Carrier pigeons – or, more realistically, carrier ravens

It’s usually when I realize that an idea is ridiculous enough to make a good local news story that I know it should be a satirical blog post.

I just watched a woman try to contact a relative who teaches at an elementary school.  It took more than 15 minutes to even access the relative in question because the secretary of the elementary school is out, so instead she had to call the high school who would then transfer her to the appropriate elementary school office who would then have to go to the department level and so on and so forth. Because she can’t call a room directly.

I made the comment that carrier pigeons would enable her to bypass the bureaucracy faster – and then it hit me – what a fantastic local news story that would be.

Woman trains carrier pigeons to avoid bureaucracy and saves time doing it! 

The only problem with this is that we really don’t have pigeons around here, because it’s the boonies, so we’re going with ravens.

Woman trains carrier ravens to avoid bureaucracy and scare small children into behaving themselves!

And that’s the news. I’m Schmug Blernandez. Goodnight.

A passive-aggressive letter for therapeutic purposes

To the Assholes who broke into my car last night:

I hope you bought some really great drugs with the $10 you will get for my $100 stereo. I hope that dimebag is the best dimebag ever, because it’s going to cost me a few hundred to undo the damage that you did to my vehicle.

Oh, and those CDs you took? They are worthless. I burned them from iTunes playlists. I am still not sure why you took them. I can only hope that my depressing taste in music incites an overwhelming feeling of guilt in your otherwise empty souls. May the guilt cause such loud echos in the space where your heart should be that you personally experience Edgar Allen Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart.” I am reasonably sure that is the closest you will ever come to appreciating classic literature, you heathens.

I firmly believe that one day, karma will bite you in the ass. Hopefully, Karma is the pitbull that lives next door.

May your drug habits leave you permanently impotent and unable to ever spawn children.

No love,

Me

The Fudgebudget Diet Plan

I had a moment of clarity this morning:

I refuse to participate in any diet that prevents me from eating cheese grits.

I think that a lot of people feel this way, and I feel like I can help – with my new diet plan (book forthcoming from FatAss Publishing).

Now, I don’t want to give away the entire book, but here are some of the highlights:

Rule 1: If it’s not worth getting on a treadmill, don’t put it in your mouth.

Rule 2: Sometimes, you need a break from the treadmill, lest all treadmill and no play make Fudgebudget a dull something something. It’s okay to continue putting food in your mouth during this time, but you will probably need to make up for it later. If you already feel like blah, then there’s no reason to pile on yourself as that just prolongs the blah-ness.

Rule 3: Indulge your cravings the best way possible – by obsessing over them for days and then finally giving in. Eat the juicy, fatty, half pound cheeseburger after you’ve been dreaming about and planning for a week and be happy in knowing that you only ate one cheeseburger that week and it was AWESOME.

Rule 4: “Calcium” is now a food group, in addition to “whole grains,” “vegetables,” and “proteins.” This will make you feel more joyful and less guilty when you eat butter and cheese. Butter and cheese are wonderful, and both cows and people worked very hard to make them. Respect the dairy artists and enjoy your butter and cheese.

Rule 5: Be a responsible adult. It really all boils down to this. Reward yourself by not mooching off your parents and not buying bottom shelf booze. Being a responsible adult is not the worst thing that could happen to you.

*Disclaimer: I am not skinny and am pretty much completely unqualified to be doling out diet advice.

Not ready

I am not ready to confront the lines on my forehead that I swear appeared overnight. This is the solo dialog that just happened in my bathroom.

What. Is this.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

Maybe my skin is just dry?

Dummy, you live in the desert, it is ALWAYS dry here.

Oh god, I am going to get old and die one day.

I was ready for gray hair. I like my gray hair. Because it’s still mostly brown.

Need shea butter. Lots of shea butter. Right now. It’s masque time.

So here I sit, all shiny and shea-slathered, thinking about how it is completely unfair that earlier this evening I also had an “OMG I can’t believe that just came out of my face” zit popping moment. My face has seen better days. And all the better days are gone.

Do not want.

Anyone else ever noticed that a large percentage of cats photographed for cat bed ads look sad and generally dead on the inside?

This cat was drugged just enough to get him to stay in the bag, but not enough to make him look sleepy.

This bed needs stilettos, Patsy and Edina, and a cat who looks like she doesn't need about 3 martinis to enjoy herself.

Also, there is this one angry-looking cat that has been Photoshopped into like 10 different ads in exactly the same position.

My cat sleeps approximately 67 hours per day and would be happy to sleep in any of these beds so that prospective buyers can understand that they don’t really make cats as miserable as the ads would lead one to believe.

Tea

 

 

 

If weight was directly and negatively proportional to the amount of tea that a person drinks, I would actually look like the stick people that I draw instead of trying to draw real people in MS Paint.

Overactive imagination

My croissant from this morning, improved.

Blindness-induced conversational ineptitude

Sometimes I feel like a failure as a woman for my inability to be successfully social with any of the  many people in my life who have cut my hair. From a hairdresser’s standpoint, I am completely socially retarded (when this is only partly true). They must think I have absolutely no friends and that my life is super sad.

Every exchange that I’ve had with a hairdresser has been a weird and uncomfortable series of short, sporadic non-sequitors. Once we run out of things to say about my hair (which is un-dyed and straight … so not all that much to discuss), we’re pretty much done chatting until, “Okay, you’re done!” Which is hairdresser speak for, “Oh thank god that’s over. Great Clips has never felt so grim.“

Maybe this is all because I am so freaking blind that when I take my glasses off for a haircut I second guess myself since I can’t read anyone’s facial cues. You could be 12 inches away from my face and if I don’t have my glasses on I have NO idea what you’re thinking about anything that I say.

I feel like the relationship I have with my masseuse is comparable to ones that normal women have with their hairdressers. My best guess is that this is because you’re not supposed to pay attention to your masseuse’s facial cues since your face spends most of a session in a padded doughnut.

The rest of the time, it is perfectly acceptable to just close your eyes since you’re supposed to be relaxing. Which I am getting progressively better at doing. My masseuse doesn’t have to do that thing where they shake your limbs until you relax them nearly as often as she used to. I feel like semi-regular massages have the added benefit of teaching me to be less neurotic. I like to think that they make me a more pleasant person all around. Of course a hairdresser will never have the opportunity to realize this unless I get LASIK.

…

I was just thinking about how weird birds would look without their beaks.

I’m so glad I went to art school.

Teen Mom

I got sucked into Teen Mom.

Let me sum up most of the relationships on the show.

This is what I imagine those kids will think when they are their parents’ age.

That show is like a train wreck and I just can’t take my eyes away from it. It has, however, positively reinforced my decision earlier in life to not become a social worker.