Romance, defined

We approach Valentine's Day barraged with television commercials touting overpriced flowers and see stores packed with all matter of pre-landfill gifts. In my small town, little old country church ladies set up tents on the side of the road to sell pre-packaged gift baskets.



To tell the truth, I kinda feel sorry for the men at this time of year. So much pressure is put upon men to pony up for the unimaginative red roses, pay for the stoopid ass teddy bears, spring for ugly heart shaped jewelry and make romantic dinner reservations. Mind you, lots of men NEED prodding to do SOMEthing just this ONE day out of the year but still, do you really want something from your man because he feels pressured?



Once upon a time, I thought myself to be unromantic. First date arrives with red roses and chocolate? Ewww, the chump is trying too hard. Now I realize that I am romantic, just the high maintenance sort. At first glance, it would seem that I am easy to please: no red roses ever, no chocolates, no stoopid stuffed animals, no godforsaken balloons. MY sense of romance is flowers for no reason and nice unexpected gestures indicating that my honey was "just thinking" of me. One of the most romantic things given to me was a pin crafted of the metal cap from a champagne bottle. Sure, the boyfriend turned out to be an alcoholic but that pin was born of creativity and a desire to commemorate our first celebration.



A couple years ago, I heard a local disc jockey touting his demand for a reciprocal day-after- Valentine celebration, complete with, let's say, oral service and a steak. How horrible, I thought. He described walking in to his house and plopping on the sofa and waiting for his promised rewards. The whole scenario was the opposite of romance. After consideration, I realized that his version and the commercialized version are the same. Both are the expected (demanded?) receipts of unromantic and meaningless goods and services.


MY version of romance is higher maintenance that a once a year gesture.
MY version is year 'round.
MY version is more thoughtful.
MY version is a guy KNOWING that red roses will NEVER cut it and that tulips or hydrangeas would be better.
MY version has at least one refrigerated Coca-Cola (in the can).
MY version prefers oil paintings of monkeys over build-a-bears.


Then again, MY version leaves this single girl not expecting anything from anybody this Valentine's Day.

Word of the Day

Today's word is courtesy of Jay Thomas, Sirius satellite radio personality

Pre-landfill noun: all that crap at WalMart and the dollar stores. Usually but not exclusively constructed of plastic. The stuff you usually receive from co-workers and in-laws that don't really like you.

Use in a sentence:
Ugh, my mother-in-law's taste runs to the likes of pre-landfill.

(This is the time of year that you see massive amounts of pre-landfill. Christmas gifts purchased and regifted but still not tossed, Mardi Gras trinkets, sappy and cheap Valentine's Day gifts such as those stupid stuffed bears, etc. Next round of pre-landfill - Easter crap. )

gross

I Gotta Make The Donuts

Doesn't this fat pig alleged terrorist remind you of the Dunkin Donuts guy? Except I would expect Dunkin Donuts to slap a shirt on this guy to cover up that heinous chest hair. Plus, not sure that "Khalid Sheikh Mohammed" would fit on a name tag.

New Orleans blend vodka from Absolut

Yesterday I was wandering the aisles of my local Market Basket grocery and happened upon the display of Absolut vodka's newest infused blend - New Orleans, flavored with mango and black pepper.

Now, I ask you, when you consider a NOLA vodka blend, would you ever combine MANGO and BLACKPEPPER? I didn't think so. The sensory experience you would more likely conjure is the blend of cheap orange juice, cigarette smoke, the heart beating sensation of just dodging a stray bullet and that wonderful only-in-New Orleans brew of what I call French Quarter party gravy: the condensational mix of spilled beer, urine, and vomit. (Party gravy will ruin a pair of shoes.)

Good idea, Absolut, great intention. Not so great research.

Those "I Don't Celebrate Birthdays" People

They suck.
What the ?
Consider the alternative, stoopid.
No birthday? You are dead.
Not celebrating your birthday? You are a selfish igmo.
Don't deny us the cake, ya big dummy.
Put on the stupid hat, blow out the candles and pass the cake, moron.

Raw Chicken Parts Thrown At Mardi Gras Parade

This story has been making me laugh for the last 24 hours.
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Woman Says Chicken Foot from Parade Made Her Child Sick

BATON ROUGE, La. (WAFB) - A five-year-old boy had to be hospitalized after playing with one of the throws his mom says he caught at the Spanish Town parade this weekend. She tells 9NEWS that among all the beads, cups, and doubloons was a real chicken foot, which also happened to be raw. The family is asking for some stricter rules in this notoriously risqué parade.

"We caught all kinds of stuff. We caught stuffed animals, beads, the norm." Tracy Bamburg and her five-year-old son, Justin Scott, were just two of the thousands of revelers who flocked to the popular and most often radical Spanish Town Mardi Gras parade. Sure, like everyone else, they caught all kinds of cool stuff. However, then, Bamburg says a raw chicken foot came flying through the air. "It was cold. I thought it might be real for one second. But after I looked at it and feeling it, I just threw it in the bag," she says.

Thinking it was fake, Bamburg says when she and Justin got home, they decided to have a little fun with it. "We were all touching it, squeezing it, and playing with it." Then, the next morning, reality hit. "My stomach was hurting very, very, very, very bad," the little boy says. "He woke up with 103 fever and vomiting," his mother says.

Bamburg says she had to take her son to the doctor. He seems to be doing better. "It smells rotten, like something had died." The thought of any child playing with it is enough to keep her away from the parade. "I could have easily put it in his toy box and it could have sat there for who knows how long," she says. "I have never heard of anything like this. Had I known, I wouldn't have went."

Spanish Town parade organizer Bruce Childers says throwing raw chicken parts from the floats in this parade is not acceptable. He says if the crew members who did this are caught, they will be banned indefinitely from riding in the parade.

I'm the Happiest Girl in the Whole USA

Hello All,

Last year I met a guy at a Mardi Gras parade and we drunkenly exchanged cell phone numbers and my friend recently asked if we ever talked again. Anywho, no, Jay or James or whatever his name was, did not call me. Uh, maybe telling Jay's friend that I would lick Jay's taint isn't the most charming of approaches. Cross that one off.

Maybe I could use Kay's bar opening line to Drew. "Are you gay? 'Cause you must be since you are wearing an earring and haven't once approached me or my friends and we are the cutest (and only) girls in here."

Lynn met her husband online by smartassing him and making fun of his post, what with the misspellings and lower case use. Ah, love. It is elusive.

Meanwhile I am in the happiest girl in the whole U.S.A.

Every single time that I hear of any relationship strife, I break into Donna Fargo's refrain of "I'm the happiest girl in the whole USA." Last month, my maritally challenged cousin said that she was gonna kick out the husband, lose 15 pounds and get a boob job and then maybe SHE could be the happiest girl in the whole USA. To which, I told her that was not possible, maybe she be the happiest girl on Maria Drive 'cause the happiest girl in the whole USA wouldn't have an ex-husband or divorce woes. So cousin will just have the settle for Happiest Girl on Maria Drive for now.

Content to have (only) a big kitty in my bed,
thrilled to do what I want, when I want,
satisfied to not have children nor in-laws,
enjoying my own silences and own noise,
glad that no one asks me how my day went,
I am,
The Happiest Girl in the whole USA

Man tries to force wife to eat feces

MONROE, LA. A Monroe firefighter is arrested and charged for domestic violence. He is accused of attacking his wife Friday and trying to force dog feces in her mouth.

40 year old John "Randy" Jack is out on $4000 after officials say he threw his 22-year old wife Brittany's things out of their home, pinned her onto their bed and tried to force her to eat dog feces.

She was taken into custody and given $1000 after police say she bit her husband on the leg during the fight.

---SkitzLeezra here--------
He is 40, she is 22. According to my mom, one should marry between the 15+/- year old age difference. They are out of range. Mom is right, once again.

Shy People Suck

As hard as it may be to believe, I have moments of shyness. Rarely. But all of us have felt uncomfortable in a social situation at some point.
I remember kindergarten pre-morning class play time. Children could play with the nursery toys until class began. This one little bitch always monopolized the Fisher Price phone. Every freakin' day. And every day I would find something else to play with while maintaining eye contact with said phone figuring she would eventually move on to something else. It usually worked with my older brother. Alas, no. Finally, having ENOUGH of it, I approached the big eyed quiet girl and asked if I could play with her and the phone. She just stared at me. Never said a word. I asked again. What the hell? I knew good and well that she wasn't deaf. Exasperated, I walked away.
When I recounted the story to my mom that day, Mom defended her by saying that she was probably shy and revealed that as a child, she too was "painfully" shy.
All my life, I hear that quiet and reticent folks are shy when they don't respond to your introductions, look at you like a cow in a passing train, or don't acknowledge polite inquiries. Well, screw that. Shy people suck.

Shy means not entering a room and loudly introducing yourself.
Shy doesn't mean not having basic social skills.
If someone says hello, you say hello back.
If they ask a polite question, you answer.

If you cannot do even this, stay the hell home, be a shut-in, eat soft food and go to hell.

A smile on a sad day

You never know where you will find humor. Spied this little ray of sunshine at the funeral home today. Kay's mom passed away and this is Kay's car. Hopefully you can read the text on her rearview mirror hanging car deodorizer. No?
"Whining Bitching Moaning. It Keeps Me Young."

Hope so, Kay, hope so.