This is the story of an ambush dookie...
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Songs in the Key of X (X files compilation)
Last night, I went to the 3 Doors Down show. Not by choice mind you. I did not fork out change of any kind for these tickets. Instead, I ended up there by default as I can roll with the punches. As in, hey by the way, we just got free VIP passes & tickets to 3 Doors Down. At 8pm. As in we’re now going to 3 Doors Down…in an hour.

So I, being the uber flexible goddess that I am, adjust on the fly, change clothes, start drinking, etc.

Good show. The material from their new album is pretty tight.

Anywho, long and short of the evening: Good time. Seriously chardonnay abbreviated. Early evening. Zonk.

Cue fast forward to early this morning. I got up at 5, per usual. Let beasties out. Let beasties in. Went back to sleep. 6am, fed horse. Let beasties out. Let beasties in. Went back to sleep. 7am up. Mango Gatorade and Batman and Xiolin Showdown cartoons. 8am, back to sleep. 9am up. Let beasties out. Let beasties in. Plan 10 am run to the library and feed store. Shower.

From here, it just gets all shades of fucked up.

Combing out hair. There is a knock at my front door. Beasties go bat shit. I scream for silence and open the door to find...

My ex-neighbor Segrid. As in the neighbor I rarely spoke to who moved out 3 weeks ago without my protestations of staying in touch. (I think those are de rigor). I mean really, I never spent any time with you when you were living next door, so of course I should get your digits and we should keep in touch. Right…

So I manage to cough out a surprised hello. Rather shocked to find her on my door step, unannounced, on a Saturday morning at just after 9am. I explained that I had just gotten out of the shower and was getting ready to head out for the day.

She says “Oh that’s ok, I just need to use your bathroom”.

WHAT?!?! Hello! You drop in unannounced early on a Saturday and want to borrow my bathroom?

“Uh, sure” was about what I managed to utter. Totally at a loss here folks.

So she goes into the bathroom. The minutes tick by. And tick by. And tick by. Seriously. This chick has now been in my bathroom for at least 15 minutes. She finally (FINALLY!) flushes and comes out with an active tail of stench grasping at her as she walks away.

I must have been looking at her like WHAT THE HOLY FUCK? Because she says “Well, I was over at Fry’s (supermarket) and I had to go. They only had one stall open and there was a line, so I figured I would come over here and use yours. Sorry for stinking it up, your fan’s not working very well.” and walks out the front door to her car.

I AM TOTALLY FREAKING OUT!

No, she did not just stop by with no call, no warning on a Saturday morning to fire bomb my bathroom with a massive dookie! Who the FUCK goes to someone else’s home to take a dump? It would be like snapping off a steaming crap loaf on Dick Vital’s face on national television—it’s that bad!

I always thought that if you lost control and were unable to deny yourself the ‘power dump’ while at a friends/relatives/acquaintances you A) felt some sort of guilt about it, even if it was along the lines of gleeful satisfaction and B) You tried to cover up the crime via ceiling fans, air fresheners, lighting a match, etc. It never occurred to me that you would seek out a former neighbor and pollute her home while Target and a whole bunch of other local retailers have such a plush selection of anonymous seats.

For hours after she left, a stinky miasma hung heavy over the front bathroom. It was ghost beef and I couldn’t exterminate it with matches, spray or incense.

Once again I ask you, WTF?!?! Who does this? Who ambushes you in your home to poop there thus polluting it for the total of an otherwise happily uneventful Saturday?

Who?!

So I proceed to call everyone I know with the “ambush dookie” story. Why? Because it is the classic OH MY GOD story! No one can hear it without saying OH MY GOD at least once. It’s classic freakshow.

Ah, Saturdays…

RIP CONTROL Agent 86
Mood:  sad
Now Playing: Foo Fighters - DOA
It was with a 'great' sense of loss (yeah, not so much) that I read about the passing of Don Adams, better known to many as Maxwell Smart, Control Agent 86, from the 60s television show 'Get Smart'.

As a kid, I remember eagerly watching the show (in re-runs by then) and watching Agents 86 and 99 (Maxwell Smart's more competent partner), battle the forces of the evil KAOS.

I think I tuned in primarily for the opening sequence as I thought that was beyond super cool. As I watched it in later years, I enjoyed it more because a) Mel Brooks is a GOD--just ask anyone who's watched Space Balls two or three hundred times and b) Barbara Feldon was no ditzy glamourpuss. She played a strong and smart chick--a rarity on tv in earlier times--and a perfect foil for the bumbling Smart.

I always wondered how the Hell 86 ended up married to 99 on the show, but I figure it's all about the bumbling funny guy who is horribly attractive to you because he makes you laugh although I also am a sucker for a nice butt...

The worst part of all this to me is that entire generations will never be exposed to the 'Get Smart' lexicon. They won't ever get references to shoe phones as they wonder aloud if Motorola has one in production yet. They also will have no clue when, in the course of a private conversation, you announce that you will utilize the 'Cone of Silence'.

It's a tragedy I tell you...

It's Just Wrong...
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: The The "Infect Me With Your Love"
Last night, I had my favorite reoccurring dream about an insane circus sex session with Vin Deisel featuring an Elvis commemorative plate, a white bunny rabbit and a Bratz doll...don’t ask.

After I woke, lovingly dwelling on my dream, by chance several nasty thoughts popped into my head. And no, it wasn’t the fantasy about me, the Rock (in school girl underpants), a box of Fruit Loops and a train set. I rather enjoy that one...These were actually cold water visions--AKA kill the warm, fuzzy post-Vin nookie feeling.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that there were a lot of celebrity sexual fantasies that I never wanted to pop up from my subconscious during a dream in this lifetime or any other. Here are some of celebrity sex visions that, when I close my eyes, I don't ever want to see in my dreams but am sharing with you so you can be horribly disturbed as well. Ain’t I thoughtful?

Harvey Korman being shagged off by an underage taiwanese hooker using a glow-in-the-dark buttplug while listening to the best of Yoko Ono.

Martha Stewart dressed in a rubber bondage outfit, crouched ninja-like over a platter of menudo and tripe while giving oral gratification to a bottle of Goldschlager in front of her innocent Chow-Chow dogs and a studio audience.

William Shatner, wielding an enormous florescent blue dildo, while playing 'boom, boom shake the room' with Dame Edna who is ensconced in a too-tight pair of edible undies.

Midget Siamese twins having an orgy with a plastic sheep blow up doll and a ski mask wearing Kylie Minogue.

And last, but not least, Andy Dick in a pair of thigh high stockings whipping himself with a Nurse Betty doll while a liverwurst smeared Paris Hilton enthusiastically goes to town on him with a glitter filled cock pump.

If you didn't think I was sick and twisted before, now you know...what I am more concerned about is someone reading this and thinking “hmmmm…now there’s some yummy fodder for rubbing one out…

Just Another...Just Another Day...
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Ottmar Liebert
Lately, I have been feeding a little stray (big suprise-not!)…an orange tabby kitten upon whom I have bestowed the moniker of ‘Elvis’. Why? No idea—it just fits for some strange reason. Not like he’s slumped over in a drug overdose on a toilet at Graceland or anything…it’s just because he’s a little rockstar personality-wise.

For a while I thought he was schizophrenic. One minute he would cry to me and rub all over me and then the next, he would hiss and run. Turns out, I was petting Elvis one day when he hissed and I looked and realized there were two orange tabbies—I am figuring the other is his less friendly sibling slash evil twin. I know, not very bright of me…

Anywho Elvis waits for me daily at 5am for food. Although food really is not his primary goal—attention/affection is. He loves petting and baby talk, AKA the sugar that I provide. He will rub on Mr. Big (my horse) going in and out of his legs all the while talking to me as I feed Big.

I have become pretty attached to the little man but I am full up at my house as far as babies. It has become my quest to find him a ‘forever’ home as he deserves it.

The other morning, he and I had just finished our daily love fest and I had gimped my way back to the house to take a shower.

I was preparing to get into the shower (AKA totally butt nekked) when I decided to look back out the window at Elvis happily munching away on kibble. What I saw made me do a double take. Elvis was plumped up to the size of a large puffer fish and was swaying, back arched, on his toes. That’s when I realized that there was a dog nearby threatening Elvis. The dog looked strange for some reason. I looked longer and realized it wasn't a dog--it was a fricking coyote.

For those of you who do not live near rural/urban city park areas, coyotes tend to make meals of household pets. Seeing the coyote totally freaked me out. No way was some mother fricking coyote going to eat Elvis before I found him a loving home!

I ran (as best I could in my ankle brace) to the kitchen where I threw open the door, only to realize I was naked. SHIT!!!! I stumped back to my bedroom (in my best Captain Ahab impression) to grab a shirt. I threw the shirt on and limped back to the kitchen to head outside.

As I ‘ran’ outside, I was going to grab a handful of rocks, but figured if the coyote was rabid, I was fucked. So I looked around the back patio and my eyes landed on a big red hammer I had left on the porch. I grabbed it.

It felt as if it had been forever, but in fact it had only been a few minutes. I ran like Quasimodo towards the coyote wearing only a Hawaiian print shirt that barely covered my twipee, my garden clogs (that caused the ankle blow out in the first place) all the while swinging a large red hammer. I have to admit, I must have looked like a psychotic nutbag!

Apparently, that did the trick as I scared the shit out of the coyote, which took off leaving little Elvis stressed out but physically unharmed.

In the aftermath, all I could think was “Fuck, I hope my neighbors didn’t see this!” I probably should have been more worried that no one taped the occurance for Japanese television consumption...

A Day in the Life...
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass
So last night I was laying in bed tending to the calamity ankle when disaster struck.

Let me back up for a minute. A few weeks ago, I blew out my ankle (a story for another time). Basically, by the end of the day, it hurts like fuckall and has started to look like a blood sausage trapped in a straight jacket and not in the good way…

So anywho, I was laying in bed, sans the frankenbrace (it is rather sexy in an S&M kind of black nylon, metal and spandex way) with said ankle propped up and heavily swaddled in bags of frozen peas. If you are asking yourself why frozen peas, you apparently are no where near as accident prone as I am. Anyone who suffers grievous (at least in their minds) injuries on a regular basis knows the holy icepack of Antioch is none other than frozen peas. Think about it—they are small, round, can conform to any shape, reusable, and food but I digress…

As I was laying there, some of my menagerie decided to join me. I had 2 dogs and 2 cats sprawled on the bed with me. That I didn’t have all 3 dogs is not unusual. Max, AKA head bitch, does not tend to sack out in bed as not only does she prefer having the entire couch to herself, she is not always the most demonstrative of dogs. So I was a little surprised when she leapt up on the bed next to me and, after carefully circling and stamping down the pillow top to her satisfaction, sacked out. But when she wants attention, she wants attention. She proceeded to give a huge sigh and laid her muzzle on my shoulder. I thought ‘How sweet is that?’ Just as that thought was forming in my mind, she proceeded to open her mouth wide and vomit all over me. All over me and the bed. All over me, the bed and one seriously pissed off cat.

I believe my reaction time was a split second, possibly less, as I lurched up and off the bed, screaming “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”, bits of dog barf flinging off me. Bad idea. I landed smack dab on the unsecured ankle. “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo” quickly became “Mother of asssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss” as I attempted to jump off that ankle and onto my ‘good’ leg.

You probably noticed that I said “attempted”. It’s “attempted” as I forgot my own limitations in that moment, the first being a total lack of coordination. Seriously, I have a sense of balance on par with that of dry wall plaster. So I masterfully “attempted” to switch legs in some convoluted maneuver that could have been mistaken for an earthworm being electrocuted by a wretchedly nasty school boy.

As I hopped from my screaming ankle onto the silent one, I lost my balance and fell (Surprise! Not!). In the process, I took out the mannequin against the wall which in turn knocked over my snowboard and ripped down both of the floor length red brocade curtain panels and the attached drapery rod--with me riding on top of the whole shebang like Slim Pickens on the atomic bomb in Dr. Stranglove…

When the mannequin hit the floor, one of the arms flew off, shot across the bathroom and shattered the glass shower door which scared the holy hell out of the vomit-covered cat, Ottmar, who had flown off the bed and taken refuge in the relative safety of the bathroom…or so he thought. He tore out of the bathroom like a rocket. His claw-filled path of flight? Right across my chest. Right across my naked chest. Oh, I’m sorry, did I fail to tell you that I was butt nekked through this whole mishap. Yeah. Bonus. Not.

Gotta’ love pets…

Happy One Year Meg-O-Rama!
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: White Stripes
I just realized that Meg-O-Rama has been up for over a year now. Yeah, I know, not very bright of me, but I’ve had other things on my mind and massive amounts of Darvocet in my system lately. I am amazed how fast the time has passed. What a difference a year makes! More blonde highlights and new frosty beverage recipes…

A year ago when I started the blog I was madly in love and, at the risk of sounding like a girly-girl, thought I had found ‘The One’. It seemed like my life path was unfolding before me (I’ve just never been one of those chicks with the Life Path ‘checklist’ that I rigidly adhered to like train schedules for Auschwitz). But, as with many other things in my life (like my prediction that Katie Holmes & Tom Cruise are really annoyingly sappy space aliens), I was wrong. C’est la vie...AKA shit happens or Fuck those fucking fucks!

So here we are 98 some odd (some definitely odd) entries later. I have been tremendously LAME about posting lately. Life’s good. Not much to rant about. Over the next few weeks, I’ll start doing some catch up stories as there are some really classic ‘Meg’ stories that need to be told including the garden clog ‘incident’ that resulted in me blowing out my ankle. Think accident prone and karma…

Anywho, thanks to everyone who reads my inane entries. The site is averaging over 1500 hits a month. Who’d a thunk it? Not I. Never I. It’s crazy…although it could also be a sign that I should start that cult I’ve always dreamed of…yeah, no. I hope for the most part, you are enjoying my ramblings and laughing until you wet or possibly crap yourself on a regular basis as being regular’s a good thing.

Stay tuned—hopefully my sophomore efforts will keep you entertained or at least shaking your head in bemusement wondering ‘Why haven’t they locked this maroon up?’

I Hate Girly-Girls!
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: Buena Vista Social Club
There is just nothing quite so annoying to me as idiotic girly-girls. Perhaps it’s because, even with a lobotomy and a massive style makeover, I could never be one. I am just not built that way. It just requires far too much energy for me to play stupid. And why has it come to that anyway? Why does it seem like in order to be feminine you need to be a simpering and dim-witted girl instead of a woman? How did that crap come about? This is not to say that I am at all unfeminine as I have a collection of come fuck me shoes (CFMs) that would make Imelda Marcos weep like a little bitch in jealousy. What defines an idiotic girly-girl to me? Here are a few screaming clues:

Girls that refer to their parents as "Mommy" and "Daddy"

Girls who use the phrase “I think he’s ‘The One’” when referring to a guy they just went out on a first date with.

Girls who dot their ‘i’s with puffy hearts, smiley faces or anything that is not a dot.

Girls whose voices go up to preternatural levels when accosted with anything in miniature form.

Girls who think the only acceptable color palettes are in the pastel pink and baby blue families.

Girls whose bathrooms include any or all of the following: decorative/shaped guest soaps; guest towels that guests aren’t actually supposed to use (READ: white); anything that attempts to hide the extra roll of toilet paper in plain view; color matching potpourri (it’s a bathroom for cripe’s sake!); and finally, bride/wedding magazines.

Girls with an overly coordinated room. For example, the kitchen that is all color coordinated and matching. Oven mitts, trivets, salt & pepper shakers, spoon rest, utensil holders, carving board, dish towels, etc. in one theme, like the ever popular and ever horrid mad cow print.

Girls with more than 4 decorative pillows on their beds. (What are they for? Can you say time waster?)

Girls with stuffed animals on their beds. (What guy wants to go to town and have some truly insane circus sex with childhood loves Mr. Cuddles and Teddy Ruxpin watching?)

Girls who are only capable of ordering drinks or food which require extensive explanation to the server as to proper preparation. (E.g., When Harry Met Sally-READ: High Maintenance)

Girls who have a hope chest and are actively filling it with ‘treasures’.

Girl who speak in baby talk when they are not talking to a pet.

Girls who have ‘cute’ little pet names for EVERYTHING. (It's a fricking shot not a drinkie-poo)

Girls who have such an over blown sense of their own feminity that they are so girlie they dress like children. (Let’s remember that Little Bo Peep is only appealing to a certain portion of the male population—and one hopes it’s not because of the sheep…)

And let’s just throw this one out there for good measure: Any girl who isn’t sure if Chicken of the Sea is tuna or chicken…

Can You Say Annoying $ell Out? I Knew You Could!
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Who else?!!!!
It happened again last night. Just when I think the endless Hell is over, I find out I am terribly, terribly wrong. (Amazingly enough, this actually does happen occasionally…rarely, but it does.)

What happened you ask? I had to hear Green Day’s ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ one more fricking time! I believe this makes like one kazillion-five hundred gazillion and one third times (I changed the station before it finished last time) that I have heard this nauseating piece of crap. Jeesh! Like it isn’t bad enough that it is still being played every hour on the hour in every fricking rotation by every radio station!

So my totally ‘abbreviated’ self has just rolled home from seeing a comedy show with a group of friends at the Improv (hilarious comedian, total blast, story for another time) and Saturday Night Live is on. Yeah, I know it’s an off season re-run, but it never occurred to me as I plopped drunkenly down on the couch to enjoy some more mindless entertainment, that Green Day would be the ‘special’ musical guest – unexceptional musical guest is more like it. And what song do they just have to play to squash my buzz even faster than seeing my ex’s psychotic ex at the Improv? Yeah—Thoroughfare of Kaput Imaginings as sung by the diminutive rockers with ginormous heads.

I just don’t get how Green Day’s total and utter commercial $ell out is being so openly embraced. What guys? Much like the ‘Little Engine That Could’ are you muttering “We think we can! We think we can!” as you work your asses off to usurp U2’s spot as the ‘We used to be cutting edge and then we completely $old out’ kings?

Every night, it’s the same thing. I say my prayers while being watched closely by three exasperated dogs who just want it all to end so they can go to sleep. It’s always the same mantra I repeat nightly (no, not ‘make them perky’, ‘cuz that one sure wasn’t working). It goes like this…“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Billie Joe Armstrong stabs himself in the eye as he applies more eyeliner than Tammy Fay Baker ever has in this lifetime. If he should die (or at least lose an eye or otherwise maim himself seriously) before I wake, one less Green Day $ellout album would I have to take.”

Seriously, I would rather undergo sphincter bleaching performed by a blind epileptic than hear that grating noise one more time!

I just hope I haven’t gotten myself so worked up over this tonight that I have that dream again where Hillary Clinton and Tito Jackson are playing naked Twister with a chinchilla and a set of blow up Russian Nesting Dolls…

The Master Cleanse
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Mozart for Morning Coffee
Recently, I decided to partake in a “master cleanse”. A friend of mine went on and on about how toxic our bodies are due to everyday living, yadda, yadda, yadda and so I thought, hey, I must be toxic as all Hell…so here I am on the master cleanse (AKA the lemonade cleanse).

How I willingly bought into eating nothing and drinking only funked up lemonade for 10 days, I don’t know. I can’t even blame it on the booze as I was completely sober at the time I decided it was a stellar idea. Usually, it’s a drunken ‘good idea thing’ that screws my life up…

Here is what I have learned from this experience:

•DON’T drink the prescribed laxative tea (no fiber in the cleanse) before bed.
•Laxative tea labels LIE when they say it takes 6-12 hours before the tea takes effect.
•There’s nothing like waking up a few hours into a good night’s sleep (especially when you’re in the middle of a fantabulous dream -- Vin Diesel was sucking my toes while…never mind), feeling like your abdomen has been kicked by at least half of the USA soccer team, thinking “OH SHIT! and being all too right.
•NEVER trust a fart. (write this one down)
•According to Uncle John’s All Purpose, Extra Strength, Bathroom Reader #13, the word fart can be translated into many languages (this is what you learn whilst endlessly testing the durability of porcelain).

Ten international words for fart:
Afrikaans-maagwind
Israeli-nuhfeechah
Japanese-he (now that one makes perfect sense!)
Cantonese-fang
Bantu-lu-suzi
Hindu-pud
Polish-pierdzenic
Italian-peto
Russian-perdun

The experience in three words? Wretched. Wretched. Wretched. There were parts of me that were spasming worse than Chief Inspector Dreyfus’ eye in the Pink Panther movies.

If I EVER consider doing this again, would someone please remind me that I was completely sober with a screaming case of the Hershey’s for over a week?! I’ll owe you a first born child or a kidney or something else of equal value…

The Date from Hell
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Sum 41
So a buddy of mine says he has a co-worker he’d like me to meet and he proceeds to tell me all about this guy Mark. My first thought is “Slick, he has the same name as my ex husband--it’ll be easy to remember in case I ever end up shouting it during sex.” I know that sounds horribly shallow of me, but truly, it is something to consider. I had an ex who once shouted my name during sex…with his new girlfriend who quickly became his ex girlfriend in record time. Ever since then, I am paranoid that one day, due to an arbitrary wrinkle in time or a odd juxtapositioning of the earth’s axis, I might find myself in a position where I am screaming Poncho Villa or Coach English at an inopportune moment.

Mark sounds pretty good: former football player, 6’8”, 29 years old, has a real job…all good starting points. Matt sends me some pictures of him and I think “Damn spanky! He’s beyond sweet looking!” So I give Matt the go ahead to give him my cell number.

Mark calls the next day. He’s pretty funny. Bonus. He’s traveled all around Europe. Double bonus. After a few phone calls that go really well, we decide to do an in-person and meet up at a local sports bar downtown for some noshes and suds.

I’m pretty stoked heading into it. He seems super cool, but then again so did Bryan the fur-encrusted, snot excavator with TMFP…

So I arrive at the bar and he’s already there. First impression? That the pictures I saw were from a long, long time ago and perhaps of his much better looking twin. The football player physique so evident in the photos is evidently missing in person. We’re not talking fat on muscle. That I can handle. In fact, that I actually kind of like on a guy. We’re talking fat on fat. He was like a ginormous marshmallow all white and squishy.

I sit down and we order drinks. I order a Guinness—my preferred beer—and Mark says “Wow. I thought only guys drank Guinness.” WHAT?! So I give him the scathing look at about 5% intensity. He starts stuttering about how girls don’t usually like beers with ‘character’. I reply “I lived in London for a year—there’s not an import beer that I haven’t been intimate with.” He then proceeds to order a Mai Tai. A fricking Mai Tai! You have no idea how close I came to saying “I though only chicks and gay men in banana hammocks drank Mai Tais” but I resisted the urge as the evening was young and already off to a rather shaky start.

Our drinks arrive and we continue chatting. Pretty soon, I notice something odd. Mark in person is totally different than Mark on the phone. As in 180 degrees different and in an extremely annoying and creepy way.

Where was the super cool guy? In his place was a really strange guy who kept saying really weird shit. How freaky you’re wondering? He was acting like a black girl. Seriously. The 6’ 8” white boy had morphed into a sistah. For reals. It started out with him saying odd racial things like “my niggah” which doesn’t float with me. I bring up the fact that I am not comfortable with that kind of language and he says that he grew up in the projects in Chicago and has black friends so he’s an “honorary”. Honorary? I didn’t know there was such a thing except maybe Eminem...But it doesn’t end there. Pretty soon he is doing the round the world snap and saying “Oh no you di-n’t” and calling me “girlfriend”. I was so floored I didn’t know what to say! (And that's huge for me--I ALWAYS have something to say) I finally asked him if he was nervous (as I can be rather overwhelming in person) and he just looked confused...

Needless to say, I cut the date short. He insists on walking me out. He wants to walk me to my car and I’m all shades of oh no you wo-ent! I tell him thanks for an interesting evening (tongue in cheek but it sounds like I'm being polite) and go to turn away when he grabs my arm, spins me around and attempts to swap spit with me. OMG!!! Are you kidding me?! I deftly feint left and he ends up licking the side of my face—UGH!!!

I bail to my car faster than I thought myself capable in 4 inch platform shoes and speed off into the night with a major case of the heebie jeebies! All I could think was MUST WASH FACE!!!!

This morning, I get a text message. It’s from the big girlfriend himself and it says “Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m beautiful.” As if I couldn’t…

At this rate, my next date is going to be a hermaphrodite chainsaw juggler with multiple personalities…

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 5:32 PM NZD | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Tuesday, July 12, 2005 9:17 AM NZD

All I want for Christmas...A leftover IM chuckle from Christmas
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Thrill Kill Cult
Meg: So are the boys getting psyched for Santa?
Deb: Yep, we saw him last night at the railroad park!
Meg: Was he trolling for action? Lionel pervert that he is…
Deb: Ha! You're going to end up with a lump of coal!
Meg: Well, if I stick it up my ass for a few million years, I'll have a diamond! YIPPEE! A pretty shiny!
Deb: The boys should be getting most of what they want, although Colton threw out a skate board from out of nowhere last night. Hopefully he won't be too upset when he doesn't get one!
Meg: And an iguana, and a Joe Cool Yo-Yo, and a donkey, and a Nerf coliseum…
Deb: That WOULD be your list! Your poor parents! Actually, at Wyatt's school they had a Santa and he asked one of the little kids what he wanted for Christmas and the kid told him that he wanted a bell! The poor bastard just looked dumbfounded! Like where the hell am I gonna get a bell for this fathead!?! I just chuckled!
Meg: A bell? What the F?! He should of at least asked for a Juice Tiger!
Deb: I know! Too funny! And the kid was getting an xBox or something!
Meg: I want a pickle...
Deb: Done!
Meg: And a brass farthing...
Deb: You mean you don't want sandpaper?
Meg: That was next after a carbuncle...

Will Buy Dinner For Sex...
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Il Divo
It’s the age old question. A question as old as time. Why do men think that buying a woman dinner entitles them to sex? Do you think that you’re out with a hooker? If your answer is no, then don't expect nookie just because you picked up the tab, bucko. If a guy thinks that buying me dinner means he’s getting lucky he is beyond wrong! Paying for dinner is an optional, gentlemanly thing to do, not a VIP pass into my panties (if I am actually wearing any and not in commando mode).

Don’t worry though guys. There seem to be many chicks who are willing to ‘barter’ and think that a man paying for a drink or buying dinner is a standard price for giving it up. I guess what you get from these gals would depend on how underrated virtue is to them or what they order…

Here’s a handy guide as to what your dinner expenditure might possibly buy you with one of these chicks:

Spend $5 – $15 Earn her utter contempt and become embarrassing fodder for her friend's blog
Spend $15 – $20 A firm handshake at the door at the end of the evening and permission to call her again
Spend $20 – $30 A one-armed, off kilter squeeze hug
Spend $30 – $40 A kiss on the cheek
Spend $40 – $50 A kiss on the lips with the possibility of some tongue action
Spend $50 – $70 A butt squeeze
Spend $70-100 Partial nudity
Spend $100 or more Full nudity and exchange of bodily fluids

(Please note that prices are per person and including alcoholic beverages will up your odds tremendously!)

Now guys, this doesn’t guarantee that after you fork out that she will put out. You may want to consider increasing your odds by taking her to dinner at a restaurant next to an x-rated bookstore…

Hollywood 'Hit' List
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack
So the other night we went out for sushi and we ended up all going over our "Hollywood Hit List" for kicks. Following is the conversation as it unfolded…

JT: Hollywood Hit list? As in sex not killing, right?
Meg: Hello! Duh! If it was kill the list would be WAY longer and Tom Cruise with his psychotic bastard rantings would be at the top of the list!
Susabella: Really! That list would go on and on…Oprah; Barbara Streisand; Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon…every time one of them opens their mouths I want to kill them!
Deb: As in 'Hit that Shit!' The top five most do-able celebs in your opinion.
Susabella: Always a fun discussion!
Meg: Who are yours Deb?
Deb: In no particular order: Vince Vaughn; John Cusack; George Clooney - I know-cliche but yummy; Colin Firth – just seeing him makes my palms all sweaty and then a kind of random one-Ron Livingston.
Meg: Damn, haven’t given this much thought have you?
EVERYONE LAUGHS
Deb: What about you JT?
JT: Soooo easy—The Baldwin brothers.
Meg: Ewwwwwwwwwwww! Gack!
Susabella: All of them?
Deb: That’s only 4! Who’s your 5th?
JT: No 5th necessary. They would keep me occupied for days!
Meg: A Baldwin gang bang?
JT: Yup!
Deb, Meg & Susabella: Ewwwwwwwwwwww!
Deb: Alec Baldwin looks like a human Furbie!
Meg: I’m going to hurl! Moving on quickly--Susabella, what about you?
Susabella: Hmmm...interesting...thinking...compiling…
Meg: Mine would be Michael Moore, Drew Carey, Harvey Keitel and the Olson Twins.
EVERYONE STARES IN HORROR
Deb, Susabella & JT: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
JT: Could be doable…
EVERYONE LAUGHS
Meg: So really, #1 for me--Kelly Slater-pro surfer and total God! What I wouldn’t give for a piece of that!
Deb: He's so hot!
JT: He is rather amazing!
Meg: Let’s see…Bobby Crosby - Oakland A's infielder...he was in Razor recently and I was all shades of "GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
Deb: Stick to movies dammit!
Meg: Tough--I am way more attracted to athletes and skatetrash.
Susabella: HOLLYWOOD!
Meg: Ok-Vin Diesel. The things I could do to that man with a gallon of oil, a leather settee and a hand puppet…
DEAD SILENCE FOLLOWS
Susabella: Errr, ok. Thanks for that visual scorched on my retinas!
JT: Dear God—I may never sleep again!
Meg: Like your Baldwinfest fantasy is normal? Hello freakshow!
Deb: So who are your others Meg?
Meg: Tough. I am having a hard time.
Deb: The hubster had a tough time with this one as well. He had to pick specific actresses in specific roles. Ashley Judd all blond and sweaty in "A Time to Kill", or Gwyneth Paltrow in "Great Expectations".
Susabella: Ok, then mine would be Michael Schoeffling--Jake in 16 candles; Harrison Ford in Star Wars or the Early Indiana Jones; Sean Connery in early Bond and Gregory Peck in anything...
Deb: Classics all.
Meg: Hmmmmm…The Rock!!!!!!
Susabella: The Rock—PUHLEEZE!
Meg: I seriously dig the Rock...I am a sicko! And Chris Evans—that kid is just finger licking good!
JT: Chris Evans? Never heard of him!
Meg: He's the Human Torch in the new Fantastic Four—total hottie!
Deb: It's a respectable list Meg and everyone on it is over the age of 18--something new for you!
Deb, Susabella & JT: START LAUGHING AND HIGH FIVING
Meg: Bitches!

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 9:04 AM NZD | Post Comment | Permalink

When Mr. Right Now Becomes Mr. SO Never...
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Sixpence None the Richer
So I was totally into this guy. Ah yes, you undoubtedly noticed…'was' being the key word in that sentence. Things were going really well for a newly formed long distance relationship. It was all long intense phone calls and passionate longing. Every time he came to Phoenix to visit it was insane! Grrrrrrr factor gone mad and all that. I thought I was really into him or maybe I just hadn’t been laid in a long time. Either way, in one blinding, horrific weekend it all changed. It became a one-way ticket on an out of control freight train to dating Hell with Mr. Right Now as the Chief Engineer.

What happened you ask? I went to Colorado to see him. Our first visit on his turf and KABLAM! It all goes terribly, terribly wrong. Why is it that when you spend time with someone on his own 'home turf', he decides to let it all hang out and you decide OMG (Oh my God or Oh my Gaw if you’re Jessica Simpson) what the fuck did I ever see in him? Well then, let’s start at the beginning.

ONE. His family motto was apparently that of "Leave No Booger Behind". The man was a 24/7 nasal backhoe! Every fricking time I glanced over he was fiercely digging his digits around his nasal passages scrounging for choice bits. I think if he could have forced those Fred Flintstone fingers of his up to the second knuckle, he would have! No wonder he wanted to go back to school and get a Masters in Anthropology (on top of an Aerospace Engineering degree--like that is a logical move) he was already an expert at nasal plaque excavation! He had mentioned several times (ok, he went on and on and on) about how he always got nose bleeds when he was in Colorado. Well duh! Perhaps if you kept your paws out of there for 30 whole seconds...Watching him root around like a pig looking for magic truffles made me wonder if that grey chunky material he was endlessly digging out of his nose could actually have been brain material...it would explain so many other things.

(NOTE: I am not anti nose picking; I just don't want it done in front of me. It's an activity best confined to the privacy of your own home.)

So the newly discovered persona of Captain Nasal Explorer was already bad enough, then he whips off his shirt and TWO, I realize he has a total man pelt. Seriously. It looked like someone had hot glued either a dead, unshorn standard-size poodle or a filthy bath mat to his back! I was so shocked and disturbed by the hair suit that I actually wasn’t even fazed by his ginormous Rorschach blot-like port wine stain on his shoulder (AKA the Gorbashoulder).

He told me that all men in his family were cursed with the 'man pelt' and I was afraid, very afraid. I harkened back to that scene in An American Werewolf in London. I half expected him to grow fangs and bay at the moon although that probably would have been easier to bear than the endless boogey picking!

And folks, we're not just talking hairy. We're talking a complex hair pattern from neck to waist that seemed to depict the meandering coastline of the Americas ten thousand years ago--Oh look! It's Pangaea! His back wasn't just hairy--it was unbelievably fricking hairy! It was completely smothered with thick, black curly hair that had to have been at least an inch and a half long. It was like petting one of my dogs. If I spaced out long enough, I could almost lull myself into believing it wasn't his back but a beloved household pet I was stroking...but I couldn’t, because my dogs don't pick their noses! HELLO! Ever hear of waxing dude? Laser hair removal machines only run $999--cheap compared to your 'compensating for your Fred Durst-sized tiny penis' Z3 Beemer payment I'm sure.

And there it is...THREE. The 3nd nail in the coffin of our budding relationship. Tiny midget finger penis otherwise known as TMFP. I should have known! How could I have forgotten that guys with tiny penises are always rockstars in the oral department? They have to be--it's nature's way to compensate. My first thought when I saw the tiniest member of the Lollypop Guild that lived in his too tight boxer briefs was “I wonder where he finds condoms that fit?” Maybe he uses those finger condoms that accountants use? Or perhaps, much like Butter on South Park, he ties on a small one with a rubber band. I know everyone says size doesn’t count, but come on now, we all know that’s a lie. You don’t have to be Tommy Lee scary sideshow freak size, but when the guy is sporting a whopping 3.5 inch hard on that he can barely maintain for 5 minutes, I know I’m not going to be getting any sort of thrill ride out of the encounter.

And I was right. Less than 5 minutes later, he's done. Not only is he done, he's pissed. He shouts at me "I wasn't ready!" WHAT?! It was all I could do not to respond 'Sugar, even an hour of tantric meditation wouldn't have made you any more ready.'

Now, I know I sound harsh about this whole thing, but there was more to the trauma than just these three things. Let's put it this way--he was about one dog boy short of a Mexican circus act and not in the good way. These are just the main things I focused in on because he was a total fricking ASSHOLE!!!! Annoying the Holy Hell out of me every time he opened his "I think I am Lord GOD King Boo-Foo" mouth and said something sarcastic, something sexist and something just totally rude and asinine. I only wish that when he opened his mouth, I could have stuffed it full of all those crusty boogers he picked!

Tattoos
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Los Lonely Boys
Tattoos. Originally, a statement of self. Something that represented your identity and a way to permanently document your uniqueness.

But in this day and age with the latest trends of piercings and tattoos, tattoos have become so commonplace, they're rapidly losing their form of individual self-expression, in fact they're almost at the point where they're a symbol of conformity—more or less a fashion statement. It's sad.

Tattoos are not fashion. You don’t get one because it’s ‘in’. Otherwise, when you’re 30 you’re going to realize it is SO not what you want.

I mean really. Think about how many hairstyles, hair colors or even earrings you went through in your younger years? So why would you ever be so absurdly confident in what you like then that you’d be willing to permanently mark your body? How rarely do we make decisions that are both painful and permanent? So it will hurt a lot and I can’t change my mind, ever? Sign me up! And let’s be honest, haven’t you seen how terrible some people’s tattoos are?

“Wow. That’s a pretty cool ‘Skid Row’ tattoo. Good call.”

The typical Celtic or tribal writing tattoos I see splattered over every fresh out of high school college girl are just crazy! Yes, these are the girls that file into your local tattoo shop and see that tribal tattoo or that butterfly, or those now trendy nautical stars, and ask for the latest trend. (Oh, don't forget to get your belly button pierced while you're there too sweetie, they might give you a discount on the whole package).

It kills me that it seems like every 14 year old girl is lining up to pick a tattoo off the wall of a tattoo shop. I can’t imagine someone simply wanting ‘a tattoo’ as opposed to wanting a tattoo of something in particular. And do you ever notice how many young girls have virtually the same tattoo on the small of their back? I saw a girl once that had "Sex Kitten" tattooed over her lower back. How is she going to explain that one to her kids some day?

And what is up with the lower back tattoos? Why get one on your back? You never see it--you must spend a great deal of time in a position where someone else would be looking at the area on a regular basis and think the tattoo might be entertaining!

I think these thong-line lower back tattoos, AKA the tramp stamp, are the second mark of white trash (the first of course being the infamous camel toe).

I asked a few male buddies of mine about tramp stamps and the responses were as follows:

“I only like the ones that say "insert here" with an arrow pointing down.”

“Nothing says ‘easy’ like a thong tat.”

“The deal breakers for me with a girl are if she has more than 3 cats or she has a confederate flag tattooed across her lower back.”

“They’re great for sportfucking as a cum target if the girl makes me pull out.”

Hmmmm…lovely answers all.

Now, tattoos may look cool now, but what are they going to look like when the gals are sixty and things are starting to seriously sag? Do you realize that in about 40 years, we'll have thousands of 60 plus year old ladies running around with drooping, wrinkly tattoos? A granny with an abundance of tattoos and piercings is just NOT a pretty sight!

Dermatologists must be rubbing their hands in anticipation of the massive amounts of dough they will be rolling in doing tattoo removals!

I was almost one of those chicks who got a tattoo just to get one. I came perilously close a billion years ago when I was 19 to getting a black panther head tattooed on my ass--complete with giant yellow fangs and a big red tongue. You know it--I was in college and drunkenly picked it off the wall at a tattoo shop. I was all shades of excited until my roommate Deb basically threatened everything including Hell and calling my mother (sometimes the same thing) if I proceeded. I caved and instead got a small tattoo of my sorority’s crest on my ankle. If I have said it once, I’ve said it a billion times—THANKS DEB!

Now, this isn't a knock by any means to those with ‘real’ tattoos that mean something and are original. It’s just that those are becoming few and far in between.

I don’t regret getting a tattoo. I do, however, know many who do. Just remember, drunken decisions regarding tattoos that you make with fraternity brothers, drama-prone girlfriends or your drunken roommate rarely turn into sound tattoo ideas. That’s when you wake up the next morning and realize that you have the Schlitz Malt Liquor Bull tattooed across you chest…

Favorite Movie Quotes...
Mood:  chatty
Now Playing: I am the Avalanche - Symphony (Six the Hard Way)
So last night, the American Film Institute named its 100 best movie quotes (visit: http://www.afi.com/tvevents/100years/quotes.aspx#listif you want to see them) and I noticed that many, if not all, of my favorites weren't listed for some bizarre reason--go figure! So I thought I would share a few of my personal favorites. Mind you, these are personal favorites, and there is no accounting for taste...especially mine.

"You're going to need a bigger boat." - Chief Brody (Roy Scheider) to Quint (Robert Shaw) Jaws

"Oh yeah, he loves the cock!" - Jay (Jason Mewes) Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back

"You are not your job. You are not the money in your bank account. You are not the car you drive. You are not how much money is in your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.” – Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) Fight Club

"You aren't too bright. I like that in a man." - Matty Walker (Kathleen Turner) Body Heat

"I'm Rex, founder of the Rex Kwan Do self-defense system! After one week with me in my dojo, you'll be prepared to defend yourself with the strength of a grizzly, the reflexes of a puma, and the wisdom of a man." - Rex (Deidrich Bader) Napoleon Dynamite

"You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is: "Never get involved in a land war in Asia." But, only slightly less well known is this: "Never go in against a Sicilian, when death is on the line!" - Vizzini (Wallace Shawn) The Princess Bride

"There has been too much violence, too much pain. Walk away. Just walk away and there will be an end to the horror. Walk away." - Lord Humungus (Kjell Nilsson) Mad Max 2 - The Road Warrier

"Think ya’ used enough dynamite there, Butch?" - Sundance (Robert Redford) to Butch (Paul Newman) Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

"Yeah I called her up, she gave me a bunch of crap about me not listening to her, or something, I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention." – Harry Dunne (Jeff Daniels) Dumb & Dumber

"Gentleman, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room." - President Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers) Dr. Strangelove

"I wanted to see exotic Vietnam . . . the crown jewel of Southeast Asia. I wanted to meet interesting and stimulating people of an ancient culture . . . and kill them." - Private Joker (Matthew Modine) Full Metal Jacket

"Now it isn't that I don't like you, Susan, because, after all, in moments of quiet, I'm strangely drawn toward you, but... well, there haven't been any quiet moments." – Dr. David Huxley (Cary Grant) Bringing Up Baby

"Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?" - Capt. Clarence Oveur (Peter Graves) Airplane

"Oh, fuck me in the ass Mr. Greenfield, fuck me in the ass." - Debbie Benton (Bambi Woods) - Debbie Does Dallas (Oh, come on! I had to slip that one in!)

Yo' Mama!
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Alkaline Trio
There is one certainty in this world and I’m not talking about breathing or paying taxes. It’s the fact that somewhere, some how, some drunken shitbag is going to fricking piss me off and be the creature from the buzz kill lagoon.

I consider myself a super tolerant person but there are certain things that totally set me off like stupid people…and extremely stupid people…and extremely fricking stupid people.

I seem to encounter all three of these delightful categories of folks every time I go to a bar. What I hate most is the inevitable outcome of these encounters. I am going to end up irritated beyond fuck all and embroiled in a battle of wits and snarky rejoinders, usually against an unarmed or grievously under armed opponent.

The key to any verbal joust is to remember the most important component in dealing with cretins is blatant snarkiness.

Here are some of the insults that have popped out of my mouth when embroiled in a heated verbal smackdown:

You know, if you had a brain, you’d be dangerous.

What in the hell is that nasty body funk smell? Oh, that would be you.

Somehow after talking to you the idea of dying loses its sting.

When God was handing out intelligence, were you in a corner somewhere masturbating?

If you are trying to offend me, can you please do it without your breath?

I know you! You were a guest on that “Transvestite Hookers” episode of the Jerry Springer Show.

Would you just jump up and bite your own giant white ass? It’ll fit in your mouth—trust me.

Dear God! What abomination gave birth to you?!

What gave you the idea that I actually wanted you to walk across the room and start talking to me?

Let me guess…you're from somewhere where cleanliness is frowned upon but incest is encouraged?

If a brain eating cannibal cracked open your head, he’d starve.

You know what this reminds me of? When you read about alien abductions and you are amazed why such an advanced race would abduct trailer trash…

Are you the Angel of Death? No? Then you need to think about investing in some breathmints.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Don’t say another word. Let’s have a secret signal. When you see me set myself on fire, it will mean I’m interested in your opinions.

I’d call you a douche bag but that would be an insult to douche bags.

Has anyone ever told you that you smell like ass?

Is that your face or did your neck throw up after a night of binge drinking?

What? Sorry—I don’t understand a word you’re saying…I don’t speak white trash.

Has anyone ever remarked on your uncanny resemblance to a low land gorilla?

Hey look-it’s the poster child for the perils of inbreeding.

Holy shit! Is that your third eye? No wait, it's just a giant pustule... my bad.

Sucks to be You!
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Nouvelle Vague
So it sucks ass when your marriage fails. It sucks ass even more when your marriage fails and your husband is cheating on you. It sucks ass beyond any rational explanation in the entire world when your marriage fails and your husband is cheating on you…with the hottest fricking chick in the world! I mean really—how do you compete with that? I’d rather lose my husband to Gary Coleman, bitter little black child star. For that matter, I’d rather lose my husband to a Big John blow up doll--beloved mascot from my college years! At least then I’d have a fighting chance…

Hell, let’s be serious. She might even make me consider a foray to the ‘dark side’—Angelina Jolie is smoking hot in spite of the fact that she enjoys cutting herself until she bleeds before sex. But what’s a little freaky warm up act among friends?

Everyone wants that broad—other chicks, stray dogs, Cambodian children, her brother, the USC marching band, other women’s husbands…Think about it. At any given time, there must be millions of folks around the world frantically rubbing one out while thinking of her. It must SO SUCK to be Jennifer Aniston right about now don’t you think?

Them Cartoons is Nekked...
Mood:  special
Now Playing: Stereophonics ? Maybe Tomorrow
OK folks—WTF!?! You know me. I’m a middle of the road ‘R’ AKA a moderate. I wish I could be more enthused by the Republican party, but sometimes the fervor there is scarier than Tom Cruise giggling (like a girl getting diddled for the first time) about Katie Holmes. Is it just me or is that beyond nauseating? Talk about being so over enthused that you sound like a friend of Dorothy fervently trying to take cover…oh don’t get me started… but I digress…

So the other night, I am home chillin’ with some Pino Grigio (God that’s fun to say!) when I see an ad for Koolaid (rock on red beverage-bearing/thirst quenching guy) in his super cool sailor hat and big white tennis sans socks (traditional wardrobe for this pitcher) and I realize something isn’t right…something is rotten in Ajo so to speak. But I can’t figure out what’s different. Has he had a brow lift? If his hat more Monica Lewinski beret than a jaunty sailor’s cap? Is his expression fiercer? What is it? Then I realize--it hits me: the big red guy is wearing clothing! He’s got khaki shorts on! WTF?!?! What’s up with that?

How asinine is it that, in the attempt to be PC, we feel the need to assign a gender to a fricking cartoon character of an inanimate object? I mean really, how many male or female beverage pitchers you have run into? Exactly! It’s a fricking make believe mascot/identity branding/market tool for a sugary kid’s beverage and the decision has been made that he is obviously ‘notally taked’ and must wear pants. Can’t have the big red guy wearing only a sailor’s hat and sockless tennis shoes…people might start thinking he’s having a three way with Chester Cheeta and one of the California Raisins (reps for both fictional characters deny any such involvement with the Koolaid character).

Maybe I’m alone here. I don’t know. It has just NEVER occurred to me to contemplate their gender and I am a pretty sick person when it comes to my sense of humor so this is something I might have actually considered.

So when does it end? After the Stay Puff marshmallow man has to put on some Carhart shop pants? After the Pillsbury Dough Boy is giggling in plaid Bermuda shorts? They don’t even have genitalia—why do they have to wear clothes? Why is it that everything needs a sexual identity? —especially fictional animated creatures?

When will the Christian Right and the friends of Anne Coulter (don’t hate on me folks—she’s fricking nuts!) back the hell off from worrying about children’s morals being compromised and their lives doomed to one of crime because a dancing peanut with a monocle isn’t wearing any trousers?

Oh well, I need to sign off now, the talk about super sexy Mr. Peanut has me all shades of…errr, nevermind.

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 4:21 PM NZD | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Friday, June 10, 2005 11:31 AM NZD

This movie sucks weasel!
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Black-eyed Peas
This is a rant for a Sunday afternoon. A Sunday filled with much-needed decompressing and the ever popular and refreshing summer drink of Mojitos as well as some recent DVD releases. Mojitos and movies (I could SO have a show you know)…

So anywho, there I am all buzzy and chillin’ when it hits me that the movie I am watching is lame. It is beyond lame and for every ten minutes additional I give it to try to redeem itself, the worse it gets. Let’s put it this way: If ‘gay’ was a movie, it’d be…National Treasure with Nicolas Cage. If a movie could smell like ass… it’d be National Treasure with Nicolas Cage.

Now, is it just me or is Nicolas Cage starting to look like the offspring of a rather vigorous Richard Nixon and Elvis Presley breeding? Either that or Nixon and a hand puppet…and I am NOT just saying that because of his LAME ASS attempt to hit on me in Dirtbag’s years ago (Nicolas Cage of course, not Nixon)…but as usual, I digress.

This movie exemplifies the reason that I can rarely force myself out to a movie theater. Not only do I not want to spend $7.00 to see a movie with a bunch of overly effusive morons who just can’t shut up, I also tend to become rather bitter when I go to a movie and pay ‘full price’ and it SUCKS! As in, SUCKS WITH A CAPITAL SUCKS!!! That being said, how do you think I feel when I rent a movie of that caliber for $3.99 (five day rental)? Yup, I still feel I’ve been fricking robbed!

National Treasure should have been entitled National Poop Fest because it was just that…overacted sophomoric sludge.

At least in the privacy of my own home, I can walk away (Just walk away and there will be an end to the horror) from the idiotic slush and write off the experience to a misspent $4.00…a $4.00 that would have been better spent on more Mojitos let me tell you!