And all the criminals in their coats and their ties / are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise

Thanks to this post from the delightful and delovely Blabbermouse, I realized that to get even sixty percent of the things on my to-do list done, I’m going to have to sacrifice something. Specifically, sleep. So.

Who Else Was At The Goddamned Gym At Five Fucking Thirty This Morning?

--Senior citizens. Those fuckers go to bed at 4:45 p.m., right after dinner. Of course they’re up already. They’ve been up for HOURS by this point. It’s their lunchtime workout.
--Guys who have nothing else in their lives but the gym and their own rippedness. They’ll still be here three hours from now.
--That sort of creepy guy who’s kind of always there no matter what time of the day or day of the week you go. Naturally, he has a van.
--A couple of beautiful early-twenties girls whose bodies are, like: daaaaaaaaaaaaamn.
--A whole bunch of 30- to 45-year-old moms, blazing through a workout in time to get home before the kids and partner wake up. Ahh yes, I have found my people.

The warmth of Cray

“I’m kind of a dick about books.”

Sarah Brown, me too (as ever, ad infinitum). Rules include but are not limited to:

1) DO NOT CRACK THE SPINE.
2) Dog-earing is OK for your own books, but not a borrowed one.
3) Ditto underlining or making notes in the margin – it’s charming if I find that stuff in a hand-me-down or used-bookstore-purchased book, but decidedly less so if you borrowed it from me and that’s how I get it back.
4) No food crumbs, coffee-cup rings, bathwater-dunkings, chocolate thumbprints, etc. Come on. REALLY. I read while eating/drinking, too (it’s one of my greatest and most enduring pleasures), but what are we, swine?
5) I keep records of who’s got what, damn fucking skippy I do. Return it in a timely manner (or replace it, if you love it so much you want to marry it and have like ten thousand of its babies). I will get all up in your business about it after a certain amount of time – please spare us both that embarrassment.
6) As regards violations: One strike and you’re out – especially if that strike involves spine-cracking. Do that and you’re permanently on my general-purpose Shit List.

Sweet. What does mine say? Dude. Heh. What does mine say? Sweet.

DO NOT WANT
Watching The Pacific, which incidentally is very good but not quite Band of Brothers, I am compelled at least once per episode to say “I don’t care if there’s a Russian tank comin up FLAT-bush AV-A-NUE – I ain’t fightin!” And seriously, y’all, I mean it. If the Russians had parachuted onto MY high school’s front lawn, I’d’a been all, “Добро пожаловать, русские! Где я подписываю вверх для типов заваривать водочки?”

HEY NOW
That Shake Weight commercial – Holy Inappropriate Shatner! Mr. Gleemonex and I saw this from across the room as we were having a late lunch at our favorite restaurant y cantina, and could not believe our eyes. It was like, does Telemundo routinely cut over to softcore Pr0n after the futbol game, or what? What the fucking fuck IS this? And we haven’t even told anyone else about it because who would believe that? And then Saturday Night Live goes and does a thing on it – and NOW you all know. Look ye, and be amazed …

DUNDERMIFFLINESQUE
The call today was the worst one yet … ten people on the call, some of whom are IT Professionals, and only me and the Brits really understood the concept of the goddamn wireframe they sent us – I mean, like what a wireframe is. The Brits and I were trying to splain everybody – no, this isn’t how the website will LOOK. This is merely the [OMG STANDARD FUCKING TOOL SHOWING HOW THE INFORMATION WILL BE ORGANIZED JESUS EGG-FARTING CHRIST] … merely the way they plan to organize (“organise”) it. No there won’t be those boxes everywhere. No the fonts won’t all be the one you see on the document. No the backgrounds won’t be yellow. [KILL KILL KILL STAB STAB STAB]

--------------
*Or, as I typed into babelfish, “Welcome, Russians! Where do I sign up for the vodka brewing classes?” Who knows what that actually says. Maybe Twelve knows? Chorny chleb to you, my sister.

Thursday awesomeness

And on a completely different note -- I have a new thing that is deeply annoying to Mr. Gleemonex but makes me laaaaaaaugh and laugh and laugh: I make him stop the TiVo whenever I see this commercial flit past in superspeed, because godDAMN with the sock monkey getting a tat and the Yo Gabba Gabba thingy (the one that looks, as Sundry once said, “like a marital aid”) and the bowling and shit – and I have this whole little dance I do while I watch it, and I sing “how ya like me now?” all the time and I just fucking love the idea that a random collection of kids’ toys have this whole sentient dreamlife (which, ironically, is something that used to worry me when I was little, the idea that my stuffed animals were Aware and that it hurt their feelings if I played with one and not others, and it actually kind of turned into a small phobia and that’s why when I was eight or so I just moved all of them out of my room at once and didn’t get any more stuffed animals after that) but ANYWAY – holy crap do I love this commercial.

Or, like these guys said:

www.marriedtothesea.com

Sapping all of our precious bodily fluids

Who are these paranoid delusional submentals who are sent into a sweaty belligerent ignorance-frenzy by the idea of filling out the fucking census?

I mean, I know who they are – they’re what used to be the Unabomber fringe element, the dozen or so backwoods crazies, but over the past decade or so the fringe has become the base and they’ve been whipped into an ever-growing tornado of shouty spittly ignorance by the likes of the pustulent swine-shits Limbaugh, Beck, Hannity, et. al., and we are now to the point in this terrible freakshow that there is a significant number of actual American citizens who think that being asked to tell anyone in the government how many people live in their house is the basest, most egregious and horrifying outrage ever perpetrated on free men. Holy Chinese-made-sweatpants-wearing, Funyun-eating SHATNER, y’all.

A few fun facts, Census-deniers:

1) Barack Obama did not invent the census.
2) The census does not exist for the purposes of separating the socialists from the Righteous True Americans. (That would be the Rapture. Y'all should get ready. It's going to be awesome.)
3) The census envelope does not contain a poison which will become aerosolized and kill your family when you open it.*
4) It does not actually wound Barack Obama OR Nancy Pelosi in any personal or significant way if you burn, tear, or rend asunder your census form, or send it back to the government unread with a large ugly word fingerpainted on the front in freshly-shot deer’s blood, so you can save that energy and put it towards making some more misspelled dumbshit protest signs for the next teabag party.

-----------------------------------------------------
*Too bad, eh?

Seth, the world has always been full of whores.

I have two and only two words for you this morning, Internets:

BROWNIE HUSBAND.

I am seriously about to renounce my worldly life and take upon myself the habit and the vows of the Church of Tina Fey, for she is all that is wondrous in this universe.

-----------------------------
*Note: This does not conflict with Shatner as the Deity. He is the All-Knowing, All-Seeing, and it is His light that reveals to us the beauty that is everywhere. Hence, Fey.

Flava Flav got problems of his own

So the kid has managed to collect a few random one-dollar bills, which she'll carry around, pretend to pay for train tickets with, tell you it's "About sixty bucks," etc. When it was two dollars, we were all "Give me my two dollars!" because we can't help ourselves. The collection is now up to six. And every time she counts them up and says "I got six dollars!", either I or Mr. Gleemonex will reflexively say, "You want six dollas for whut?" and the other will say, "Man, you betta ... wash yo' butt."

It's gonna be fun when she repeats THAT at babyschool. Heh.

A head for business and a bod for sin

Dear Short-Haired Lady in the Lotus Notes 2005 Startup Screen Collage:

I bet you are a real fun gal when you're not at work. You got that 2003 bob going, hairwise, and a bit of a pursed-mouth Business Lady look on your face, but you're not like that older Asian guy a few panels over in the collage -- you probably party, amirite? You have, like, this day job, at some stupid office, but you roll in every morning just a few seconds short of Official Tardiness Reprimand territory, ready to rock the SHIT out of some projects that use Lotus Notes while you deal with those fools at your office all day until you can go back to partying your ass off starting at 5:02 in the p.m. Now, what anyone besides me is doing with Lotus Notes at work on a daily basis in the year 2010 -- I mean, does a post-2005 edition even exist? -- I couldn't say. But I take comfort in the fact that you are there, and while you undoubtedly think I am square to the max, you do at least Get Me.

Love,
Gleemonex

Also, 160 more games of Yankees baseball!

Two things, lately, both television-related*:

1) We are watching Justified. Y’all – this is good! Elmore Leonard, lots and lots of Hey, It’s That Guy!s, and the smoldering Timothy Olyphant, lately of the incomparable Deadwood. My sister said she tried it, but there was so much cursing, she couldn’t stick with it; I was like, “there is? Huh. I guess after Deadwood, you don’t notice it really …”

2) We are also sort of half-watching Human Target. It started because Caprica Six was on the first ep, and I’ll watch pretty much anything that gives anybody from The Wire, Deadwood, or BSG any work, but she was only on the pilot, and so what’s kept us watching is the stone GENIUS that is Jackie Earle Haley. Where the hell has this guy been for so long? (I know, I know, I have IMDB too, I know where he’s actually been, but – where the hell has he been?)


-------------------------
*Wotta big surprise!

'Have a nice day?' Whose wife tells them 'Have a nice day?'

Apropos of the title of this post:

Lines From Movies (Of Varying Levels Of Merit) That Are Stuck In My Brain, In Which I Remember The Exact Sounds, Nuances, Intonations And Pauses Of The Delivery Of The Line For No Good Goddamned Reason

“They don’t look like potato sacks, that’s the advantage.”
--Micki & Maude
--The one that isn’t Amy Irving, tearfully showing her sketches for a maternity clothing line.

“Percent?” “Nothin!” “ZE-ro.” “Not a GOT-damn thang.”
--American Pimp
--Four different pimps, on what percent of their earnings the girls get to keep

“One girl took up wrestling, and she got into Yale!” “No, Harvard!”
--How I Got Into College
--Phil Hartman and Nora Dunn, college counselors

“Heh. It’s a clip-on.” “Heh, I know.”
--Tommy Boy
--Farley & Spade, as Spade tries (with disgust & disdain) to straighten Farley’s necktie

“What you’ve GOT is an ass-full of trouble!”
--The Wraith
--local baddie to the hero guy

“You cowered before me. I was frightening.”
--Labyrinth
--Bowie. Fuckyeahdavidbowie.

“Fabian. Charge me!”
--Peggy Sue Got Married
--Nic Cage, gathering strength from a photo of his idol, Fabian

“Sew, old woman! Sew like the wind!”
--Three Amigos
--Martin Short, to an old Mexican lady

“I’m POSSESSED!”
--Innerspace
--Martin Short, again; inhabited by nanoQuaid

“I have seen this car upon the road.”
--Children of the Corn
--The creepy redheaded one, reporting back to the head CornChild

“We watched Dad’s movie again and then Blake washed her hair for ten hours.”
--Irreconcilable Differences
--Drew Barrymore, reporting back to Shelley Long on her weekend at Dad’s house

“Scotch?”
--Mr. Mom
--Keaton, to Mull, his offer of a 7:00 a.m. beer having been rejected

I don't know what you're talking about and I wantcha to shut up.

So I can't figure out if this was because of residual mental trauma from the extremely ... muscular ... spider I had to kill the other day,* or something to do with how beatdown and defensive I'm feeling at work these last few weeks, but I dreamed I saw a lady** being attacked by a lion and instead of helping her, or calling 911 or the zoo or whatever, I shoved both lady and lion into the conveniently-open trunk of a large 70s automobile and shut the trunk, with the clearly articulated thought that "I can't deal with this -- I'm really sorry, but she was already losing anyway."


-----------------------
*Seriously. It fucking had MUSCLES. Like it works out at the gym. And it was in the bathtub and I spied it JUST as I was about to put my kid in there. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegh.

**Specifically, the lounge singer with the band Sausalito from Lost In Translation.