Angel Jobs
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: X
I have decided that if we can really become angels, that I want to be the angel who gets to make the clouds look like things. You know--when you are laying on your back in the grass and the clouds in the sky seem to take the form of bunnies, space aliens, penises (wasn?t that an Elton John song? Lucy in the sky with dildos?)

Failing that, I want to be the angel responsible for putting the faces of Jesus and Mary on random things like tortillas and doggy doors?I?d be sooooo good at that!

When is a Mint Not Just a Mint...
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Jack Johnson
This just in from the field...

I'm sure you have heard that using an Altoid (or other peppermint breath mint) during oral sex increases the sensation and pleasure. I'm told that substituting a Listerine Strip causes a far different reaction. One where the man starts off all "Hmmmmm...hmmmm...nice...that's right baby" which soons changes to "Err...uh, hey...ow! Ow! Agh!" and then proceeds to run out of the room screaming "It burns! It burns!"

Please use this information responsibly...

I Did It All For The Nookie...At Least On Tape
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Anything but Limp Biskit
So I thought seeing Chyna the ex pro-wrestler?s steroided micro-dick thingy was the nastiest thing I had seen recently?then someone sent me a link to the Fred Durst sex video (if 3 minutes of him heaving his fat belly over his 4 inch (while hard) penis can be called a ?sex? video)?

I watched the video of Fred?s tiny penis and gruesome facial expressions (for God?s sake, he?s banging some chick and he looks like he is about to take a dump for cripes sake!) I actually think I went into shock as soon after I wept copiously, found God (yes, he was lost), took a hot bath, and destroyed any Limp Biskit tracks I had in my possession?otherwise known as ?things that make you go ?WTF?!?

At least now I know the inspiration behind the band's name...

Hello? Paris?
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Nine Inch Nails
Did you hear that Paris Hilton's cell phone got hacked? Now, all of her personal information
has leaked out.

I'm sure that's a whole lot less disturbing than what normally leaks out of her...

Ode to Brazillian Nuts...
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: Nina Simone
With the spring mating season quickly approaching, hair-free hide is all the rage.

While some insane boyums indulge in the all-over hair removal treatment that intrudes into dark crevasses in a ritual of pain so spectacular there are few words to describe it, most of those less inclined to ritual torture opt for a lesser agony--the trim. Otherwise known as: Is this about the hedge?

I never understand why men expect us to suffer the excruciating trauma of a Brazilian wax because they don't want to deal with shrubbery, but then when turn about is fair play, we find ourselves bobbing and slobbing through a less than enchanted forest. I know that a wild and untamable creature lives in the woods, but when I have to mount an expedition a la Lewis & Clark and arm myself with a machete in order to make my way through, I will opt not to go.

So guys, be brave. Do not fear the nether region spruce up--embrace the grooming of the junk that is otherwise known as 'manscaping'. Your gal (or significant other to be PC) will appreciate it-BIG TIME! It only takes a few minutes to tidy up that yard and make it manageable for those who want to visit.

But remember--take your time! The advice here is better safety than sorry. Rush the job and you'll regret it instantly as an ex of mine did. He hurried through a last minute trimming of the hedge (in the hope that he would get lucky at his mom's wedding). In his haste, he seriously nicked the 'twins'. And NOTHING, short of a traumatic head wound, bleeds like the nads! You are SO not going to get any action when your scroat is bleeding and your boxer briefs are glued to you with your own blood. Can you say crime scene?

Chicken?
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Sam Cooke - Live at Harlem Square
You have to know you are a demented puppy when you read a headline that says: "New Study Shows the Pill Changes Women's Taste in Men" and your first thought is "What? They don't taste like chicken anymore?"

Does that make me bad?

Happy VD!
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Barry White (How fricking fitting)
Valentine's Day is much like herpes: just when you think it's gone for good, it rears its ugly head once more. No wonder some people refer to it as VD.

Yes, it's that special time of year when chocolate manufacturers and greetings card companies encourage you to demonstrate the extent of your fondness for someone in cold, hard, cash (or the satin-covered equivalent) on February 14th.

Fuck that.

This year, celebrate or commiserate Valentine's Day by telling the truth! Here are some greeting card ideas that they should make for anti-valentines...

* Happy unimaginative, consumerist-oriented, and entirely arbitrary, manipulative, shallow interpretation of romance day.

* You say Valentine's Day is stupid, commercial, meaningless, and overrated but then you bitch and sulk when you don't get a card.

* OK. I bought you flowers, chocolate and a card-Do I get laid now?

* Sorry, I won't be giving you my heart this year, but I do have another throbbing organ you might be interested in.

* Boiled rabbit anyone?

* VD-Give your loved one something they'll never forget...or get rid of.

* This is just to let you know that although I always say that Valentine's Day is stupid and commercial, if you don't get me something really nice, I'm going to go into a massive, pissy fit for days. Yes, I'm a fucking hypocrite. What's your point?

* I know everything about you. I know where you live. I know what you like to do before bed. I know where your spare key is....I love you.

And my personal favorite:

* You'll do.

Exactly!!!
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: Danzig-Mother
So I get this email from my boss's executive assistant who seems to think she is the Office Manager. In it, she says that we need to start emailing everyone when we "go to lunch, leave our offices or leave the premises" so that phone calls can be better directed. In my mind--WHATEVER CONTROL FREAK. Should I also send an email saying "I really need to take care of some serious personal hygiene--be back after I finish my newspaper"? I mean really! WHATEVER! We are professionals. We have a fricking board we can sign in and out on--chill already. If I go to Safeway for 15 minutes to pick up a salad for lunch--deal with it! I told you where I was going.

After this notification, I start receiving emails from all sorts of folks around the office--people I don't even work with...as in EVER! "I'm away from my desk meeting with Doug." Then, twenty minutes later, "I'm back from my meeting with Doug." Like SPAM isn't a big enough problem without having to get emails from random coworkers that you exist in office space with about the minutia of where they are at any given moment during the day!

One of my co-workers, Saffron (see earlier post), starts bitching to me about it and I say "Send her an email bitching about it-I did. Maybe if enough of us complain about it, something will get done."

So Saffron sends an email, blind copying me on it, saying "As I don't work with Carol or Jennifer I don't need to know where they are at any given time."

Jennifer I think? Who the Hell is Jennifer?! We don't have a Jennifer. So I point this out to Saffron, who immediately is all "DAMN! Why do I always call her that?!"

To which I responded "If you don't even know her fricking name, you definitely don't need to know where the Hell she is!"

The point exactly!

Do I Look Like a Terrorist?!
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Butthole Surfers
I was just in DC for a conference right before President Bush's second inaugurational festivities (if they can be called that)... I was staying at the Capitol Hyatt which is right across the street from the Capitol building. In fact, my room had a ROCKING view of the Capitol...well, from about ? of the way up to the top, but still...it counts.

Anywho, the weather in DC was amazing. I go to DC a lot on business and usually it is miserable and when I say miserable, I mean truly crappy. The average is low 20s and blustery. Give me snow. Give me minus 10. Just don't give me cold combined with a bone chilling wind that cuts right through you. It makes a cold day in San Francisco feel like a summer day in Havana without the cigars...you get my point. But as usual, I digress.

So the weather is unseasonably gorgeous in the high 60s, sunny and clear. I am across the street from our nation's Capitol so I decide to take my Starbuck's Venti black iced coffee (I am just SO not the frappaccino, mochachino, latte, frothy coffee beverage kind of girl) and my Washington Post across the street to camp out on the Capitol lawn. Think about it. It's a beautiful day in our nation's capitol. I wanted to just chill and watch DC life traverse by me as I enjoyed the day.

I forgot one thing in my simple plan for the morning: DC was gearing up for an inauguration. As in security galore. As in a chick with long blonde streaked hair, wearing red, velour hip hugger sweatpants and a black Thunder Cats t-shirt wearing 4" flip flops crashed out on the Capitol lawn with a huge coffee and a paper observing the day apparently is considered a possible security concern. Maybe it was the Atomic Snowboard sweatshirt with the skulls that made them wonder if I was a terrorist (all the Shiite Methodists wear them you know). All I do know for certain was that in the 3 hours I camped out, I had numerous members of the Capitol Police come by and ask me various renditions of the same questions about how I was and what I was doing. I came close to indulging in my normal smart ass self with responses like "Just trying to figure out the best angle to fire my shoulder-launched missile from officer"...but came up short prior to doing so when, as happenstance would have it, I glimpsed sharp shooters moving about the tops of the surrounding buildings--and when I mean the surrounding buildings, I mean fricking ALL of them. Even I, the smart ass that I am, realized that an off the cuff joke might mean detention or worse, a full body cavity search, so for once I shut the hell up.

Hey dad--yes, I can stop talking...thank you very little...

What He Said - What He Meant
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Gypsy Kings
Out of curiosity, a girlfriend of mine, who we'll call Nancy (cuz' if I used her real name in this, she'd take a contract out on me), placed an Internet singles ad. After reading the quality, or complete lack there of, of the majority of the responses she has received I think the old song fits "My momma told me, you'd better shop around."

What I have figured out from reading Nancy's wanna' be Romeo's responses is how to read between the lines.

Based on some of her replies, here is my translation of What He Said - What He Meant:

RESPONSE: "I am in good shape and have practiced meditation as well as Tantric exercises for many years, so I have excellent control over my body."

TRANSLATION: I take forever to climax during sex and when I am ignoring you I will claim I am meditating.

RESPONSE: "My female and gay friends all describe me as Chandler on Friends."

TRANSLATION: I am letting you know that I am totally comfortable around gay men. In fact, I used to be one.

RESPONSE: "I speak and spell good."

TRANSLATION: I am making a feeble attempt to be humorous by pretending to be self-deprecating. (Ask former VP Dan Quayle what this means since he interchanges it with self-defecating)

RESPONSE: "I am 5'11", and always look people in the eye. I have a very dominating aura."

TRANSLATION: By mentioning my aura I mean to imply that I am a new-agey type of guy but I am actually a total weenie who will annoy you to no end.

RESPONSE: "I am extremely intelligent, which is probably one of my downsides. I try to turn my brain off when around most people, I am sure that you have to do the same thing."

TRANSLATION: Oh Shit! I must have forgotten to turn my brain back on.

RESPONSE: "My wit is extremely dry, with a little happy sarcasm thrown in. Think the end of Monty Python's Life of Brian, where they are being crucified and singing "Always look on the bright side of life"."

TRANSLATION: I mentioned Monty Python so you will think I am culturally affluent. In reality, I can't stand Monty Python and don't know how to watch a show unless it has a laugh track to clue me in.

RESPONSE:"I am not opinionated. I am just smart."

TRANSLATION: I think I am WAY smarter than anyone else who knows me does

RESPONSE: "I am a 5'11", brown haired, blue eyed man who can converse intelligently on just about any topic that you are interested in. Who is confident with himself and does what he wants to do."

TRANSLATION: I will bore you to death and then attempt to have sex with you while you are asleep.

These are just some of the truly `classic' (loose interpretation) responses she has received to her questions. I told Nancy that she needs to change the description of what kind of man she is looking for to: Someone who knows who he is, could care less what others think, and is willing to make a total ass out of himself from time to time. I think she'd get MUCH better responses.

'Moantones'
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Jeff Beck
Good news! Jenna Jameson has `climbed in bed' with Wicked Wireless to create a new brand for mobile phone services. The company will start offering content from Jenna's Web Girls featuring, among other things, "moantones".

I don't know about you, but I'm going to download a `moantone' to my phone. I want to be sitting in a restaurant when my phone starts ringing and everyone hears Jenna screaming "Oh, yes...oh, yes! Oh Baby! Harder! That's it! Yes! Yes!"

Gives a whole new meaning to 'Guess who's `coming' to dinner'...hee, hee!

Alcohol
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Velvet Revolver
While sitting in the airport in Vegas awaiting my flight back to Phoenix, I took this alcohol trivia test in a magazine I was reading. I was a little worried when

a) I recognized the chemical formula for alcohol (considering I barely passed chemistry in high school); and

b) I missed the following question: "According to Genesis, what beverage did Noah make after the flood?" The correct answer was wine. I said beer, because I read Genesis as Guinness. Go figure...

Auld Lang Syne
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Jimi Hendrix
So here we are in the New Year--finally! I barely survived my trip to New Mexico and the New Year festivities...it was similar to a trip to Minnesota when you feel like you are attending a Bacchanalian festival (sans the orgies)and have no desire to leave...ever.

As I sit here nursing a Molson, I will fill you in on my trip to Santa Fe--at least the bits I remember well enought to recount semi accurately.

My sister's new pad in Santa Fe is amazing. As in stunning. As in WOAH! I spent many hours in the steam room or floating in the Jacuzzi. It got to the point where, much like my trip to Amsterdam (AKA Amsterdmaged), I was beginning to have doubts as to returning to the real world. I mean, what does it really have to offer anyway?

Here is my trip to Santa Fe in a nutshell:

Thursday
*Wake up
*Relax in steam room
*Naked hot tub (their hot tub looks out over Santa Fe and the Sangre de Cristo mountains)
*Bloodies
*Ski Santa Fe for snowboarding
*Drink more
*Lunch on the mountain
*More snowboarding
*More beverages
*Wipe out hard and club self in face--black eye and slight concussion due to stupidity of no helmet but bright news--nothing broken per the ski patrol
*Head home to nurse injuries
*Naked hot tub with surreal double visions
*Snogaritas (take a glass of snow and add fresh lime juice, Cointreau and Patron)
*Nap (only slight concussion so nap doable)
*Shower
*Cocktail party with A listers (society VIPs with big $$$$)
*Dinner at Gabriel's
*Naked hot tub/champs
*Sleep

Friday
*Wake up and briefly be bitter to not be going snowboarding but already have black eye for New Years
*Relax in steam room
*Naked hot tub/coffee and homemade Irish Cream
*Watch Jerry Springer (my secret white trash addiction)
*Shower
*A list New Years Eve cocktail party
*New Years Eve Party #2 - more A listers
*Dinner at Masa sushi
*Can you say Saki?
*New Years Eve Party #3 - how many A listers can there be in one fricking resort town anyway?
*Midnight kiss with some random hottie, David, sitting next to me at dinner. Why is it that good looks don't always equate to good kissing...there should be a law or something...
*Naked hot tub/snowgaritas
*Sleep--around 4:30 am

Saturday
*Wake up
*Take multiple Excedrin and drink gallons of water
*Naked hot tub/Bloodies (hair of the dog and all that)
*Shower
*Limo to A list function at $2 mil house on top of the Sangre de Cristos-What a view!
*Mimosas
*Flirt outrageously with seriously hot Metrosexual dentist, Michael, who could be an Armani model (WOOF!)
*Catered Cajun lunch on wrap around patio-Have I mentioned the amazing views?
*Meet darling tattooed surfer gay boi who is having a Martha Stewart Get Out of Jail party complete with bull dyke servers in overalls and wrangle an invite
*Switch to Grey Goose straight up--men at the party becoming hotter by the minute...or by the glass
*Consider mad mash session offered by GU (geographically undesirable) hot dentist Michael - pass as he is just too well styled for me--grandma always said never trust the perfect babes.
*Head home for brief party respite and viewing of college bowl games
*Naked hot tub/snowgaritas
*Steam room
*Nap
*Shower
*A list party #2-spend entire time avoiding Robert Redford as I now have enough beverages in me to make a rude comment about his recent testicular lift. Can just see me saying "Hey Bob--how're Bob Jr and the twins hanging?" decided that foot in mouth would not be an option if I ever wanted to come back to naked Jacuzzi/snowgarita paradise
*A list party #3--sit down dinner for 140 at the "Widow Hannahan's". Ever seen a walk in dishwasher? Me either until this. We also met Tom Ford (former head designer at Gucci) and he complemented Darci on the scarf her 5-yr old nephew gave her (the one that I had been referring to as the `confetti weasel'). I was the only person there not dressed by Chanel or some other Hoi Polloi designer. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee you that I was the only person dressed by Ross at these gigs... and I looked hot (and the dentist told me so!)
*Naked hot tub/champs
*Watch the Legend of Ron Jeremy (be afraid)
*Sleep-sun has already come up

Sunday
*Stumble out of bed, drag to kitchen and suck down multiple Excedrins.
*Ignore offer of screwdrivers and go back to bed
*Wake up
*Steam room
*Need grease--go get Mexican food at happenin' local joint Tomasitas
*Say yes to Negro Modelos
*Football
*Naked hot tub/Bohemias
*Nap
*Steam Room
*Dinner at rocking steakhouse out by the pass
*Pack
*Naked hot tub/Pinot Grigio (I wanted a Chardonnay, but saying Pinot Grigio is so much more fun!)
*Can't sleep--dread leaving and returning to work and real life...

See a pattern here? I came home relaxed and wrinkled...Wish I had gotten more boarding in, but have to admit the black eye made for some great conversations...bizarre golfing accident; arm wrestling incident at local Indian casino during all you can eat crab legs buffet; shopping calamity at Nambe 50% off sale, etc. Good times I tell you...

The Autograph...
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Jimmy Buffett
So apparently Robert Redford will be in attendance at one of the holiday parties I am attending in Santa Fe.

My mother is all shades of excited about this and keeps going on and on about Bob and how wunderbar he is--you know, handsome, environmentally friendly, etc., etc. She is dying for his autograph and asked me to get it for her. So I, ever the smartass, say "How about if I ask him to sign my breast?" And she says "OH MY GOD!...Do you think he would?"

WHAT??!!!

It was on the tip on my tongue to reply "Mom, he's not Neal Schon and I am not 14 years old and at a post concert party for Journey", but some stories are just better left untold...

China Awaits Crowning of First Miss Artificial Beauty
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: David Bowie Changes
There are times when you think you have heard it all and then you realize that you are wrong...so very, very wrong.

China will soon host the finals of the country's first beauty contest in which every contestant has undergone extensive plastic surgery.

Yep. Twenty "man-made" beauties will flaunt their surgical procedures in the desperate hope of taking home the country's first Miss Artificial Beauty crown.

Pageant organizers apparently dreamed up the event after one woman attempted to sue them for banning her from the finals of a traditional beauty contest in May due to her numerous plastic surgeries.

Jeez! If the USA held a Miss Plastic Surgery pageant they wouldn't be able to find a venue large enough to hold all of the contestants! I just can't see it though can you? "Here she is...Miss Artificial Beauty..." doesn't have the same ring...

UK Group Warns Christmas Parties Can Damage Your Health
Mood:  party time!
Now Playing: Jimi Hendrix
Britain's Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents (RoSPA) is warning office workers that Christmas parties can damage their health.

My first thought was "Oh, joy, office Christmas parties cause cancer" but I was wrong as office parties apparently still are one of the few things that do not currently cause cancer, but hey, that could change.

Recently, RoSPA joined English trade unions in issuing workers guidelines to follow for a safe and accident free office celebration. Now where's the fun in that? Nothing says successful office party like someone losing an eye...or two.

The message from RoSPA is basically: resist the temptations presented at office parties as most of them are just misbegotten attempts to amuse coworkers. Well no duh! Why the hell else would someone...oh wait, alcohol. Nevermind.

"Dancing on desks could do them and you a lot of damage," they said. "Likewise, the boardroom table is meant for weighty documents, not overweight executives." Hey now, that's getting personal...and it's just plain mean! That Ethiopian VP of sales is positively slender...

They also warn that the urge to photocopy body parts may result in disaster if the copier plate breaks and the wanna be copy-ee gets glass in "uncomfortable places". Uncomfortable places? Can they be more specific? Is that in your arse? In your twipee? In your tonsils? Where? I would hazard to guess that would depend on what body part(s) you and those assisting you were trying to copy. Apparently it is just issued as a general safety warning.

According to RoSPA candles, flaming Christmas puddings (and what the holy hell are those anyway?!) and cigarettes also should be avoided at all costs. Is it just me or doesn't something named `Flaming Christmas Pudding' sound like an item to be avoided without well intentioned advice being given? They also suggest that stepladders, not swivel chairs, should be used to hang tinsel and mistletoe, which of course should not be hung near sources of heat. Are these guys full on party poopers or what? Where is the sport in that? You have to admit, it's just not a holiday party (to use the PC term) unless something or someone catches fire...if only briefly.

They also recommend keeping a close eye on those who may drink too much as alcohol makes some people aggressive rather than friendly. No! Oh that's a shocker--a mean drunk? Say it isn't so...is that drunk/aggressive/mean like Dan Akaroyd in Trading Places hiding a smoked salmon filet in his shirt or drunk/aggressive/mean like Billy Bob Thornton in The Bad Santa kicking the midget elf in the balls?

While some would call them killjoys or losers with no sense of fun, RoSPA claims they are only trying to help.

Leave it up to the Brits to take the fun out of everything...

Art of the Dump
Mood:  special
Now Playing: Queensryche-Silent Lucidity
Every once in a while, if we are lucky, each of us experiences a perfect dump. While it's rare, it's a thing of beauty if it occurs. You sit down and what you get is a smooth sliding, masterpiece that breaks the water with the splashless grace of an Olympic diver. It makes you feel that not only is all right with the world, you are in perfect harmony with it.

Then there are the less than lovely or perfect dumps. These are the ones most of live with on a regular basis.

The Beer -- Talk about nasty dumps. Depending on your tolerance, the beer dump is the end result of too many beers. It could have been 2 or 22, but it doesn't fricking matter. What you get is a sinister, lengthy, noisy dump accompanied by a malevolent fog that could close a bathroom or a satellite airport for days...AKA For God's Sake, Light a Match.

The Chili or Hot Wings -- Dead Parrot Hot when it goes in and rocket fuel when it leaves. This dump stays with you all day making your tush feel like a heat shield.

The Cable -- Long, curly and perfectly formed like 2 feet of Coaxial cable, it loops lazily around the bowl. You wonder admiringly, ''WOW! DID I DO THAT? Where did it come from?'' you leave the bathroom rather pleased with yourself in a sick if not amusing way.

The Splash-Back -- It drops like a depth charge into the bowl creating a column of cold water that splashes back, washing your bottom with a startlingly unpleasant shock.

The Independence Day -- A rare variation of the Splash-Back. This is where the column of water from the splash back actually smacks right into your puckered starfish (AKA the leather Cheerio) and back up the poop chute. The chances of this happening are about a gazillion-to-one, much like those of Randy Quaid's drunken crop duster character flying a fighter jet into an alien spacecraft and dropping a nuclear warhead thus saving the world in the movie Independence Day, hence the name...

The Childbirth -- This is a dump that is simply too big to go through the aperture provided by nature for the purpose. You sit there, thinking over your dilemma. It hurts, and it isn't going to get any better. You wonder if you'll ever see your loved ones again. You imagine the newspaper headlines screaming "Local resident dies trying to hatch monster loaf.'' You realize that you'll have to resolve the crisis and basically there are only three things you can do: scream, call an Obstetrician, or just hope like hell that your nutpick is going to reach.

The Tijuana -- The phrase ''Shit Happens'' really applies here in a big way. When the ice in your bacteria tainted margarita makes contact with your lower intestinal tract, let the fun begin! For the next 72 hours you will spend most of the time on the pot and the rest of the time in a fetal position on the cool bathroom floor as you realize why Mexico never had a navy.

The Machine Gun -- You're just sitting there in a state of sublime peace, minding your own business and perusing the latest edition of Razor when all of a sudden you emit a group of noisy staccato gas bursts that break the silence like machine gun fire. The guy in the next stall hits the floor grasping his umbrella like an M16 and shrieking something about "damn Nips."

The Sound Effect - Your gut is rumbling and you feel a noisy one coming on. Relatives, friends, work mates or small animals are within earshot, so you must employ some clever techniques to cover the disgusting sounds you are about to emit. Timing is obviously very important here. At the precise moment of release, try the following sound effects: flush the toilet, sing the first two stanzas of the national anthem or your favorite show tune (I suggest anything from Annie Get Your Gun) , or drop a handful of change on the floor (or a bagful of quarters).

The Houdini -- You go, then you stand up to flush, and the darn thing has disappeared. Where'd it go? Did it creep down the pipe? Did you dream the whole thing? Is it lurking out of sight? Should you wipe...maybe you should just to make sure you went. Should you flush? You'd better, because if you don't, you know it will reappear and smile at the next person who comes in much like Mr. Hankie.

The Whole Roll -- No matter how much you wipe, it doesn't seem to be enough. You blow the whole roll and you have to flush 25 times too. You wonder if you hit a deer...The whole episode is consumer waste.

The Encore Dump -- Ahhhh, you're done, so you pull yourself together, wash your hands and are about to vacate the bathroom when you feel another dump coming. You have to return for a curtain call. The world's record is seven encores-one more than a Styxx concert.

The Born Again -- This is a dump that's going so badly, you start making deals with God to get you through it. You say things like "Oh Lord, if I live through this, I'll do anything." You always get through it, but seldom keep the promise you made in desperation, because a born again dump is like childbirth... you forget the pain quickly.

A Condom by Any Other Name...
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: The Killers
So apparently, South Korea has put plans on ice to replace the English word for `condom' with a Korean word after a string of complaints from people with identical or similar sounding names.

Originally, I was shocked as I had no idea that `condom' was not a Korean word... Anyway, that point being made, I found out that the suggested Korean replacement word was "ae-pil," derived from the Chinese characters for love and necessity. (Makes sense but jeesh, how literal can you get...)

Ae pil was actually picked from over 19,000 suggestions sent in by the public that included "Soul Mate Sheath (동조자 담보), In Safe Hands (에 저장실 손대다), To Protect The Sacred Scrotum (막다 신성하다 음낭) and I am just kidding (막 유머)...No really, I am just kidding about the other three...but those are their Korean translations.

The new name has prompted complaints from many South Koreans who have similar-sounding characters in their names hence why everyone should just stick with a regular alphabet, Cyrillic or otherwise. One old lady even called to the Public Health Department to complain, saying she was worried about her grandson being teased due to her name being 'condom." I can see it now--"Hey, your grandmother's a condom...na, na, na, na, na,na...You're Sum Young Condom...

It would seem that South Korea, much like Brazil, doesn't have enough to worry about with the current economic and other socio-political issues on their hands...

IT BE CHRISTMAS! AKA the Closest Thing You Will See to the Dreaded Christmas Letter...
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Buena Vista Social Club
As I said above, this is the closest you are going to get to a Christmas letter this year. Just not enough interesting stuff that I can share publically without either offending someone, making my mother cry or confessing to several unsolved crimes. So, I am only sending out cards with cleverly (hopefully) worded bits in them to those deserving folks on my extensive list...although I did consider enclosing a nude photo figuring people are always in wont of Yuletide amateur porn but as usual, I digress... Please do not flood me with requests for said naked photo as that was SO the Christmas card of 2000.

Whew! What a year! I can't believe we are skidding into 2005 already! Nothing like a rollercoaster ride to keep one on her toes or in the liquor cabinet...

Now that I have the house thoroughly decked out to resemble Santa's whorehouse in honor of Christmas (I LOVE CHRISTMAS!!!), I am going to pour myself a glass of 100 proof gut rot eggnog and fill you in on my year. (Yes, I will skim over the bad bits as no one ever wants to hear them anyway and can you really blame them?).

To be honest, most of the year was a blur. (Since I haven't won the Powerball yet, all my days seem the same) I have taken up a rather odd nomadic existence in the last few years as I seem unable to put down permanent roots in Arizona. In March, I moved for the 3rd time in 2 years (yes, I must be masochistic). I love the new place. I have wonderful views of South Mountain as well as city lights. The animals all have room to roam and the dogs do so enjoy barking incessantly at the neighbors and anything that remotely looks like it deserves to be barked at.

In February, I added to my rescued menagerie. I found a puppy who, to be PC, would ride the short bus if he were human. Chopper, AKA Porkchop, AKA Bounder, AKA Chocolate Thunder, AKA Retardo Montalban has added much silliness to the mix and Molson and Max deserve marble, or at the very least, granite, monuments for tolerating the insanity that is the 36lb idiotic muscle butt. The cats are less tolerant of the hyperactive nutball that likes to carry them around by their heads, but then again, they are cats.

A few months ago, I started this blog at the urging of longtime friend Deb. Needless to say, it has been hours of fun ranting and has probably kept me from being arrested at least once...or twice...or so I keep telling myself. It has given me a forum to put down the random thoughts in my head and to make me realize that man do I have really random thoughts! Surprisingly, I have had tons of visitors to my websites, so apparently there are other freaks of nature out there who enjoy arbitrary brain sniglets. Or perhaps they were just sympathy visits...

I have spent the last several months getting my life back in order. It's amazing that just when you are happily meandering down the path you have chosen, something drastically changes and POOF! You get smacked the `high hard one' to quote my friend Darrin and you find yourself back at square one in the game of life. (The best part about that game is when you get to take your carloads of children and sell them off at the end). As always, in the words of Gloria Gainer (as opposed to Steinham) "I will survive, hey, hey". (How was that for keeping the bad bits short? Uh-huh!)

The clan is coming to my place for Christmas this year! Wahoo! I have gone totally overboard as this is my first `real' Christmas in 2 years (2 years ago I had the spirit but not the room and last year I had the room but not the spirit). My house basically looks like Christmas threw up. I planned poorly for the tree, by falling in love with an enormous Douglas Fir (much to my surprise as I am usually a Noble girl). Nothing like wrassling the tree into the house only to realize it is about a foot taller than the ceiling. Needless to say, that is not the time to find that your handsaw is AWOL. I have to admit though, the bread knife did a remarkable job filling in and I didn't even cut myself--which is a miracle in, and of, itself.

I am looking forward to a week's vacation in Santa Fe with my sister over New Years at the new and completely amazing pad. A week filled with Frito pies and snowboarding...as well as alot of time spent in the house's steam room and the Jacuzzi that looks out over the city--WAHOO! Look for pictures of the vacation madness on Meg-O-Rama after the first of the year.

I hope that this year brought you and yours much love, laughter and happiness. If it didn't, then best wishes for 2005...and hopefully a winning Powerball ticket!

What is it About Public Restrooms?
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Oh Brother, Where Art Thou soundtrack
Nothing brings home people's inhumanity to each other more than a trip to a public restroom.

What is it about a public restroom that makes people completely forget any kind of common courtesy? I can understand callous and brutal conduct at a Prada shoe sale but the total lack of consideration for others illustrated in public restrooms is unbelievable!

I know standing in line for the restroom can take forever but it's part of the `woman package': you have breasts, you have to wait longer for things but you also get most of your drinks for free. Seems like a pretty fair trade to me. But, once you have made it into the bathroom remember your poor sisters who are still waiting their turn. This is not the time for a full makeover. Try to make like Speedy Gonzalez (you know, pee quickly, wash your hands and return to the table ruining everyone's chance to talk about you behind your back). If I am outside the bathroom door, banging on it and contributing helpful encouragement like "Are you f@cking done yet?" or "What, did you hit a water buffalo?" you are spending WAY too much time in there to the detriment of your waiting sisters. What have you done in there anyway that requires a complete makeover? Or maybe I don't want to know...

There are two major evils one can encounter when visiting a women's restroom. I still haven't figured out which is worse. First is going into the stall after a sloppy Sally chick, who makes an art of squatting rather than sitting on a public toilet and proceeds to urinate all over the seat, has been in there before you. (As punishment, these women should be forced to sit bare ass on said toilet seat after last call in a college bar. That'd teach `em!) Then you have those chicks who think their asses are so precious that they cannot touch common porcelain and use a toilet `donut'. I'm all for using a toilet donut but for God's sake if you use one, be courteous and DISPOSE OF IT!!!! Do not walk out of the stall and leave it there on the seat like an advertising hand bill on the windshield of your car! Trust me it will not fly away on its own! Punishment for a non-flush of the toilet donut should be to have to wear one around your neck like a collar for the rest of the evening!

And have you ever noticed that if you excuse yourself from the table with the "powder my nose" or other bathroom euphemism, that it seems every woman within hearing distance will announce her intention to join you? What is up with that? Why is it that such a personal and solitary experience tends to develop into a social pack situation? I know I have the ability to get to the bathroom and back to the table safely without a sherpa guide...or ten.

And why do we feel it's necessary to say where we are going? If you get up from the table, just excuse yourself and be done with it-no bathroom euphemisms are necessary for clarification. I mean really, where the hell else would you be going? Excuse me I'm off to a poetry slam?

When all is said and done, I despise public restrooms so much that I have actually considered having myself catheterized in order to avoid visiting these dens of nastiness.