Thursday, September 29, 2005

Ronnie's Bitch

Tom “The Hammer” DeLay may finally get his comeuppance, though years later than he deserves. This fine example of Republican leadership has remained far too long on his throne of inequity, been allowed to acquire his party’s ill-gotten gains via treachery and sanctimonious rhetoric, unimpeded, -- dare I say, encouraged? -- by the current administration. And now that DeLay is facing a real “Hammer,” he’s falling back on the ol’ “partisian zealot out to get me" thang.

Why, that's some special irony right there, isn't it? The last time a politician was buggered by zealotry, truly buggered, like "Ow, damn!" no-longer-can-walk-straight buggered, was Bill Clinton. Ken Starr, as most informed citizens know, is the biggest bugger of all.

So, Tom, stop it, now, would you, please? Cat’s out of the bag, daddy. Take it like a man and admit your scheming ways, apologize to the American public for past misconduct, your gross incompetence, and quit with the “Ronnie is a poopy head liar!” crapola. You’re the only liar here, Tom. Mr. Earle is only doing his job, and thank God someone finally is.

One can only hope that someday soon, a large hirsute man sporting pigtails, lipstick and a conspicuous bulge will ask this question of you:
“Now, tell me the truth, Tommy, is this kind of fun?”

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Drunk Women Amuse Me To No End

And Lord knows I need some amusement after all this blog redesigning hoohaw (please bear with me as the good doctor and I beat the template demons to death with our holy powers of perseverance -- with God as my witless, One Whipped Mother shall rise up and defeat the devilish feces-eating spawn of Hell). Praise!

Anyway. I laughed out loud at this mighty spectacle of female drunkenness. Note the terrified expression on the reporter's face.

Hell hath no fury like a woman shnockered.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Fookin' Bada-Bing Bada-Boom

Apparently, the British have their own New Jersey, a place full of braggadocio and big hair, a land of inopportunity and unintelligible accent, but instead of calling the unfortunates “Guidos,” they refer to the working class, badly dressed and arrogant dwellers of Chatham, Kent (or anyplace else chimney-sweeping, hard-drinking, gold chain-wearing tossers may dwell), “Chavs."

American Guidos engaging in repulsive mating ritual

British Chavs engaging in repulsive mating ritual

There is even a website devoted to our Guido cousins.

I don’t know why I find this so amusing.

Click on the links above, and perhaps you will join me in my amusement.

Disclaimer: Ms. Lori is not affiliated with nor condones content of above sites, though she is half Italian and does in fact have a Guido or two hiding in her family closet. Apologies to my Guido/Chav readers for any distress caused by said content. But it really is fucking funny.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

My New Boo

Move it on over, Mr. Pitt, stand back, Jack Black, there's a new boo in town, and he's way more macho, fifty times more interesting than the both of you put together...

Anthony Bourdain, world renowned chef, author, bon vivant and hunk of manly, chiseled goodness, smokes and drinks like a male version of me, all the while spouting witticism after witticism, even with his luscious mouth full of still-beating cobra heart.

If you've not yet acquainted yourself with Anthony Bourdain, a man who not only looks like a British George Clooney (only he's not British -- born and bred New Yorker), but is smart, funny, hella charming, I would highly suggest you do so as soon as possible by checking out his new Travel Channel show No Reservations, be ye man or woman -- he's a man's man as well as a woman's James Bond fantasy come to life. Christ but he looks good in a suit, even as he, accompanied by mysterious cell phone- carrying "companions" in last night's airing of his trip to Vietnam, elegantly hides the fact that he may poop his pants with fright while navigating through Vietnamese waters to destination unknown, and upon arriving to still unknown destination, discovers weapon-wielding Kung Fu warriors clubbing one another on the beach. Mr. Bourdain is alarmed, perplexed, yet when he casually lights his Marlboro and stands, hand in pocket, bemused, almost bored expression playing on that wonderful face of his, one would never know that he has in fact deposited a load in his pants that very second. He’s that cool.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Breakfast With the Betty

Burger King's got itself a new mascot, and I for one am very happy to see The King go by the wayside. America most certainly does not need another religious symbol representing our country; especially considering we've alienated ourselves from most other nations due to our odd allegiance to Satan.

It is so refreshing to see a corporation portray themselves in an honest way. It is good and right that America drop her sparkly costume of superiority, her girdle of deceit, to reveal her true nature. Yes, America is great, and she is mighty, but she is also a very fat lady who is tired, hot and cranky these days. And being that she has become something of a strange science fictional hybrid of democratic-corporate rule, I think it fitting, almost endearing, that Burger King's new mascot is a candid confession, a cheeky, self-deprecating acknowledgement designed to soften the image of American ideology in the hopes that the rest of the world will laugh with us, not at us, will once again embrace us for the down-to-earth, delightful folks we really are.

Wouldn’t that just be delicious?

Friday, September 16, 2005

John Shirley Drove Me to Drink

In case you didn’t know, I’m sickened by the sight of hyenas (and most of you don’t, so
is some proof that I‘m not just pulling this hyena phobia out of my ass -- note meme question “Which Animal Frightens You Most?”). You are also probably not aware that their high-pitched fairy tale witch, serial killer cackle-giggles send me into severe epileptic seizure, that the mere mention of hyenas fills me with such deep revulsion and dread, I have been known to pull great gobs of hair from my skull while twirling in place. So please, if we were to meet some sunny day, I ask you not to breathe even a syllable of that word in my presence, because soon as “hy” slips from your lip, you would be witness to one of the most shocking displays of insanity ever performed by mortal human.

Hyenas are vicious, bloodthirsty thieves; they will eat carrion and your children alike. Hyenas not only despise you, other species of animal, cleanliness and honor, they despise themselves. Truly, a despicable creature. They are the devil’s playthings, hyenas. Satan watches hyena porn and pleasures himself to their dastardly deeds, their hairless, twitching backsides as they skitter across the Serengeti, leaving devastation and misery in their foul wake.

In short, I hate hyenas.

Which is why this caused me to crack open a bottle of Absolut immediately after reading it. My God, I thought to myself as I mixed my second screwdriver, My God. My God, My God, My God.

Then, upon finishing my third, I said this, really, really loudly, unmindful of Lar‘s quizzical stare: “Thank you, Lord, for giving me genitalia that comfortably, nay willingly, accommodate penises of any shape and size. Amen.”

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

I Feel Your Pain, IP #

To Mr./Ms. from Jackson Heights, New York,

My husband's H3 is none of your concern (which, by the way, is
not "adding to the problem" due to its acceptable MPG) nor is my psychological handicap, my shoe size, my sexual habits, or my propensity for abruptly shouting nonsensical phrases while in the privacy of my own home. In other words, you are not the sort of reader with whom I am attempting to communicate. Most of those who read OWM have superior intellect and a terrific appreciation for the absurd. They understand irony.

I must admit to feeling a bit sad by your inappropriate and uncalled for vitriol, considering the fact you must be a lonely, embittered soul who has most likely been overlooked by society, perhaps shunned by your own family and friends. Despite my hatred of the human race in general, I also feel great empathy for those in pain, who cry out for attention, be it positive or negative. We are all still children, really, no matter our chronological age. And because I am a mother of four, I truly understand what it means when a child acts out in unpleasant ways -- they only want to be heard. And, as with children, the smallest and most vulnerable of us often make the most noise. It is basic instinct.

That said, I would like you to know that I hear you, dear I hear you and I acknowledge your deep need for validation. I embrace your weary, neglected spirit, even as I implore you to please, please cease and desist. I'm a sensitive woman,, a woman who has seen her share of neglect and sadness and heart-breaking tragedy. I, too, sometimes feel the need to heave shit on my fellow man, because after all, mankind has certainly flung a baboon's assload at me. I get you, I feel your pain. Unlike yourself, however, I have developed something called "restraint," as well as a little doodad called "courtesy." I feel better about myself when I utilize those two attributes; you might want to dig deep and pull out that which is inherent in animals with brains larger than an infant‘s fist, that which resides in all of us, no matter how deeply buried. Restraint and courtesy. Beautiful words, those. Practice restraint, employ courtesy, then reap the benefits. It makes life go much more smoothly, I guarantee.

Also, I find that drinking helps tremendously, I shit you not.

Update: Oh, my, Mr.'t hard to track you down. Not hard at all, my "witchy" friend. Can't get enough of Ms. Lori, eh? This going to be a yearly thing, then? Better watch your step now, son.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

I, Bounty Hunter (oh, HELL no!)

Might have some interesting news regarding myself and a well-respected BEA (bond enforcement agent) in a few weeks...But then again, I might not. I’m hoping that certain plans (involving a possible article I may write) come to a lovely, adventurous fruition. But it may not.

So I’ll just leave this cryptic bit of crapola as is, and say nothing more.

I will, however, also leave you with this:

ADDENDUM: Just saw the following on Poppy Z. Brite’s journal, and because some of you kind OWM readers live in the areas listed below, I thought maybe those of you who are animal lovers could help out…

“I hate to keep asking for things, but this isn't for us; it's for our New Orleans neighbor, sixty-something Miss Sue, who used to take care of our animals when we traveled. She's staying with her sister-in-law in Alabama and has her two dogs with her, but is not allowed to bring her cats. They're at the shelter in Gonzalez and we are willing to pick them up, but can't see adding several strange cats to our already overloaded (18 cats and a dog) single room. Would anyone in Louisiana, south/central Mississippi, or Alabama be willing to foster between 3 and 9 cats (I'm not sure how many of hers are there) for a period of several weeks or possibly even months? If so, e-mail me at funkyegret (at) yahoo (dot) com with the subject line SUE'S CATS. We will pick up the cats and bring them to you. I know this is a long shot, but believe me, you will get stars in your crown.”

Sunday, September 11, 2005

We've Come a Long Way, Baby

No, I don't smoke Virginia Slims, nor have I ever smoked Virginia Slims. I'm too young to have marched for women's rights, haven't directly encountered sex discrimination (thanks to the brave sisters that came before me) nor do I anticipate facing such a heinous thing myself...Yet "We've Come a Long Way, Baby" is a slogan that sings to me, resonates within me on so many levels despite the fact it's nearly 2006, not 1976.

Why? Well, let's just say I'm grateful for progress. I'm thrilled to bits that we of the gentler sex have choices now, real authority, control over our own destinies, our bodies. Our hair.

Jesus Christ in a golden Hummer, Nic...Good thing we stopped smoking crack.

We've come a long, long, long way, baby. May we never go back.

Friday, September 09, 2005

My Husband Got a Hummer Last Night...

And it wasn't from me.

God knows how much I dislike those things -- I honestly don't see the practicality in them. As far as I'm concerned, only those in the military should get Hummers, because, well, they need them. Hummers make their tour of duty go a little bit easier, give the troops a sense of well being and much-needed courage when they face the theater. A good Hummer makes for a happy soldier.

But, as any good wife will do, I resigned myself to the fact that my husband is and always will be a man, and men must do what men must do. I was tired of the whining, the moping, sick to death of the cajoling and offers to rub my feet if I consented. So I sucked it up and allowed him to get his Hummer. I even took pictures.

CAUTION: The following image may be offensive to some readers. Must be eighteen or over to view!


And the ho charged thirty grand for it, too.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Things That Should be Doused in Clorox, Put into a Trash Compacter, Then Set Afire

1) Barbara Bush’s filthy mouth.

26) Laura Bush’s filthy mouth. ("...doesn't really look like what we're seeing on television.") Stupidity uttered while relief operations in the Cajundome were shut down for eight hours.

34) Michael Brown’s (FEMA Chief) brain

4) Condoleeza Rice’s new shoes. And while we’re at it, why not throw her conscience in there as well? Not like she uses it or anything.

5) George W. Bush’s guitar. Hell, let’s just throw in the whole kit and caboodle.

61)American ideal image of beauty.

77) Ann Coulter’s Adam’s apple.

8) This thing:
Ahhhh, disembodied female parts are so comforting, aren't they?

90) Hugh Hefner’s fossilized genitalia.

10) The word “compassionate” in the phrase “compassionate Conservative.”

ADDENDUM to #26: A good friend of my oldest daughter, C.J., a native New Orleanian whose dad once made the run for mayor, just arrived (to Rochester) from that area -- he helped with the relief efforts the day following Katrina. He was there when the levees broke. He lost his great aunt and uncle, both of whom lived in the least talked about, yet one of the hardest hit portions (besides Grand Isle, which is completely gone, according to C.J.), Plaquemines Parish. He saw unspeakable things, heard and smelled and tasted horrors beyond all comprehension. He saw Red Cross being turned away by the National Guard when they tried to enter N.O. (Red Cross had in fact been there at the very start, had even helped out at first, but the Guard inexplicably revoked permission, even though journalists, among various others, entered and left the area with no problems -- he knows this to be true because he is a Red Cross volunteer). He and his fellow relief workers heard rumors of atrocities being committed in the convention center, of people dying -- and they begged the Guard to allow them to help. They were refused. He doesn't know why.

C.J. is seventeen years old.

I have asked C.J. to please, please blog here about his experiences when he gets the chance. It may be some time before he is able, as he is going back to Louisiana in another week or so to resume relief work.

Laura Bush, C.J. would like you to know that you are wrong, madam, so sadly, horribly wrong. It is like they show on TV. Yet it isn't...It's much, much worse than any sane human being could ever imagine.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

A Tale of Four Bikes and a Near-Stroke Due to Major Embarrassment

Yesterday, between the hours of ten a.m. and one p.m., someone stole my middle daughter's bike as well as her friend's from my front yard. My husband and I, our next door neighbors (parents of my daughter's friend) decided not to call the cops...It's only a couple of bikes we're talking about here...Much more important things the police should be focusing on other than finding a couple of purple sparkly Barbie bikes that were most likely taken by a couple of purple sparkly teenagers looking for some quick cash.

That same day, around eight p.m., my youngest daughter's bike, along with her friend's, were taken. Again, from my front yard.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I'd been working on the computer when I heard yelling from downstairs; it was my middle daughter, the one whose bike was stolen that morning: "Mom! Come quick! Someone stole Ariel and Stephanie's bikes! We saw them riding away!"

So I ran outside amid the commotion, desperately searching the darkened street for any sign of the thieves, ran down toward the corner of our street and Greendale as the kids screeched "They went this way! They were teenagers, Mom! Big guys with long hair! Yeah! And we yelled at them to give our bikes back -- we said 'screw you!' and they said 'screw you' back, and yeah, they went this way!"

"They went this way?" I huffed, running at almost full speed, my glasses bouncing furiously upon my nose, my bare feet hurting from the gravel and stones, my rage building with each foot-slap. I would find those little bastards, oh yes, and when I did, I would hurl myself against their pimply backs, grab them by their shirt collars, fling them to the ground with the strength of ten angry mothers, and they would cry for their own mommies, yes indeed. I would make them sorry for taking my babies' bikes. Very sorry.

As I rounded the corner onto Greendale, all was quiet save for my huff-puffing wheeze, a lone dog barking in the night. No sign of giggling teenagers, hurried voices. No whizz of bicycle tires. So I turned around and walked back home, all the while searching, listening, peering into garages, the lighted windows of my neighbors. A crowd had gathered on our street, summoned from their homes by the high-pitched pleas of my daughter and her friend, concerned old folks, curious moms and dads, babies squalling, excited toddlers, all of them floating about in the dim like confused ghosts, their faces obscured by shadow, the tension palpable.

"I didn't see them," I said. "Are you sure they went that way?" I said while pointing to the corner.

"Well," my daughter's friend said, "I think I saw them go that way."

"That way" meaning the opposite direction in which I ran.

Okay, a bit suspicious, that. I mean, I realize that young children easily get their facts jumbled when faced with a scary situation, that their awesome imaginations can overtake reality, no matter the sincerity. But the fact remained that the bikes were gone, just as the other two were gone.

Then the both of them, my middle daughter and her friend (who was weeping), began talking about a black van slowing down, passing them a couple of times before the actual bike-napping, and then they couldn't agree on whether the culprits were black, white, Latino, short-haired, long haired...

The crowd began to buzz with accusations, pointed fingers at "those bad kids" down the block, the new family that moved in over on the other street (they have ten kids, don'tcha know! Why, the father's an orthodox Jew, heaven's sake!), and, horribly, my oldest daughter's friends..Yes, perhaps your daughter's friends did this, Lori.

Y'know, because those kids happen to wear Mohawks and black eyeliner. Of course they did this, those Mohawked, black eyeliner-wearing Barbie bike snatchers!

"You have to call the police! Call them immediately!" they droned, they buzzed. Surely, I must call the police now. Why, what kind of mother would I be if I didn't call the police? What kind of neighbor? What kind of human being?

"Lar," I said to my husband (who'd been lurking in our home, peeping out at the spectacle) "Lar, we have to call the police."

"No we don't" was all he said.

"But the neighbors said we should..."

He shrugged, gave me one of his looks, jerked his head toward the phone. "Knock yourself out."


So the officer arrived, within five minutes, I might add, and he took his initial report, got back in his cruiser and, well, cruised, searched the streets for a while, came back to the now near-hysterical drone of busy bodies who'd flown in from hives as far as the eye could see, and said to me, "Ma'am, I didn't catch anything suspicious, but why don't we go into your house so I can finish taking statements?" He said this while nervously eyeing the throng of hepped-up yappers surrounding his cruiser. I happily agreed.

An hour later, the crowd had dispersed, the officer was gone, and I was chugging my third Coors Light, working on a story, when the phone rang. It was my youngest daughter's friend's mother. "Good news!" she said. "The girls' bikes are here."

Oh, happy day!

"Where did you find them? Did your husband hunt the bike-nappers down? Did someone turn them in...?"

"No, they were here all along! They must've forgotten that they parked the bikes in our backyard. Isn't that hilarious?"

Yeah, a real riot, lady. Especially for you, considering you don't have to call the officer and chuckle sheepishly as you explain this "hilarious" situation to him; you don't have to face The Lar and his Stonehenge expression while describing how "hilarious" this all is. You don't live on my street, don't have to deal with the amused, whispery drone-a-thon to come...

I still haven't called the officer. Is that bad? I mean, the other bikes, my middle daughter's and her friend's were stolen...

Ah, hell. I hate suburbia.

Friday, September 02, 2005

It Isn't Easy Being Mean

I’m feeling hateful today, very much annoyed at nothing and everything, as well as sickened to the brink of emptying my stomach contents -- a feeling that can only be described by using this analogy:

It’s like taking a tour of the White House and having Karl Rove yapping at your heels every step of the way. You might kick out your leg, shush him, hurl priceless heirlooms at his big fluffy head, to no avail. Rove just won’t shut up, keeps yipping and ki-yiii-ing and nipping at your pant leg, and you finally lose all patience, roll up the Washington Post and give him a good swat. Unfortunately, to your horror, this seems to excite Rove, and instead of cowering, he immediately jumps on your leg, wraps his arms around your thigh, and begins humping with all his might. You promptly bend at the waist and empty the entire contents of your stomach onto floor.

So to honor this day of inexplicable resentment and churning guts, I present to you my second installment of Things That Make You Go Ewww! You can read the first installment posted just about a year ago today (heavens, has it really been a year since I started this blog?) right here. If you’re so inclined.

Onward, then, to my latest ewww’s…

#1 Danny Bonaduce’s black and white close-up during the promo ads for his new reality show, “Breaking Bonaduce.” I tried to find a still of that via Google, but all I could find was this:
Still pretty ewww-worthy, I think.

#2 The CNN reporter who, upon discovering a man wandering aimlessly after the levees broke, pounced with claws bared, whiskers back -- she wouldn’t leave the poor soul be. His wife had been swept away, you see, and he was in shock, despair, utterly devastated. Could barely talk. Yet the reporter, big ol’ crocodile tears welling, dramatic creak in he voice, hounded him, batted at his spirit like so much filmy yarn until she got the money shot. “She gone,” he finally said. “She gone.” And he wept. Oh, you could just about hear her purring.

Why, that disgusting, shameless bitch.

#3 Tommy Lee. Ms. Lori despises him. Ms. Lori often experiences numbing pangs in her jaw, a sensation many of us feel just before vomiting, when she looks at him. Yet, strangely enough, Ms. Lori has a tremendous urge to jump on his leg and hump with all her might. Go figure.

#4 The dream I had last night. I was suckling a baby snake, a little green snake, and I didn’t find it odd at all. The baby snake grew quite quickly, thank goodness, and its need for breast milk was short-lived. Its appetite, however, was voracious, especially for tacos. The remainder of my time in the dream was spent in the kitchen, frying hamburger and beans, chopping vegetables, rolling tortillas.

Wow. It just hit me that I had a dream in which I was suckling a snake. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

#5 Commercials that feature “talking” or “dancing” babies (TV shows, too, for that matter --- one BIG reason why I never watched Ally McBeal). It isn’t cute, it isn’t endearing, and it sure as hell doesn’t make me want to buy the product or visit the restaurant. It makes me want to grab the holy water and fling it directly into the glowing green eyes of the ad executives until their eyeballs sizzle and pop, then fall out of their skulls.

#6 Shakira‘s bone-popping, torso-thrusting, puppet-like dance moves. It’s like watching a reanimated corpse being controlled by unseen theater wire. It’s like witnessing that corpse being pulled apart, each rib disconnecting from its sternum with each shimmy-pop-pull of the wire, the cold, dead flesh shiny as it’s stretched tight, tighter, tighter still, until thin cracks form on the gray epidermis, cracks that widen with every jerk, exposing decomposing layers of bloodless meat.

Okay, now I’m just being mean.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

All You Can Do

I Cover the Waterfront

Away from the city that hurts and knocks,
I'm standing alone by the desolate docks
in the still and the chill of the night
I see the horizon, the great unknown
my heart has an ache
it's as heavy as stone
with the dawn coming on, make it last

I cover the waterfront
I'm watching the sea
Will the one I love
Be coming back to me

I cover the waterfront
In search of my love
And I'm covered
By a starlit sky above

Here am I
Patiently waiting
Hoping and longing
Oh how I yearn
Where are you
Have you thought back time
Will you remember
Will you return

Will the one I love
Be coming back
To me

--Billie Holiday

Please help those who lost so very much to Katrina.

The American Red Cross