I'm driving home today and am so glad to be going home because I have had The White Stripes' song "Doorbell" stuck in my head all day. I mean ALL DAY. I sang it for Mary Mo, but she wasn't familiar with it. So I sung it again and again, until she told me to shut up.

I'm not certain what this song is about but assume it's a euphemism for something naughty. I hope whatever it is, it's about Jack White and not Meg. Jack White is a genius. I want an asteroid to land on top of Meg.

So, I get off the freeway and head west. Living in the Valley of the Sun during the fall equinox means that if you are heading west in the early evening, Ra is going to do his damnedest to blind you. I squint and lower my helpless visor and grit my teeth. Luckily, I don't have far to go.

In front of me is a pickup truck owned by a man with the teeniest of penises. I know this because he has his normal-sized pickup jacked up on those hydraulic lifts up really high so he can try to fool everyone into thinking he has a giant manly-sized penis, but he's fooling no one. He's just flagrantly overcompensating.

I notice there is smoke billowing from the back of his truck. I start to curse the fact that he has poor emissions and is contributing to our growing air pollution. But the smoke isn't coming from his exhaust pipe. It's coming from his tire.

Suddenly I see flames and sparks shooting from inside his tire, under his truck. Then a huge cloud of pungent black smoke starts to escape. I drive directly into it and start coughing and gagging. I wonder if his giant phallic symbol is about to explode so I change lanes so I'm not directly behind the firestorm.

Teeny Penis Man pulls over eventually and I drive off still smelling the toxic fumes of burnt rubber and Teeny Penis Man hydraulics. The smell stays with me all the way home.

It's been a couple hours and my car STILL SMELLS. And now I'm starting to wonder if my clothes absorbed the smell or worse yet...ME.

So I'm off to have a Silkwood scrub-down in my shower or soak in a tub of tomato juice and hope that I can purge my senses of the smell.

Permalink | File Under: Ranting

Homer watched Oklahoma last night. Being from Oklahoma, I've seen this musical on stage or film at least 237 times. Unless I'm mistaken, I believe it's a requirement for the Oklahoma Public Education system to see various productions of this musical ad nauseum. At this point, I think I'd rather gnaw off my own arm than see it again.

One summer when I was but a wee cheap blue guitarist, I was in the pit orchestra for the local community theater's production of Oklahoma. I played the mallet percussion: marimba, glockenspiel, etc.

You know what the person who plays the mallet percussion in the pit orchestra of Oklahoma does? Sits and watches the show A LOT because the mallet percussion only has about 42 measure of musical to play for the entire score. For weeks, I would sit for what felt like an eternity and then stand up, play my one measure of quarter notes and sit for another 18-20 minutes to wait for another.

I did however, by the time the show opened, have the WHOLE musical memorized since I had to sit through it soooooo many times. This made it easy to point out the cast's mistakes.

I'm convince that the guy who played Jud Fry was drunk every night, because each night he fucked up the auction scene. He said a different amount for his life savings every single time. One night he miraculously won Laurey's box lunch (dirty!) by underbidding the highest bid with like a paltry 37 cents or something. I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure the rest of the cast hated him.

Permalink | File Under: Life

"I stay away from bread. To be honest, bread constipates me,
and I like to have my daily bowel movement.
I'm going to keep this up because it's become a lifestyle
that I'm almost addicted to."
- Jessica Simpson

I really don't think there is more I could add to that.

Permalink | File Under: Photos

Adore him though I do, The Roommate's boyfriend is one of those impossibly straight guys. Not cocky or dreadfully homophobic. Just...how do I put this delicately? Kind of...dough-headed. If left to his own devices he'd probably wear white athletic socks with black shoes and adjust his jibblies in public. It's good he has a girlfriend and gay roommate to look after him.

The other day I was sitting at the computer, not blogging, while he was ironing his clothes for a job interview he had that afternoon. From across the room, I noticed something. I rolled my eyes and let out an exhaustive sigh.

"Give me your pants."

He turned to look at me with caution. "Why?" he said suspiciously.

"The ones you are ironing, not the ones you are wearing. Gah. Just hand them over."

Reluctantly he gave me his black slacks. I pointed at the back of the waist band. "Do you see these white strings?" He nodded. "They aren't suppose to be there. They only hold the tag for the sizing info and price while in the store. Once you buy them, you are supposed to take them off."

"How? They are stitched on."

I went to the hallway cabinets and pulled out a tin filled with sewing-type trinkets. I found what I was looking for.

"You have a tool for this?"

"Yes. It's called a seam ripper. It's a part of the gay tool belt they give you when you come out," I said dryly. "It's next to the bottles of lube and poppers."

"Poppers?"

Too much information might overwhelm the poor lad. "Never mind." I carefully extracted the white threads from his black pants. After inspecting that all thread were removed, I handed them back. "There you go."

"Wow! Thanks," he said examining his slacks.

"Now, what socks are you wearing to your interview?"

*For Crash

Permalink | File Under: Life

I've been channeling my inner Monica today. I had all these lofty goals for the weekend. The Roommates™ left the Valley of the Sun for a weekend in San Diego...LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. I remained in the ghost town. Friday I made a list of all the stuff I wanted to accomplish housecleaning-wise. Room by room, tasks listed for the whole house. However, the allure of sitting around in my underwear eating chinese delivery and watching Nexflix rentals won out over the list for the entire weekend.

(Oh. And obsessively playing with GarageBand. How frickin' addictive is that? It's like crack for me. Must. Make. More. Crappy. Techno. Music.)

So today is all about making penance for my sloth. I do believe that today I have successfully washed every single article of clothing I own. The sad thing is there was a pile of clothes in the corner of my closet and I couldn't determine if they needed washing or not. So for good measure I did. Now they all hang neatly in my closet or are folded and tucked away in my chest of drawers that I can finally see the top of instead of another pile of clothes.

Of course the clothes hid the fact the chest needs dusting. So maybe there was something beneficial about the pile.

Permalink | File Under: Life, Mac