Well, I call 'em that cos they look like bloody prawns then, don't they.

Some thoughts and facts related to our viewing of the truly awesome District 9 this past Saturday evening

THOUGHTS:

--Wow, there are some bad movies coming up.

--WOW, that Megan Fox person is a whore. Streetwalky Blowjayby McWhore O'Whoreigan. I mean, seriously. It's like you can see the phantom manroot protruding from her mouth at all times. She looks like she's had a ruffer tuffer time in Whorelywood than Elisha Cuthbert has. Amanda Seyfried, I love you, girl, but I hope you did some Biohazard Level Four decontamination showering and irradiation at the end of every shooting day, because that shit could be catching.

--Holy Shatner, Dennis Quaid -- didn't you save ANY damn money?

--Goddamn, this is one original, intense, intriguing movie. I said godDAMN! this is good stuff.

FACTS:

--This unholy, meaty, horrifying thing crawled out from behind the wine rack while we were watching something insane on TV and enjoying a final [stupid] glass of wine before retiring.

--I had weird dreams that night. Which of course were interrupted by the 5:55 a.m. Kid Gleemonex Reveille Squad Dance Team, per the usual.

Four-Top Wednesday: Two Things That Are Awesome, and Two Things I Don’t Get

Things that are awesome

Keggers of Yore.
Grampa Jack, is that you?

This quote:
when i worked at E! we had a rule about "talent". never tell them the correct call time. and whenever in doubt, dont tell them anything, tell their handlers. to that point, any time one of us did something dumb or spacey we'd call each other Talent. if you saw my car, youd know im so far from being talent. although at this point in my life i could definately use a handler.

Things I Don’t Get

Personalized license plates. Why? They don’t actually irritate me unless they’re irritating (for instance, cutesy Princessy shit, referring to “someone bought me this because I am a hi-maintenance biznatch and expensive presents are the key to my Brazilian-waxed personal areas,” or King Shit of the Turdy Sandbox stuff like “my toy” which middle-aged dickholes think is totes awesome on their stupid Porsche, or political statements with which I disagree violently, e.g. the bigass Suburban I saw once with BPROLIF plates – fuck you, lady). Or unless I don’t get them at all – I am unreasonably and disproportionately enraged by the ones that are clearly on purpose, but incomprehensible. It’s a little the way I feel about crossword puzzles. But otherwise, it's just -- meh. If that's how you wanna spend your dolla bills ...

James Taylor. He seems like a real dick, to me.

Also: Please, please stop with the backyard tanning. Your poor be-freckled skin ...

Things I Wish I Could Have Told My Sixteen-Year-Old Self, Not That I Would’ve Listened to Me

–Still with the fake British accent? Still?

–Look, I know I can’t talk you out of the spiral perm, because you think it’s going to make you look like Rene Russo in Major League. But just know that it’s going to look good for about four days, and then it’s going to be an incredible pain in your ass for months. Think of this as a learning experience.

–Do you really have to sign literally everyone’s yearbook with that same ridonculous signature? Seriously: “Peace & love, freedom & justice”? What does that even mean?

–That basketball player who has for some unknown reason latched on to you? Just: Never mind, OK? A) You don’t actually like him, you just like that SOMEbody asked you out, and B) In less than five years, he’s going to wait on you, your mom and your grandmother at a Red Lobster in the Metroplex, having flunked out of college and failed – shockingly! – to make the NBA. So don’t sweat it, kid.

–They never shoulda given you a driver’s license.

–What’s with the tie-dye and the broomstick skirts? You have to get over the whole hippie thing. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.

–You know that other guy you’re DYING to get asked out by is gay, right? Gay, as in … oh, never mind. You’ll figure it out soon enough. You kids have fun!

–You can try the “My watch stopped – see? – and that’s why I’m 20 minutes late for curfew” bit exactly once. Your mother will not believe you, being as how she's not a moron, and I'm just warning you, it’s really going to piss her off that you even attempted such amateur bullshit.

–You don’t look 21. Not even close. Save yourself the embarrassment – don’t order a cocktail. Please?

–You should try to bottle some of the energy you’re wasting on bogus, idiotic bands like Def Leppard. When you’re 35 and have a toddler, you’re gonna want those spent protons back.

–Enjoy your obsession with the Mysterious New Guy. It’ll be fun while it lasts, and an endless source of hilarity to you for the next couple of decades. It’s worth every stupid line of emo poetry that you are about to write.

Barney Frank is my fucking HERO.

This is the one guy in Congress with the stones to refuse to be shouted down by the insane belligerent ignorance of those idiots trying to sabotage the health care town halls.

Some Fox News Zombie (bearing an image of Obama – our President – defaced to look like Adolf “My Name Is Synonymous With ‘Evil Genocidal Maniac’ Cause I Practically Invented That Shit, Or Was At Least The Most Efficient At It” Hitler), accosts Representative Frank with a scripted-by-Limbaugh “question”: "Why are you supporting this Nazi policy?"

And instead of taking her mouth-diarrhea seriously, B-Frank goes: “On what planet do you spend most of your time?”

Fucking AWESOME.

He didn’t go toe-to-toe with her – he didn’t have to. That would be to give her and her ilk undeserved respect and to unnecessarily engage the enemy. He just let her look like a fucking jackass. He continued:

You want me to answer the question? Yes. As you stand there with a picture of the President defaced to look like Hitler and compare the effort to increase health care to the Nazis, my answer to you is as I said before, it is a tribute to the First Amendment that this kind of vile, contemptible nonsense is so freely propagated. Ma'am, trying to have a conversation with you would be like trying to argue with a dining room table. I have no interest in doing it.

Barney gets it – there’s no fucking point talking to these people. They don’t want to debate, they aren’t trying to understand the issue, they don’t care what you have to say, not even the tiniest little bit. They’re out to crush Obama and everything he stands for, no matter what. We suffer them to be there because we aren’t like the Bush gang, allowing entry only to pre-approved, oath-signing loyalists who come pre-programmed with softball setup questions – and this is what we get.

Well, Shatner bless you, Barney. Keep on keepin’ on, my man, and don’t let the assholes get you down.

"Nonconformity, right. I can't remember the last time I saw a 20-something kid with a tattoo of an Asian letter on his wrist."

You know you’ve watched too much House, M.D. when: You wake up at a truly obscene hour (4:25) on a weekday morning with a staggeringly bad headache that runs up the back of your head from neck to crown, and your first thought, after checking to see that all your extremities still work and you can still see and whatnot, is to write down your own “patient history,” including the time the pain woke you up, exactly where it is, everything you ate, drank, and did the previous 24 hours, all that stuff about seeing and extremities functioning &c., whether you suffered any impact or blow that could be related (you did not), and whether this has happened before (which it did, at some sort of churchy youth retreat on "Lake" Bridgeport in 1991, also an inexplicable attack not helped by ibuprofen, ice or resting, all three of which remedies you are currently employing). And the reason you wrote all this down was, you know how patients so often take a nosedive straight onto death's door for seemingly less cause than this and nobody knows what the hell happened to them because they are unconscious, and it takes House forever and often includes a lumbar puncture and/or total-body irradiation, and you’re hoping to save them some time when they wheel you in on the crash cart. I mean, IF they have to wheel you in on the crash cart. If.

Totally unrelated but awse: WWBBD?

--------------

A. Nonymous, in the comments, pointed out it's not the crash cart they wheel you in on ... but A)I trust y'all knew what I meant, and B)4:25 a.m. screamer headaches don't leave you with much in the tank, mentally or physically. Heh.

"Mike Dexter is a god!" "Mike Dexter is a ROLE MODEL!"

Internets: Hey, Gleemonex. Stirred any shit today in the Olde Hometowne Newspaper?

Gleemonex: Nope – well, OK, a little, but as you know, they’ll never let my comment through.

Internets: Probably not. What were you on about?

Gleemonex: Oh, some K-Mart University philosophy major wrote a LTTE to say that this OTHER frequent letter-writer – who bravely signs what appears to be his real name on letters espousing a left-of-center political POV – is someone the Newspaper has lost control of …

Internets: They, like, print the lefty’s letters out of … fear? Of, like, his mighty pimp hand or something?

Gleemonex: Yeah, I guess. And so this guy grudgingly allows that the Paper can have different opinions represented if it really wants to –

Internets: Big of him.

Gleemonex: I know. And but then he tells a story – these fuckers are always telling clever little stories to illustrate their idiotic points –

Internets: Because that’s how they learned about Life and Wimmins and the Bible and such, at their pappy’s knee?

Gleemonex: I presume so, yeah. This one involved two hunters and a moose and a digital camera and … I don’t know, I lost track about halfway through.

Internets: Sounds kinky. But of course a Point Was Made, yes?

Gleemonex: Oh, obviously in his mind he was all, "QED mothafuckaaaaa!" … so I commented, “That was a charming story.” And I said that if the paper’s going to represent a variety of opinions – WHICH IT SHOULD [but clearly doesn’t since they never allow my comments through] – then Mister Billy Bob Shakespeare over there doesn’t get to say “well, all the opinions but yours.”

Internets: You left out the bracketed part?

Gleemonex: Yeah.

Internets: And the Billy Bob Shakespeare part?

Gleemonex: Duh.

Internets: Good call. Still won’t get through. The phone number you left had a 415 area code.

Gleemonex: I know. [sigh] But I’m really looking forward to some lively commentary on a new Sotomayor-related LTTE, from a guy who claims he personally knows lots of Hispanics – I mean, has absolute WADS of “acquaintances of Hispanic heritage” –

Internets: Does he know that doesn’t count if you address them as “boy” or if you don’t remember if it’s Maria or Elena who washes your undershorts?

Gleemonex: No. Shut up, I’m getting to the best part. So he wraps it up with this perfect gem of idiocy:

Most Republicans and many Democrats appropriately favor strict constitutionalists for the position Sotomayor seeks, as all justices should be. This nominee in the minds of those folk does not measure up to that requirement. Their conscience decision to reflect that decision in their vote is neither racial nor ideological, as is Mr. Sargent's political cartoon.

Internets: ABORT RETRY FAIL?

Gleemonex: Heh. Exactly.

Three days of hairy a-holes boring the t**s off of you.

Woodstock. Can we please stop fucking talking about Woodstock? When I was a teen in the 80s with a very murky but wistful sense of what the 60s were like (formed mostly by Time-Life Books, the Freedom Rock commercials, and stuff lying around in my parents’ attic), I thought it would have been sooo cool. But eventually I sorted the cultural wheat from the cultural chaff, and realized Woodstock was bullshit – everything I hate about festivals (and holy hungover bong-hitting SHATNER do I hate festivals), plus rain, acres of hair minus hair product, and a bunch of people who felt or came to feel that they were participating in something Rilly Rilly Important. It was a concert, people, with a couple of bright spots in a middling-to-terrible lineup, just like every other all-day outdoor music orgy ever in the history of ever, so can we please quit acting like it Changed The World, and just let it fucking GO?

Gleemonex fun fact: My parents tolerated my endless teenage fangirl prattling about the 60s – which they LIVED IN – quite gracefully. Then a couple of years before my dad died, the subject of Woodstock came up in conversation, and he goes, “Woodstock was for amateurs.”

"This corn is RAW!" "I know -- can't you just TASTE the vitamins?"

Rich kids – or, rather, the children of rich/well-off parents – are Special.

How special? Well, they’re apparently so special that they “can’t” eat a lot of foods the rest of kiddom can eat. I know this because I receive a magazine each month, free of charge, which in the current issue contains the information that 46% of this magazine’s readers’ children have food allergies.

Forty-six percent. Are you fucking kidding me?

Allergies. Allergies are bullshit. Made-up white-person bullshit.

When you were growing up, maybe there was that kid who got hives when he ate strawberries, or the other kid who had to go to the hospital when he ate a peanut, but those instances were few and far between, am I right? Like freakishly rare. Because genuine allergic reactions to food or food ingredients ARE UNCOMMON.

Unless your kid breaks out in welts or starts gasping like a goldfish extracted by the cat and flopping on the counter, he/she doesn’t have any fucking food allergies. That’s just something you made up so you can mince into the precious birthday party of your playgroup mom-friend’s kid and start making demands for special treatment – “Oh, lemonade?” [slight, judgmental head tilt] “Sadie-Tallulah is allergic to lemons, sugar, water and the wax on paper cups. She needs 100% pure organic pomegranate juice, and I think it goes without saying that it has to be served out of a glass glass – plastic reacts with her skin, she’s so so delicate, you understand.”

Ugh. Go lick a used flyswatter. Forty-six percent, my ass.

He's kinda tall, sorta. He has ... hair. And he wears T-shirts sometimes.

Internets: Hey, Gleemonex. Long time no blog, eh? Whatcha thinkin today?

Gleemonex: What up, Internets! Been working like a bastard, but in between times, I've been hitting refresh on a Letter to the Editor in Ye Olde Hometowne Newspaper--

Internets: Stirring the shit again, eh?

Gleemonex: Naturally. You know me too well.

Internets: What's your beef this time?

Gleemonex: Some retard wrote in to say the paper "decided to let the words of this black lady columnist, Mrs. Edelman, take up space concerning healthcare for children" --

Internets: Wait, that's a direct quote?

Gleemonex: Oh yeah.

Internets: Wha--

Gleemonex: I know. And so but anyway, this person "couldn't help but comment"--

Internets: They never can.

Gleemonex: Ain't that the truth. So our pal Chucky the Study Buddy opines that "they" want "a chicken in every pot, even if you didn't work to get it"--

Internets: Oh, come ON!

Gleemonex: Please. May I? ANYway. And besides, our healthcare system isn't perfect, he allows generously, but: "Is it better than anybody else in the world's socialized healthcare liberals and weinie-washer leftwingers want us to adopt in our nation? Undeniably."

Internets: Un. de. NI! ably.

Gleemonex: Hee. I know. And as a liberal, I definitely "want to continually find ways to rape [Lee Greenwood's Genius Cousin] with more taxation without representation."

Internets: Oh, but of course -- EVERYBODY knows that.

Gleemonex: And he closes with this shazammy-shazinger: "Healthcare is a privilege, not your right."

Internets: ...

Gleemonex: I just blew your mind, didn't I?

Internets: FATAL ERROR. CLOSE ALL WINDOWS AND REBOOT.

Gleemonex: Exactly. So I replied, basically saying "Pull your head out of your ass," but in more words and specifically without the words ass or total fucking retard involved --

Internets: Mighty polite of you.

Gleemonex: I thought so.

Internets: But they're still never going to allow your comment through, are they?

Gleemonex: Nope.

Internets: [sigh] Sorry about that. Some people, you know?

Gleemonex: True dat. But at least, even in your darkest moments, you give me something to love -- for example, you're there when Prince Philip gets off a good one.

Internets: One of my faves! Say thanks to Alison for me, wouldja?

Gleemonex: That I will.