I just want the booze. Isn't this a free country?

Sooo... in case you haven't been paying attention, I live in North Carolina.  Okay, maybe I never told you that before.  But tada! I live in the Tar Heel state. Why Tar Heel?  Well apparently the North Carolinians in the Civil War were so very brave and NEVER ran away from a fight.  So people said, "well daggum those boys must have tar on their heels keepin 'em stuck to the ground!"

Not brave.  Just stuck.

Or so some website told me.  Frankly, I feel as though tar on my heel wouldn't keep me stuck to the ground. Rather, it would simply pick up a lot of dirt, grass and grime and become some disgusting super-sole on my shoe.  Sort of like permanent stuck dog poo.  And that wouldn't make me stay and fight.  That would probably make me sit on the nearest rock and scrape at my shoes with a stick for hours on end, or continuously mutter 'Can you smell that?'

Anywho, my point is that in North Carolina alcohol is controlled by the state.  No, they don't just tax the bejeezus out of it.  They sell it.  Other than wine and beer, and Bailey's Irish Cream (clearly the Bailey's lobby is very strong within the NC State legislature) everything else is sold in ABC stores which stands for Anything But Customers.  Okay, you got me.  It doesn't.  I think it is actually Alcoholic Beverage Control or something. So things like Diet Coke aren't regulated as they don't have alcohol.  If Diet Coke were regulated I would move immediately.

So these stores vary by town and whatnot.  But let me tell you about the ABC stores in my town.  Suffice to say I haven't been to a store in Russia but from my knowledge of such places I can say that the ABC Commission modeled their entire business plan on Soviet style economics.  

Brick shithouse?  Nope.  Liquor store.

You walk in and the shelves are maybe three bottles deep of each product.  And you can't get every product. Oh no.  These shops are maybe the size of half of a CVS pharmacy.  There were booze shops in Connecticut that took up entire city blocks.  So you can imagine that the selection in these places are severely limited.

Also, all the staff wear these little red vests, and I bet stitched on the inside, where we can't see- are a hammer and sickle. 

Those who need customer service will be shot.

It's the sort of environment where you feel as if you should take one bottle, AND ONE BOTTLE ONLY, to the counter.  And then with eyes cast downward you hand the bottle and exact change over.  You receive a bottle and a receipt and you exit quietly.

My local liquor store in Connecticut was like a party waiting to happen.  It had every conceivable type of booze.  It had bottles of booze that contained bottles of booze inside them!  It had bottles in all shapes and liquids of all colors.  It had olives and pearl onions, and the little sword toothpicks.  You were sometimes even approached by the staff to see if you needed any help or had questions!  I know, I know.  There really is no need for help at an ABC store as there are only about five spirits to choose from.  But still, do I want the 750ml bottle or the 50ml bottle?  Maybe a salesperson could help me with this goddamn quandary.

My point in griping about all this is that it is Saturday night.  In other places Saturday night could start with a trip to the liquor store that was almost as enjoyable as the rest of the evening.  It was like a Chinese buffet of booze, with just as much puking afterwards.  Everyone was always happy there.  You would glance at each other and give fellow customers that smile... the 'Yup, it's Saturday night and it's time to PARTAAAY!' smile.

In North Carolina you look at your fellow customer see eyes full of shame and fear.  And let me tell you folks it takes a lot of booze to forget.  I would go buy some right now just to erase the memories of previous visits to the ABC, but it's fucking closed already!

Oh, North Carolina.  I love you so.  And I know you're the buckle of the Bible Belt.  But Jesus didn't wear a belt.  He wore a dress.  And he drank lots of wine.  

I literally can't take this misuse of literally

I spent literally all day and night thinking about the misuse of the word "literally".  I must've heard people use it incorrectly literally a million times.  And every time I hear it used incorrectly, I literally go ape shit.

Do our English teachers literally not give a fuck anymore?  Or are they literally just checked out of their jobs?  

I swear, it is so annoying I feel like literally ripping someone's head off.  I will literally kick their head clear to the other side of town.  And then I will literally drink a thousand bottles of beer while I literally laugh my head off.

After all, these people who speak so poorly literally don't deserve to live.  They literally bring society to a standstill with their devolution of the English language.

And I am so sick of it I literally puke my guts out on a regular basis.  I mean do we literally have to take it up the backside with their ignorance?  Can't we just put them all on an island and literally bomb it into the stone age?

I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, there's no way she literally means this shit.  And you'd be right.  Of course I don't.

I literally don't mean all this.  Well, I do literally loathe the people who use the word literally incorrectly.  But I would just figuratively murder them.  And then I'd figuratively go to jail and would figuratively be someone's bitch.

And that would literally suck.

Sorry for the delay since my last post

But I was busy.  With what you ask?  Oh, nothing really.  But saying I was busy is, I think, more professional sounding than, "I just couldn't be arsed to blog the last few days."

Alas, I am now arsed, but I don't have much to say.  Oh sure, there are many subjects ripe for the pickins:

1) The debt ceiling debate rages on. (put the Extreme Couponers in charge)

2) I have a new kitten. (how does litter extinguish vile poo smells so quickly and yet we can't do anything about water treatment plants?  fill the bastards with litter!)

3) My son just finished driver's ed. (his teacher told him if he gets into an accident and the air bag deploys to let go of the steering wheel as to not get burns on his arms.  Why do people have so much respect for teachers?  Lots of them are idiots.  Not all of course.  But I refuse to give them carte blanche respect like I would the fucking Missionaries of Charity.  Ooh, they don't get paid enough!  Oh yeah?  Well plenty  of them are getting overpaid for teaching our kids fuck all so I think it evens out.)

4) I put my son on an Amtrak train that was over an hour late yesterday. (Mother of all that is holy.  If you need any further proof that government entities are a waste of oxygen, get involved with Amtrak.  I swear I didn't even know anyone worked at the bloody station until 45 minutes after we arrived when a loudspeaker turned on to tell us about the delay.  Oh, but the staff made themselves known each time a train arrived by going outside to help people board... while simultaneously taking a smoke break.  Imagine having a job that allowed you to smoke while you were helping customers?  "Oh, we do apologize Mr. Smith but you may feel some burning sensations over the next week." "Something to do with the stitches healing?"  "Err, not exactly.  I dropped a lit cigarette from my mouth into your chest cavity.")

5) It is still too fucking hot. (there really isn't anything I can say about this other than God made a serious fucking up by not allowing some natural ventilation in armpits, crotches and the space under your boob.  What was he thinking?  I'm sure up in heaven, at those high altitudes, he probably never sweats and therefore never considered what swamp ass feels like.  "What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?"  Yeah, well he'll never be just like one of us until he smells like rotting chicken soup after mowing the lawn with a heat index of 115.)

Okay, yeah, so as you can see- not much going on at all.

I plan to be back as soon as possible with a meaningful piece of social commentary that will educate, inspire, and motivate.  Yes, I know I've never done that before. But now's as good a time to start as any.

That's a Bit Shit 6

Oreo cream isn't made of broccoli... or some other fibrous vegetable.

I'd bathe in this shit.

It's hot as Satan's balls.

Like looking into a mirror... if I could see my own back... and were ginger... on the beach.

I'm not this surfboard (that's David Beckham and no, that's not his wife)

No, not because I want to be that thin.  

I thought it was because I'm old

But then I read their ages.  Imagine my eyes popping out of my head now.  Okay.  Carry on reading.

Have you seen this story?  The one about a couple having sex in a public pool for 30 minutes?  No?  Well now you know why I won't go in public pools.  It started with Caddyshack, developed with "fecal incidents" while working at the YMCA and came to a crescendo with this story (I didn't use climax as I thought that too obvious).

We're Going To Need A Cleanup In Lane Three

Bet they got those red blindfolds at a sex shop.

When I read this story I didn't think about the traumatized children or the pervy adults who let it go on for thirty minutes.  Really?  No one bonked them with a noodle?  Okay, reaaallly poor choice of words there.  But seriously, if my kids were near a couple of nasty fuckfaces like this I would at the very least throw a pool toy on them and say "use the rubber." 

What I thought about was, how on God's green Earth did a couple in their 30s and 40s have sex in a public pool?  Let alone for 30 minutes.  Do they have kids of their own?  I don't know about you but a bunch of half naked children makes me agonize over doing a load of laundry, not fancying my chances of playing the skin flute.  And 30 minutes?  Do they not have jobs? Or a mortgage? Aren't they tired and trying to relax at the pool?  Just be like the rest of the fucktards and fall asleep so other people feel obligated to watch your annoying children to make sure they don't drown. 

When I go to the pool (not that I do- see above) I want to lay out in the sun and chill out.  I don't want to try to keep my naked arse from floating to the surface, or play hide the sausage while kids are playing Marco Polo. Marco?  Polo!  Marco? Polo!  Marco? Penis! Um, I mean Polo!

And let me tell you folks- public pools have chlorine.  But you'd have to be having sex in a pool full of Clorox for me to consider even dipping a toe in after you've played trains and tunnels in there.  

My words to that couple?  You're too old for this nonsense you pervy, disgusting, excuses for humanity. Go home and traumatize your own children.  Or better yet? Go to jail and play don't drop the soap.  I hope you get lots of noodle bonking while you're there. 

Yes, I'd be a Scientologist for you

Even if you are wearing a Vito Corleone hat for no apparent reason.  And are a short arse.  Well, unless your hands are smaller than mine.  That's a deal breaker.

His hat adds height

Reading this article about Tom and seeing that he looks indeed as good as ever, it made me start wondering what religion I'd become and for whom. Yes, I think I would be a Scientologist if I fell in love with Tom. He's good looking, wealthy, has nice hair, etc.  I really don't think Scientology is that much for him to ask.  It's a few afternoons starving yourself on a treadmill or something.  I'm up for it.

I think I'd become Jewish for Daniel Radcliffe.

Don't worry.  He's legal in this picture.

I think I'd be Buddhist for Orlando Bloom.

His arrow makes me quiver. Get it? Nope? Shut up.

I'd become Catholic for Gerard Butler.

I'm already Catholic so this one doesn't really count.

And I'd worship Barry for Gordon Shumway.

He'd have to shave his back though.

Now before you go, "Oh she's sooo shallow for changing something as fundamental as her faith for her man" think of it this way.  Well, there really is no other way to think of it.  You're probably right about me being shallow.  But I'm willing to admit I'm shallow for Legolas.  And I will spend a long time thinking about myself and evaluating my sense of self and purpose while I put sunscreen on Gerard's back.  Think about that while you're falling asleep on your big pillow of integrity.

Luckily I have a partner without religion.  So I just have to suffer Liverpool FC instead of eternal damnation. I'm really not sure which is worse.  

Shit or Not Shit 3

The Grove Park Inn. THE FURTHEST FROM SHIT YOU COULD IMAGINE

This is like a real old hotel.  The kind the Shining might have happened in or some other horror film.  Lots of dark wood and stone and a view to die for.  Muwahahaha.

Someone copying my items.  TOTALLY FUCKING SHITE.

And some of my photos and description.  And trying to buy my stuff to resell on eBay as her own. 

Torchwood not being on BBC America.  SHIT!

It's on Starz now.  Which I don't have on my already extremely expensive list of cable channels. Thanks for nothing BBC America!

I get this fancy schmancy design magazine

called Dwell.  I have absolutely no idea why I receive it.  It must be one of those publications that subsists purely on advertising and therefore doesn't need to charge for a subscription.  I figure they go through the phone book and point randomly at names to decide where to send it.  I won that lottery.  Yippee!

I adore this mag.  I've never considered myself a design person.  I do love art though.  I have a minor in Art History and just enjoy learning about art and its context.  I never really looked at design as art.  It simply was never presented to me in that way and I never independently considered it as such.  This magazine has truly opened my eyes.

However, like San Andreas, I can find the fault in anything.  Well, not really a fault.  More of an oddity.  A cool oddity.  One that made me go "hmm...".   In the back of the mag are ads.  They are typically for household items, but also anything that can be marketed as good design so clothes and other such things are included. The item that caught my eye though was a painting.

Not OJ Simpson's house.

What you're looking at there folks is someone's DNA.  Nope, not the invisible cells floating around.  The paintings on the wall are prints of a PCR I presume.  What is a PCR?  Check here if you really care: Polymerase Chain Reaction.  I know a bit about it as my background is biology and we did a butt load of these in our labs.  But essentially that print is the results of running a PCR with an individual's cells.  The company sends you a kit to gather the cells.  I amuse myself by imagining a box with a big index finger that you have to shove up your backside.  FAQ- "Is the finger up the bum the only way to collect my DNA?" "We value our customers.  While probing the chocolate starfish isn't the only way to collect your DNA, we think it's the best."

I for one think these prints are awesome.  However, I am ashamed that I think so.  Yes, there is beauty in science.  But really? Why not just shit on a canvas and frame it?  Or piss in a vase and stick it on the coffee table?  Are we that obsessed with ourselves that we must immortalize the blueprint of our own body?  That sweaty butt print on the adirondack outside isn't enough?

I wish I had thought of these items because I could be making loads of money with a very simple lab technique.  But then again, I'm going to open the "shit on a shingle" design shop.  I'll let you know when I'm ready to take orders.


Until then, if you want to smear yourself on your walls do visit this website DNA Portraits™

Kid Quotes 2

The worst product ever

Folks, sit down.  Are you sitting?  I have discovered the worst product ever.  Worse than saw dust baby food. Worse than lightning rod boxer shorts.  Yes.  I know that seems implausible.  But it is the case.

Here it is:

Bic.  Which in Latin means "piece of crap".

I am not a razor snob.  If anything I am the opposite.  I'm like a razor, well, what is the opposite of snob? Egalitarian?  Razor egalitarian sounds preposterous.  Whore? Razor whore.  Yeah, that's probably more appropriate.  I will use any razor.  I'll go with mens, womens, baby razors, if they make them, etc.  I am a razor slut.

I am also frugal when it comes to razors.  So I'm a cheap whore basically.  No really.  One time I got a bunch of free Intuition razors.  You know the kind with the soap/lotion bar around it so you don't need shaving cream or lather to shave?  Wow, they were awesome- especially while camping.  But when I saw how much the cartridges were I never bought any.  I am not going to go to the register and get a bill total of $20 for fucking razors.  No. Way.

Anywho, I got these cheap Bic Silky Touch razors for a few dollars at Target.  My God (said with that expression that people always use in films when they realize the world is going to end).  They are totally awful. They do the exact opposite of what you want the product to do.  Sure, they are sharp and will actually cut down hair.  But you won't ever get to find out for yourself.  Why?  They are the slipperiest motherfuckers of all time.  

Now, I can only imagine no one even tested these items.  If they had, they would've immediately realized that soapy hands + this razor = total pandemonium.  I don't have any grip deficiencies.  In fact, my grip is quite strong after years of crochet.  I am like the fucking Incredible Hulk of crochet in that regard.  If my hands were big enough to wrap around a big building I bet I could turn it to dust.  And yet I cannot keep these bastard razors in my hand.  I just sort of end up on the floor of the shower crying, covered in lather and getting hairier.  

This is yet another example of society going downhill.  Companies aren't even trying anymore.  No testing, releasing any piece of shit they want.  Why?  We're a captive audience.  We are hairy and we need razors. They have us by the hairy balls.  Jesus, don't try to shave those with these razors.  You'll never be able to have children.  One slip and it's curtains.

I hear the square tire is coming out next (better gas mileage as you can't drive anywhere).  Followed quickly by the macrowave (food takes longer than a conventional oven).  Personally I'm waiting for the genetically engineered broccoli that is fattening.  At least then I can have a good excuse not to eat it.

And I'm back! And have something interesting to report...

So I was on vacation.  And I'm exhausted.  I always come home from vacation tired.  I think I don't know how to take vacations properly or something.  I do it wrong.  Regardless, the weather was decent, the views were lovely and I just happen to like the mountains.  So spending a week there was cool.  Literally.  And now back home it is so effing hot I could fry an egg on me arse.

My vacation was heavenly

Speaking of weather, I heard something very interesting on the way home.  For those who have traveled the back roads of the south, you will find there is a threshold you cross.  There is no visible line.  You don't know when you've reached it until the radio station you're listening to begins to fade out and you try to find a new one.  You hit seek or scan and realize as each station passes that you are now in a new world.  The world of country and preaching.  Yup.  Only two choices.  Pretty much all twang and dang. 

I lived in Florida for awhile and drove between there and, well, other places.  I found myself in this netherworld of Garth Brooks and Jesus Christ many times.  But on my journey home from the Blue Ridge Mountains I heard something that had never crossed my ears before.  A weather report.

"A weather report?" you say with sarcastic disdain.  "That's the bread and butter of radio.  How was that odd?"  Well, after the um, Earthly weather report, I was given the weather report for somewhere else.  Not the moon.  Not Mars.  Not Venus.  Not the surface of the sun (8 billion degrees and moony).  Nope.  I was informed that in heaven it would be sunny with a large rainbow.  Yes folks, I was given the weather report for heaven.

See the similarities? 

I don't know if the reporter was actually in heaven, or had an inside source of some kind.  Or maybe he was able to place a webcam and a thermometer there during a near death experience once and now has access.  But in case you were wondering what type of weather your Great Grandma Ruth is enjoying, it's pretty damn awesome.  There are white fluffy clouds, and the streets are never wet from rain because they are "translucent".  A front of love is moving in, followed by a storm of joy.

After hearing this I was really looking forward to the weather report from hell, but they just went to a Metamucil commercial instead.  So I think I might start writing weather reports from hell.  I figure all I need is a ouija board to contact Hitler and I'll get a direct line to whether it's just warm or eyeballs on fire any given day.  Can it rain in hell?  Or is it so hot that the drops just evaporate?  What about snow?  Everyone always says that snow in hell is not likely to happen but if hell is supposed to be you know, hellish, I can think of nothing worse than excruciatingly hot snow.  Can you imagine that?  I'll ask Hitler if that ever happens.

Alas I'm now back to the reality of work, house cleaning and cooking.  It's going to be busy with a patch of whining, with a possibility of a flood of tears later in the week.  Might vacation in heaven next summer.

Altitude Affects Attitude

That's the tagline for the city of Asheville, North Carolina.  I'm on vacation there.  Actually, in the nearby town of Black Mountain.

My internet service is as spotty as the spotted leopard.  Wait, is there a spotted leopard?  And I guess in that instance, the spots are good.  In this instance, spots are bad.  I cannot be guaranteed service at anytime, and it could drop off in the middle of this...


It didn't really drop off there.  I was just trying to prove a point.

Anywho, I will post more mental hilarity upon my return home.  I doubt I will post much more while on vacay.  If something strikes me I might say 'Ow!' and then perhaps blog something.  I'm going to try to be a good girl though and stop frying my non-existant balls with this laptop.

Happy week ya'll.  See, I even have their lingo down.

And they say we should admire nature

But it happens in nature!  Or this doesn't happen in nature! You always hear this shite.  Oh, but no other species would ruin the planet like the humans?  Oh yeah?  You can bet your sweet arse if a horse could drive a car it would.  And it would be a big fucking truck that burned LOADS of fossil fuels because a horse can't fit in a SMART car.

Oh, and how about how in nature animals chase each other, go for the jugular and then eat their prey raw!?! Think about that next time you're walking down the street and someone brushes by you to get across the intersection.  While doing so, they elbow you in the ribs without even a heartlessly whispered, "Sorry" and you think, "You goddamned bastard." But really, you should be fucking grateful they didn't run up from behind, sink their teeth into your neck and start feasting on your innards.  Yup.  Nature does that.

So it was awfully nice of this nicety nice nature to put its wonder on display outside my kitchen window this morning:

Deader than a doornail. 

Yup.  The bird bit the dust.  Sort of like Elvis on the toilet.  If this bird were wearing pants, I have a feeling they would have been around its ankles.

Point being- what is so great about nature?  I can only figure one of three things.  Either the bird ate itself to death because nature gave it no internal alarm when presented with mounds of free food, or this was some kind of Squirrel Mob hit (this bird now sleeps with the fishes).  Or, worse yet, it had a heart attack and keeled over right there.  The poor thing had a mouthful of food in its death stroke.  Imagine going out like that?  One minute you're in the booth at McDonald's enjoying a rare treat of farmed beef slathered in thousand island dressing, and the next you're ass up in the ball pit.  The high school aged manager comes along to poke you with that little broom and dustpan they sweep the floor with, just to see if you might be conscious, even though you've already shit your pants and are drooling something the color of fruit and walnut parfait after its been mixed together.

Okay, so I'm going off topic a little.  I guess what I mean to get across to you is that nature is no better.  And if it were, what's separating us anyway?  We ARE nature.  We are part of it.  So if we decide to murder someone without eating him or her, or if we I don't know, fill the planet with so many toxins we suffocate ourselves, guess what?  NATURE FUCKING DID IT!  We're not androids. We are nature.  Nature is us.  We are as natural as Mother Nature McNature from Natureville, winner of the Queen of Naturally Naturific Nature Center.  

You can't have it both ways folks.  Either we are nature, or we aren't. And if we aren't, what exactly are we made of?  Legos? And nature sucks.  Just ask that little bird.  Well, you can't he's dead.  And somewhere in the woods behind my house.

The Ongoing Adventures of Chutney and Peanut

The Ongoing Adventures of Chutney and Peanut Ep. 2