Category — Rants

OK, no funny videos this week. I looked. There were decent ones. But if I don’t LOL, I don’t share. (And I’m someone who only uses the phrase LOL literally.)

Meanwhile, a thought for you all…

If we ignore Lady Gaga, will she cease to exist? Let’s try.

That one song sounds like it has an alarm clock in it. Blegh.

In the wake of this month’s serious tragedy in Haiti, it’s hard to make light of anything. Lives were lost and a great deal of people are still suffering. Yet, in the face of all this, extreme right-wing personalities simply can;t help but make a sad comedy of themselves.

This week it was Rush Limbaugh and Pat Robertson. Limbaugh pretty much said Obama was happy about the Haitian tragedy and was opportunistically and enthusiastically using it to gain popularity with blacks (like he needed that). Robertson says the earthquake (and all of Haiti’s other problems) happened to Haiti because they made a deal with the devil to get rid of Napoleoon in the 1800′s.

Now, I don’t like to get too political, especially with comedy, but this felt too absurd and too offensive for me to swallow. I dealt with it the only way I knew how: instead of getting mad, I made fun of them. I decided to leave a comment under the article, nestled amongst all the comments by Rush and Pat’s confused supporters. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe it was inappropriate, but whatever, I did it, so here is the comment I posted:

Hello. I’m Basree Natchanga-Pataroo. My friend call me Basree Natchanga-Pataroo. I know this Rush Limbaugh from when he made comment on the black quarterback Donovan McNabb of team Philadelphia McEagles. He seems to not think that media and public are fair with issue to do with black people’s. Maybe he is part right that what you call white guilt happens, but maybe also he doesn’t willing to buy his dinner from a black man owned store or shoe shops.

This other man, Robertson, believe more in God. He says he knows what is right and wrong, and about the devil. How can he know these things? I know maybe he believes them, but one time my cousin Harir belive one strap of galool tree leaves around his arms could make him fly and he fell down Nattarong Gorge and has dead. Just believe not make it so. So, I think writer here maybe has a point about both man, Rush and Pat. The important is mostly to help all the Haitian who have no food, no water, no peace while these man complain on their show about their own ideas that help no people.

Thank you considerably, B. Natchanga-Pataroo

Politics and humor mix poorly, and tragedy and humor mix even worse so I apologize if this offends anyone nearly as much as Robertson and Limbaugh offended my sense of human decency.

But regardless of how you feel, there are still a lot of people who could use our help. Use your help.

If you have a moment, please consider going to www.hopeforhaiti.com .  It’s not often we can make so big a difference with so little effort, and just a momentary click of a button.

www.hopeforhaiti.com

Dear  Amber,

I’m 25 years old, single, unemployed, and depressed. I can barely get out of bed in the mornings. At the end of the month, I’m going to be evicted from my apartment and will be effectively homeless. All of my friends from college have abandoned me, and I’m starting to exude a particularly pungent body odor. I often feel like the world would be a better place if I’d never been born. What resources can you suggest to help me turn my life around?

–Sad and Depressed
North Hollywood, CA

Dear SAD,

I seriously cannot eat any more protein. Like, I’m trying to eat these protein bars? Right? And I can get through, like, two bites before it’s just… waaaaaaaaaaaay too much protein! My boyfriend ordered me a salad with steak on it, I took two bites and told him that I felt like I was giving Ironman a blowjob. He apparently didn’t get the joke. Maybe protein interferes with your sense of humor? Hahaha.

*

Dear Amber,

I recently became a member of a progressive church, and have been delighted to see my faith start to take priority in my life! The members of my congregation have been incredibly kind and welcoming, but I sometimes question the methods of Ultimate GrandMaster _______. I was fine with the animal sacrifices, blood-drinking, and suicide pact (2012, baby!), but recently he’s started asking me to “lie with him” and several other elderly males in the congregation in order for the Alien Spirit Zudzu to implant me with his baby-juice. This, frankly, seems like a little much. Am I just being oversensitive?

–Would Rather Not Be Preggers, Please
Vista, CA

Dear WRNBPP,

So many of my friends talk about going to Katsuya… and I’m like, ugh. I seriously cannot even begin thinking about it. All that food on all those plates? Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Blegh. Brrrrrrrrr. Oh God, I’m thinking about it again–I’m going to friggin throw up, I’m going to vomit, I’m seriously not even joking my guts are on the floor.

*

Dear Amber,

Two weeks ago, I walked in on my boyfriend and my best friend having sex in our apartment. I was understandably devastated, and moved out immediately. The trouble is, I’d come to rely on my best friend for a lot in the kitchen (she’s a cheese grater). Last night I tried making pizza without her, and I just didn’t even know where to start. Is it stupid of me to open myself up to getting hurt again by reaching out for her friendship (and MAD shredding skills)?

–Bitch Grated My Soul
Quartz Hill, CA

Dear BGMS,

A few days ago my best friends and I took these really adorable pictures in a photo booth, and couldn’t decide how to split them up. Three of us were dividing four pictures, and I only got one. My fat friend got two. It’s like… Just because you take up 50% of the space doesn’t mean you get 50% of the pictures! Then she wanted to go to Chili’s, and I was so embarrassed for her I thought I might jokingly kill myself. She said she was hungry. Well cue the tiny violins! Friendship is hard.

I have to hand it to the Big Guy up stairs.  He really knows how to write a good story.  My life has it all: action, drama and comedy.  It’s like a summer blockbuster that stars an unknown lead, but has a handful of veterans to hold it together–despite the fact that the veterans are bitter about not landing the lead role and they ignore me on set, throw their garbage into my trailer and call me a “half-aborted ginger” between takes.  In fact, a few years ago a person that may or may not have been Bruce Willis told me that I rolled the worst sushi he’s ever had the misfortune of eating.  So even Bruce Willis (or a damn good lookalike) managed to finagle his way into my movie.  I’m kinda honored.

Anyway, I have a feeling that the first major plot point of my life is about to happen or may have recently just happened, so there’s a real powerful scene coming up.  Like any movie-goer that smuggles in his own food and leaves the garbage on the floor for the staff to pick up, I have my theories as to what may happen next in my life.  Singing alien clowns seems too predictable, so I’ve made a list of a few things that could be coming up.  Here are a few.

I Befriend a Talking Dog and Cat and Stop a Serial Killer

While Joe is walking through the forest, pondering his life and the man he is becoming, he stumbles upon a stray dog named Coach and a stray cat named Boots McBorlan (or Booty Mc B, as she prefers to be called).  Coach is a loaner, but found Booty Mc B to be the perfect companion.  Meanwhile, Boots McBorlan is a retired actress-cat that was looking for adventure when she met Coach.  She’s got a real sass-mouth, but is a sweeter than a Lemon Warhead.

Joe walks with the hairy, bickering couple and comes across a small mining town that is paralyzed with fear due to a string of recent murders.  Booty Mc B and I want to continue through town, but Coach smells something afoot.  We stay and get caught up in a dangerous game of cat and mouse–but luckily, that’s a game that’s right up Booty Mc B’s alley.  Eventually, we find the killer, a grizzled ex-cop that went crazy after being shot in the face while stopping Dairy Queen robbery, and corner him at a damn.  Instead of surrendering himself to our custody, he jumps off the dam, possibly being crushed on the rocks below…or…possibly living to reappear in Joe’s life at another plot point.

Final Scene:

Me: Well, that should wrap things up here.  I don’t think we’ll be seeing old Mr. Whilhelm again.

Coach: You’re a DAM good friend Joe.

Me: HAHAHAHAHA!!!  Ohhhhhhhhhh, Coach.  What will I ever do without you and Boots McBorlan?

Boots McBorlan: If you call me Boots McBorlan one more time, I’m going to shit in your fucking mouth!!!  Do you hear me, asshole!?!?!?.  CALL ME BOOTY MC B, DAMNIT!!!

Me: Booty Mc B, you so cwaaaaaaazyyyy.

Joe Meets the Girl of His Dreams but Finds Out She is a WereGator (Half Werewolf, Half Alligator)

Struggling to find a job and make end’s meet, Joe takes a job as a dock worker.  Surprisingly, there’s a cute girl that also works there named Samantha Doggins–but she’s tough like old meat and has the mouth of a smarmy hobo.  The two instantly hate each other.  Samantha hates Joe because his quick wit often embarrasses her in front of the other workers and he’s so educated.  Joe hates Samantha because she treats him like shit–oh and she also pushed him off the dock and into the water, nearly killing him, but luckily the lovable 60ish foreman jumped in and saved Joe’s life.

As the months fly by, the two learn they have more in common than it may seem.  Also, many of their co-workers are being found the morning of their shift horribly mangled and eaten.  Joe finally works up the courage to ask Samantha out on a date and the two realize that they’re perfect for each other.  But then Joe’s dog and best friend are found eaten and mangled shortly after this happens.

Eventually, Joe realizes that his girlfriend is a half werewolf half alligator that transforms every full moon to kill and feed on the blood of humans.  Joe figures that a soul mate is tough to come by and decides to ignore the fact that Samantha is technically a serial killer and a freak of nature.  It’s not meant to be, though.  The police soon discover her true identity and, after a daring car chase, corner her at the old mill and kill her with bullets made of George Washington’s bone marrow–the only known way to kill a weregator.

Final Scene:

Police Chief: I’m sorry, Joe, but…your girlfriend is dead.  We had to kill her.

Me: NooooOOoOOoooo!!!  I’m not sure if I’ll ever be the same again.  Please, officer, how did you kill her?  I didn’t think there was a way to stop a weregator.

Police Chief: We had to use bullets made from George Washington’s bone marrow.  You see, George Washington knew of the weregator all too well.  His wife was a weregator, Benjamin Franklin was a weregator, and John Adams was a weregator.

Me: Golly…really?

Police Chief: Yes.  He chopped off his left arm and used the bone marrow to make bullets and killed all three.  He replaced them with dummies made of pillows and feathers to fool the people, of course.  And on his death bed, he had his sons hurl him into a bone marrow extractor so more bullets could be made.  They’re stored in the Smithsonian and are used during extreme circumstances.

Me: Oh…well…I guess that explains that…

Joe Discovers a Human Skeleton in his Chimney Dressed in Santa Claus Garb.

Joe hires a professional chimney sweep to clean the chimney in his house.  After a few hours, the chimney sweep (who has a cockney accent, for no damn reason at all) pulls out a human skeleton dressed in Santa Claus clothes.

The police are called and they can’t determine if the remains are of Chris Kringle or just a derelict that tried breaking into the home many years ago.  The NSA is called and it’s determined that it’s in the world’s best interest never to let anyone know that Santa Claus may or may not be dead.  Joe is paid a handsome sum to keep his mouth shut.

Unfortunately, Joe loses all the money in a heads up poker game against George Foreman.

Final Scene:

George Foreman: I’ve got a straight flush, Joe.  What do you got?

Me: Ace high.  Shit, I’m not very good at Five Card Stud.  Can we start over and play Texas Hold ‘Em?

George Foreman: No, no we can’t, Joe.  You lost and I get all of your money.  Also, you didn’t have enough money to cover the final bet, so to make us square you have to legally change your name to George.

Me: Aw nuts…

There are few hobbies of mine that I enjoy more than writing.  But if you got the drop on me in a darkened alley, pressed a lead pipe against the back of my head (because you don’t have an actual gun and you know that a pipe would easily fool me), and forced me to admit a second love besides writing, I’d have to say (while pissing my pants, because your pipe gun has scared the hell out of me) that I also love to draw.  It was a childhood dream of mine to be an animator for Disney or Nickelodeon.  Eventually, I learned that I was a much better writer than artist, but the flame is still burning inside of me to doodle and subject kids to my artwork.

I must confess that I recently submitted a cartoon idea to Nickelodeon.  Through various connections and blackmailing, I finagled my cartoon concept onto the oak desk of a suited decision maker at Nickelodeon.  Let’s call him “Mr. Negative”.  I submitted the idea six months ago and just today I received the rejection letter.  I’ll post the letter and my drawings and let you decide who the jealous asshole with no creative foresight is.

From the Desk of Mr. Negative:

Dear Joe K.

Although we here at Nickelodeon appreciate new ideas and always look toward the future of animation and creative innovation, we must reject your Animated Cartoon/Movie idea of Stetson Bear.

Mr. Negative Comment: This scene is sickening. No one wears ties like that, nor do businessmen use briefcases anymore.

Normally, I wouldn’t take the time to respond to an unsolicited request, but your execution was so particularly ludicrous that I feel I should take the time to explain why we would never allow your idea to air on any of our channels.

For one, Stetson Bear is a breach of trademarked material.  The Stetson company would never allow their brand to be associated with a bear that fed on the innocent citizens of Everythingishunkydoreyville.  Nor would they ever allow their brand to be shredded into strands and fed to unsuspecting children under the guise of “whole wheat spaghetti”.

Mr. Negative Comment: Bears do not defecate this much.

Stetson Bear also doesn’t seem very realistic to me.  He’s a bear, right?  Why the tie?  Why the briefcase?  I’ll let the Stetson hat slide because your title banks on that.  I’ll also excuse his mastery of the English language.  But the amount of holes in your cartoon series’ plot is really too much to get past.

Mr. Negative's Comment: Very shoddy drawing here. The babies aren't proportional and knife is out of alignment

Stetson Bear’s back story also is very sophomoric.  You wrote, “Stetson Bear fled the zoo after consuming all four of his trainers, a family of six, an ice cream stand man and a hubcap full of rainwater and rust.  He then took the train into town, rented an apartment and currently turns tricks.”  I don’t know ANYTHING about Stetson bear from that statement.  How can I grow attached to Stetson Bear?  I can’t.  Not with crappy writing like that.

Mr. Negative: This reminds me--you don't have any female characters in this series idea.

I won’t rule out Stetson Bear in the future.  But right now, as is, this idea is just a mess.  Perhaps if you were to develop it and change the name.  Good luck to you, Joe.  You’re on the right track.

I’ve had a Sidekick for four years now. Not the same one– I have a tendency to pour water on them or smash them or somehow get super glue all over them, so about once a year I am faced with the prospect of either replacing it or upgrading to something else. The problem is, the only thing better is the iPhone and that is barely a phone. As a device thingy, it’s great. As a phone, I usually end up asking people who call me from their iPhones to just send me the short film they made using their phones while waiting for the bus instead. I mean, it’s fun to try and guess what words might fill in the blanks left by the iPhone constantly cutting out– “So listen, I was at ______ and this_____ came up to me and said ________________________________ seventeen times__________ dead hooker!____________Tijuana___________ prison.” But as far as real communication goes, the iPhone needs to drop its carrier.

Which is why I still have my trusty Sidekick (also, I enjoy being down with the hip-hop teenagers, who seem to be the only other people still clinging to their Sidekicks). But recently my phone epically failed me when an over-the-air update crashed the system and wiped out mine (and everyone else’s– but who cares about them, this is MY rant) contacts. And my photos of things I’ve found on the street that are weird and/or give me the creeps, my 12-second video clip of The Kooks playing at the Palladium last fall, my customized butterfly-themed background, my smattering of poorly chosen ringtones assigned to all the wrong people (who for the most part stopped calling me a year ago,) and saddest of all, my $2.99 Bling Watch app that displayed a diamond-encrusted “watch” which was hard to read but made my phone look fancy. Oh, and my contacts. All of them. I didn’t have a single number saved anywhere, because the Sidekick was supposed to take care of that for me. It did not. Basically, I knew my mom’s number. And the first half of my ex-boyfriend’s number, which I used for avoidance purposes only.

Now, I’m a big fan of deleting people who I feel aren’t pulling their weight in the friendship arena. Generally, I write down their number somewhere on a piece of paper and hide it from myself or commit the most distinctive parts of their number, like the weird Colorado area code or the fun number combinations like 420 or 69 or whatever, to my tiny and already over-strained memory. Then I sit and wait for them to realize how cool and how much fun to hang out with I was, and then they (hopefully, finally) call me and everything is awesome again. I do this for their protection as much as mine– I try to restrain myself from unnecessary petulance and other irritating habits, but clearly, as I’m dedicating and entire blog entry to whining about my phone, restraint is not one of my strong suits. I have a hard time not telling anyone who will listen whatever is running though my mind at any given moment, so if a friend is already shunning me, I don’t want to push them over the edge with a ton of inane text messages.

But having 420 as part of someone number doesn’t really help when you want to call them to try and get tickets to a show they have a hookup for.  For the past two weeks I’ve been getting random text messages from people I haven’t heard from in over a year, and each one I have to write back to with the awkward “um, my phone deleted you, is this so-and-so?” Well, sometimes so-and-so just writes back with an angry note about my premature deleting habits and the friendship bridge is finally burned. But honest! It was the phone, not me this time.I had nothing to do with it. But on some level, I am enjoying the fresh start. In a way, it is the ultimate friendship test. The people who reached out first were generally the people I talked tot he most anyway. The rest can trickle in as slowly as they want. I have a legitimate get-out-of-jail free card this time, so don’t hate on me.

At least my closest friends believed me, but my cat doesn’t even use text messaging, so she doesn’t really count…

I know it’s kind of a cliche for a girl in my situation (mostly single, unemployed, living in LA) to talk about her cat, but my cat has gotten so fat lately, I feel it’s worth mentioning. Sometimes talking about it helps, you know? Anyway, I first became aware of the problem when a guy came over to take me on a date, and he was so impressed with her heftiness he felt the need to mention it, twice before we even left the house (for Chipotle, seriously), and then again later when he brought me home (from Chipotle, seriously). It was a rare opportunity for me to see kitty through fresh, burrito-loving eyes, and I realized my previously svelte furball had become, well, obese. To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed, and not just because I went out with someone who took me to Chipotle.

Picture shown is one millionth of actual size of cat

Now, normally I’m down with the whole “more to love” excuse for the flabby result of our modern society’s wanton excess, but as her legal guardian, I feel the need to take action to prevent her flabbiness from become a serious health issue. So I decided to reduce her food intake by feeding her small bits throughout the day instead of filling her bowl in the morning. This plan backfired– now she seems to be so afraid that the small servings are all she’s going to get that she wolfs them down immediately and then begs for more. I know I’m bigger than her (not by much) and stronger than her, but she has the cute factor going for her and I have the latent Catholic guilt factor working against me, so I find the begging hard to resist. I start to doubt the validity of my weightloss goals for my feline ward, and I begin to imagine what everyone might be saying about me, on the internet and what not, calling me “cruel” and “cold-hearted” towards an innocent creature who really just wants to gorge herself, and then take a nice nap.

I know exercise is a factor, so I make an effort to chase her around the house so she can get a workout, but mostly she just finds somewhere to sit that I can’t reach and glares at me with “what did I ever do to you and you’re not so thin yourself eyes” I call her names like “tubby cat” in an attempt to make her feel self-conscious about her weight, starve her to death in small increments, all to no avail… Now she not only hates/fears me, but she appears to have gained a few pounds. She jumps on my lap and the air goes out of my chest as  I struggle to lift her bulk off of me. I took her to the vet last week, and $400 later I had a nice x-ray of her fat ass and the advice to feed her a little less. Grr. I know it’s not right to project LA’s ridiculous standards of beauty onto our pets but I look at other people’s normal sized cats, lithely jumping from counter to chair without making the room shake, and I have to sigh.

But I guess if she’s happy (she seems to be) and doesn’t feel bad about herself, then who am I to mess with her self esteem?

I wish my parents had shown me the same lassitude when I went through my chubby stage (age 5-21).