no one was watching anyway. Dancing like his body was made of music itself, while singing so melodically his own recording was put to shame. The man conjured more excitement standing in silence letting his moment build than the Black Eyed Sleaze managed to elicit in an entire overly-elaborate show.

Other than that, Greenbay won.

who preys on the predator?

I have always missed out on the funnest shit because I've been sick.

Parties, field trips, concerts, swim meets, sleepovers, hanukkah, christmas, the 8th grade disneyland trip, physics day, field day, MY OWN BIRTHDAY.

I even got to stay home sick when I was homeschooled.

and I have seen every episode of the Price is Right.

Just take a minute to think about how often you use your cell phone. So much more often than you think. What else do you have that you take with you every where you go? Its always on-hand.

After going through 7 or 8 phones in a single year I've gained an insight into this profound dependency we have on our phones. Explore a couple of the conundrums in which I found myself during the dark periods...

For the love of god, what time is it. Someone tell me. Who wears a watch? How do people know what time it is without a phone? Especially in the winter, when the sun goes down at 4 p.m. and the senior citizens flocking to the buffet at Arizona Charlies feel like they're eating dinner at a normal hour, it's not easy to read the sky. I didn't even know people actually used watches to tell time until my phone broke. I just thought they were there to look flashy and establish some kind of hierarchy among CEOs and rappers.

And do people still buy alarm clocks? I was under the impression that those were a thing of the past. How do people wake up in the morning? My only decent idea was to set an online alarm, which failed miserably almost every time. You don't think about these things until they slap you in the face. Kind of like the Law.

WHICH brings me to the meat.

Chris Hansen (Dateline) is, quite probably, the ultimate sexual predator. He has to be. He is trusted by EVERYONE. He is the face of justice in that department; their Covergirl. Even I trust that guy.

But I don't trust that guy.

It makes too much sense that he created his whole show just to ensure his own security. That man is a sociopath.

But as much as I love that show, I can't help but focus on the deeper issue.

The fact that "we the people" have had to constitute and enforce laws prohibiting the solicitation of sex from a minor, AKA a 13 year old girl who's DTF, is nothing short of totally demoralizing. These "predators" who took n'syncs "digital digital get down" a little too seriously are not hardened criminals. They're not masterminds or thugs or aggressive or violent even in the slightest. They're fucking pussies.

I'm not saying that what they're doing isn't totally criminal or disgusting, because it is.

But this is a crime we have brought upon ourselves.

Somewhere out there, there are real 13 year old girls who are really having sex with 40 year old men they met online.

umm....WHAT.

What the hell kind of lives do these girls have? Perhaps instead of focusing on cleaning up the ashes we should first put out the fire.

In a perfect world that would be a beautiful metaphor, but unfortunately there are no laws about instilling sound morals in your children. But there should be.

aaaaaand we're back

did you miss me?

i'm back on this blogging kick, complete with this sweet new layout for all you aesthetic types, so go ahead and eat your heart out.

in honor of my return, i would like to play a little game i like to call what is both the best and the worst show on television?

and the answer is obviously Dog the Bounty Hunter.