WTF

I hate acronyms.  I wrote a paper in college about the USA PATRIOT Act (an acronym, who knew!), and just to be a bitch I spelled it out every time.   

Today I am walking down the street, generally eavesdropping, and there is this older man with some younger version of himself at the bus stop.  And the older guy says, “Loretta just texted me and all it says is ‘WTF’ – what do you think she means by that?” The younger model explains.  ”Oh.  I wish people would be rude to me in terms I can understand”.  

Later this evening, I am on Facebook.  Someone ’s status is something about being sick and how she can’t breathe.  This dude, who I can only assume is her live-in boyfriend, leaves this comment – “I hate when I cant breathe…… Looks like thats what it will be like when I get home. NLOL”.  Really?  Something about that just seems ridiculous to me.   Like I can just imagine him sitting in his cubicle, seething with anger, and NOT LAUGHING OUT LOUD.  

And then I get this gem via text, “I’ll get on the horn to NORAD and see if I can get a SAR unit scrambled and en route”.

So, to remain clear, we only approve of acronyms that can be pronounced as words, like UNICEF, or BAFTA, or MILF.  And the ones that appear on your coffee cups at Starbucks.  SFVL!!

Day’s Schedule

OCTOBER THE FIRST, 2009

10:30AM – meeting with president obama.  re:  operation kevourkian.  TOP SECRET.  re re:  killing seniors.

10:56AM – coffee with eartha kitt; main topic of discussion – where did annie move?

12:15PM – writing le book with M.  effing go time.

2:30PM – ridding the world of bad coffeeshop art.  point of interest = cartel.

2:34PM – being arrested.

3:45PM – bail out courtesy of pegs guggs, from here on out referred to in code as “pegasus” or “pegasaurus rex”.

4:00 – 6:30PM – downtime.

7:00PM – impromptu dinner thing with the rex.

8:05PM – drunken confessions.

8:15PM – 12:00AM – a blur.

Enter the Hangover

Very dear friend M.M. works at a movie theater, and as a result I haven’t paid to see a movie or eat popcorn in three years.  When I am extra special good, I get to tag along to midnight staff screenings.  Staff screenings are the shit for about a million and a half reasons, but the top three in order of awesomenocity are:  getting to smoke in le theatre, byob-ing, and being as bad as you wanna be.  

This week’s screening was Enter the Dragon.  And I am so sorry, Mr. Lee, but I don’t remember all that much.  M.M. kept feeding me lattes and T.T. was feeding me this beer I never knew existed, but rest assured – it’ll get you drunk.  And Popov.  I know it’s cheap, but really?  Popov?  So M.M. and I are making several trips to the ladies’ room when I notice that if you lay underneath the sinks, not only do you get some much needed down time, but also, the sinks (from this particular perspective) look a lot like glowing wombs.  I realize this makes no sense.  Imagine how I must have felt.  

In other news, I think I would like to learn karate.  Which worries me, as the last time I had that inclination I ended up with stigmata.

Auf Coco, Das Benz

Mutter has the the strangest habit of leaving the keys to her `74 Mercedes Benz at home when she travels.  Then you are given VIP passes to some horrid event thrown by some equally horrid local publication, and Viv says, “I would highly suggest you valet as we’re expecting a rather large turnout, and it’s not yet a completely  gentrified section of the city.  Very trendy though”.  Of course.  Well nobody valets an American car circa 1995 with even minor body damage.  Obviously.  And Coco needs her weekly drive.

It must be mentioned that Coco was won in a Christmastime raffle, and then gifted to mutter.  Best forty dollars ever spent.  There are no less than fifteen ashtrays inside.  

I am at the S(c)h(n)ell, gassing her up, when all the sudden I notice several pairs of eyes on me.  Audi eyes and Jaguar eyes and, yes, even Benz eyes.  It is this point I realize exactly how fucking germanic I look, and how badly I need to learn to sprechen-sie for future Benz outings.  Really hammer it in.  

So this is my always example for what having nice things does to a person:  Often, while flying first class, a coach passenger will try and use the the first class lavatory.  And maybe I am an awful person, but for a brief moment or so I think, “what the fuck are you doing, you obviously crazed coach passenger?”  Then I remember that the only reason I’m flying first is because mutter works for the airline, and no, I will never own a Blackberry.  The point is, I never understood those asses who want a freaking background check and some collateral at the valet.  And then I’m having a ten minute long conversation with a parking garage attendant about when the gate will be locked.  

Somehow powerfully different than having nice things is actually having money.  This is what having money does to a person:  http://www.mbusa.com/mercedes/data/pdf/certificateorder.pdf

Because (as Mercedes Benz USA tells us) “your baby’s birth certificate is ready”.

Finalement, I arrive and valet to aforementioned horrid event.  It is of course being sponsored by some disgusting flavored water company, and someone has told the bartender to mix it with vodka.  Why, oh why, would you do that to vodka?  Needless to say, I was not there long.  Back at the valet, waiting for Coco, me and this gentleman gets to talking.  Mostly about how awful flavored water is.  As Coco et le valet pull up, he says, “god, I wish I had that car”, to which I reply,  ”yeah, but I bet it gets horrible gas mileage”.  

You absolutely must wait a full three seconds before moving an inch.  And you absolutely cannot say another word.

James Tricks Ellen Into Going Canoeing

James bought himself a new canoe and has tried unsuccessfully to get members of the family to go out in it. If it was a 45′ cabin cruiser it would be far easier to get us interested in his boating adventures.

Visage A Trois

Much like hearing your voice on a recording, seeing oneself in a three-way mirror can be a shock to the system.  Prior to this, it’s easy to imagine that you’re a two dimensional being with only the one angle.  “So what you’re telling me is that I, too, have a backside?  And that’s what all my followers have been looking at?”  It’s a paradigm shift a la ass. [...]

Random Letters to Politicians

James told me it’s post about anything week. And I just found my notes from the Republican National Convention. I think I had a glass of wine beforehand…maybe a glass of vodka.

Dear Senator McCain,

Your face terrifies me. In addition, its oldness, combined with the age apparent in your voice, makes you appear slash sound a bit batty (respectively). Lastly, you are severely bald. [...]

Movin' On Up

The three flights of stairs up to my apartment have left me winded as of late.  I am especially worried because I’ll be heaving my furniture and various and sundry boxes up and down steps in the very near future…ah, moving day.  The last time I moved, I had a nervous breakdown and was in tears (Maren can attest to this).  While I have frequent nervous breakdowns, I do not cry.  Those three flights of stairs combined with cumbersome furniture and clunky manuvering can really take a toll on you.  On a positive note, my arms were like crazy, Madonna style toned for like two days.  Considering this, I would like to extend an invitation to all the paunchiness authors for moving day help.  Especially Maren, who I helped move and who has crazy woman strength.

Uncle Bill's Diet – Believe It!

In South Saint Louis, there is a gem of late night dining called Uncle Bill’s Pancake House.  It wouldn’t rank all that high on Zagat’s, but it is my own personal mecca.  The staff is clad in tapered white denim and enough electric blue eyeshadow to put any lady of the night to shame, and my own unfounded theory is that it’s the veritable Genco Olive Oil Company to the Korean Mafia of Greater Saint Louis.  But more importantly, there is the food.  Biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, pancakes topped with a heart-stopping amount of whipped butter.  [...]

The Chair Fiasco

To avoid potential lawsuits, I make sure to tell everyone who enters my dojo that several of the chairs provided were rescued from the alley and were not actually made for sitting slash adjusting your weight on.  Par instance, there is a leather arm chair whose springs have come through the seat and threaten to leave the mark of Zorro on any ass blind enough to sit in it.  And then there is the very dangerous pink chair, whose wrath I felt first hand when I last changed a light bulb.  The connects of the chair are loose, and if too much pressure is placed toward the back, it will break in two.  They’re the most beautiful chairs, though.  I can’t get rid of them, and I was thinking that I’d do the place up like a historical home, putting signs on everything that say, “please do not touch or sit on the furniture”.  But this is what actually happened: [...]