Friday, February 27, 2004

Has anyone ever heard of the Emu Whisperer? I'm not making that up, I promise. I tried to look up stuff about him on the internet today so I could put a neat little link on my site to it, but I couldn't find a damn thing. When Lisa and I were watching Animal Planet's "Most eXtreme" on Wednesday night, they did a short segment about this old, eccentric guy who is a self-proclaimed Emu Whisperer. He was a dirty, sloppy heavyset old man, probably about 70 or so. The brim of his hat had been torn, and was partially hanging down over the side of his face, (maybe an Emu tore it trying to whisper back to him?), and his clothes looked like they haven't been washed in a considerable amount of time. Anyway, he apparrently hobbles out to a field somewhere (Animal Planet did not specify where) and lays down on his back in the grass and dirt, and raises his legs in the air. He waves his legs around, and knocks them together, and makes a sound like he has something caught in his very dry old throat. If I had to try to type the sound he makes, it would probably be:"KhuuuuuuggggguuuuuhhhhhhhhHHHHk.". It was so funny because the Emus (Emi?) didn't seem to really give a crap about this guy, they were just walking around, looking at trees and stuff, and none of them seemed to understand whatever intricate message this old man was trying to give these animals. Somehow, Lisa and I ended up talking about the old man being Ed Asner, loudly croaking to the Emus,"Suck my dick, EMU!! HEY! Suck it! Suuuuuck it!". Also, the song "Can't buy Me Love" would be playing in the background. I guess you had to be there.
Suck my dick, Emus!

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

I took the book quiz, and I'm....

You're The Great Gatsby!
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Having grown up in immense wealth and privilege, the world is truly at your doorstep. Instead of reveling in this life of luxury, however, you spend most of your time mooning over a failed romance. The object of your affection is all but worthless--a frivolous liar--but it matters not to you. You can paint any image of the past you want and make it seem real. If you were a color of fishing boat light, you would be green.

Personally I always thought that if I was a color of fishing boat light, I'd be yellow, but okay. Having grown up in the glitzy world of being an heir to the family fortune, I care not of such matters.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Lisa is home sick from work today. She's got a sore throat, and therefore is sick. She's pretty much the only person who emails me, so I'm very bored. I even did actual "work" for a while there. Shudder. My boss sent me to the post office a little while ago, so that was fun. I hit some guy's car with my door when I was trying to get out of my car. It was totally not my fault though, I tried my best not to do it. But he was parked way over the line, and all crooked. I hate people that do that. Just take the time to back up and straighten out, for Pete's sake.
Once inside, the post office seemed to glow with enchantment and magic. As I pushed open the ornately carved, mother-of-pearl doors, I was greeted by three tiny fairies, who attached a chain of flowers to each corner of my package and gave the chains to four beautiful blue birds. As the birds carried my parcel to a little green elf sitting on a toadstool, the fairies filled out the proper "Airmail" forms and labels for me. Another elf was playing beautiful music on a pan flute while a chorus of white mice sang a soft lullabye with their tiny voices. I was treated to some raspberry tea, served in an upside-down tulip, and some candied plums, dipped in sugar and lime. A white dove invited me to sit on a fluffy cloud, and I drifted lazily as my package was prepared for next day arrival with a signature required. Once my transaction was complete, and I had paid the shipping costs to a small black kitten in a red tuxedo and tophat, the cloud I was resting upon carried me through the opalescent doors to my car, as all the small woodland friends I had just made waved and bid me "Good Day, Sweet Lady! Farewell!". Many people are unaware, but post offices are full of ancient magicks.
For some reason, I have something stuck in my head all morning. It's from an old SNL sketch where Eddie Murphy was "Little Richard Simmons", and he's dancing and singing "Tuttie Frutti" as these fat ladies are doing aerobics, and one of the lines from his song is "She got blubber to da East, blubber to da West, the bitch got long and floppy breasts, Tutti Frutti.....". Anyway, that's the line I've had in my head all day. Floppy breasts, that's funny.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

I don't like people who start off stories or proclamations with "I'll tell you what...". My mom used to date a guy who did that all the time, and I'll tell you what, I hated that guy! Upon first arriving in Arizona, while we were looking at the many mountain ranges surrounding the airport, Lisa and I were met with,"I'll tell you what, once you get up in those mountains, won't even believe it. This is God's Country, man. Whew. I'll tell you what.". This was in turn met with blank stares from both Lisa and myself, and later repeated and mocked in hushed voices in the back seat of the car as we were leaving the majestic airport. God's Country. Please.

Monday, February 09, 2004

Oh Shitstain.
$2,500.00. That is a lot of money. With that kind of money, one could go on a pretty decent vacation, or pay off some credit card bills, or put it into savings towards their future. Guess what I have to do with $2,500.00? Pay the IRS.
I am monumentally pissed off about this. I should probably let you know that the only reason I owe this money is because I failed to pay my taxes from January 1st to July 31st of 2003. Why didn't I pay my taxes? Well, it seems someone forged my signature and filed a few forms to mark me "EXEMPT" from taxes. I have been working here for 4 years, and I've never changed a damn thing about my tax info, so I didn't think to start checking to make sure I was paying taxes. Why the hell would I do that, since I was under the stupid assumption that ONLY I had the power to change my personal tax information? Silly me. The other thing was, I got a raise at the beginning of last year, so suddenly having larger paychecks didn't raise a red flag for me. The only reason I caught it was because my job got a new bookkeeper who noticed that I hadn't paid a dime to Uncle Sam. She also told me that only about 5% of people in the U.S. are eligible for "Exempt" status, and that those who attempt to file for it without qualifiying get marked on their records for tax evasion. This mark can remain on file for about 7 years.
It's not that I can't get the money. I will definitely have to empty my savings, and cut a lot of corners, but I'm gonna make sure to pay it in full when I mail my taxes in. But it's just not fair, I had plans for that money. I was going to move to L.A. with Kane over the summer. And the worst part about this whole situation is the girl who did this was supposed to be my friend. Ouch.
Okay, end of tantrum. Whining is for bitches anyway.
Over the weekend, some random chain of events led me to seeing two episodes of "The Real World". If you've been reading my blog, you know that I don't like this show. These two episodes are the longest I've ever sat through that shit, and they confirmed why I hate people in my age group. In the course of one hour, I saw a 19-yr old girl get turned away at a club for trying to use a fake ID, I saw another girl violently punch some guy for teasing the 19 yr old, then get arrested for assault and cry her heavily lined eyes out about it, I saw a two drunken, belligerent frat guys acting like asses, one of whom got arrested for public drunkenness, and some punk-goth-dirty girl who has a boyfriend back home, drunkenly hook up with the drunk guy who did not get arrested. This girl (I didn't catch her name) then calls her boyfriend the next day sounding all guilty, claiming she can't remember anything that happened the night before, but denied hooking up with anyone. If you can't remember anything, how do you know? They broke up and the girl was sobbing uncontrollably. The 19 yr old was supporting her, saying how he's not worth it, which is good logic, considering he's not the one who cheated. The only person who made any goddamn sense on this show was the black guy with the glasses (didn't catch his name, either). He was the only one sober, and had to keep calling different jails and people's parents to try to get $8000 to bail the girl out of jail. But if he really had any sense, he'd pack up his shit and move out of that house, leaving all those drunk whiney babies to fend for themselves. Oh, there was also some asian girl there, who's main purpose it seemed was to stand around in a mini skirt, mouth agape, and say,"OH NO!" about everything.
Great show. Can't wait for "Real World: Philadelphia".

Friday, February 06, 2004

Last night Kane's dad took Kane and me to go see "Othello" at the Herberger Theater. For those of you who aren't into Shakespeare or who missed the movie "O" starring Mekhi Pfifer and Julia Stiles, here's what "Othello" is about: These two pals, Iago and Roderigo, can't raise enough money to pay for college, so they concoct a crazy scheme to sell chinese whores to rich men, but then their van breaks down. So the guys and the whores get out and try to change the tire, but along comes a tour bus, and who gets out?? Billy Squier. That's right, the "Stroke Me" man himself, I swear to GOD! Billy is on his way to Venice to play a big concert, but his manager was recently shot in the head, so he needs a new manager. Old Man McConcert won't let him on stage without a manager! So Iago and Roderigo volunteer to manage Billy, in return for ONE MILLION DOLLARS. After much hemmin' and a-hawin', and a serious of 'mis-adventures', one of which includes Iago mistakenly drinking urine out of a homeless guy's boot, Billy Squier agrees to let them be his managers, and they get to Venice and party like madmen. And then some black dude kills his white wife. Then right before the play ends, we see Roderigo selling a few chinese whores at the concert. Iago approaches him, saying that they don't have to do that anymore, they have more than enough dough to get to college, and Roderigo replies,"I know, but we'll ALSO need new mountain bikes to get to class with!". They boys exchange a hearty belly laugh, then Iago pulls out a gun and shoots Roderigo.
It was a kick ass play.
But if you go to a play, here's a tip. Try not to sit near anyone who's gonna be having coughing fits throughout the entire show, and also try to avoid anyone who goes,"OOOH! OH WOW! OH NO!" anytime anything happens on stage, and then laughs really loud at nothing. Ma'am, we can tell you don't understand Shakespeare. It's okay, you don't need to overcompensate.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Well, this has been a pretty good couple of days so far. Everyone in my office left yesterday morning to go to a jewelry show in Tucson, and I have been left behind to run the office. YAY! I really hate trade shows. I know a jewelry trade show probably sounds cooler than most, but trust me, it's not. First of all, my boss is a huge micro-manager, and at these shows she just goes berserk. She dictates when we sleep, eat or go to the bathroom. Seriously, you can't eat until she's ready to eat, which is never because she just survives on Powerbars and protein powder. Not only that, but everyone walks around in their suits and fur coats, flaunting their fake tans and boob jobs. And most of the men are perverts, and it seems like the main reason they go to the shows is to get away from their wives and have affairs. Yuck. Not only that, but all expensive jewelry looks exactly the same after a while. I only like the $5 necklaces and rings from Claire's boutique, thank you very much.
So this year I'm off the hook. And I get to play music in the office!! This is usually frowned upon, so I'm taking advantage of the situation. Right now I'm listening to Policy of Truth by Depeche Mode and blowing bubbles with my strawberry gum. I've still been getting my work done, but it's really nice to take a break once in a while without someone looking over my shoulder. Except for Stevie, the Invisible Goat. But Stevie don't care. Stevie likes oats.
So I don't know about you, but if I hear one more fucking thing about Janet Jackson's mammary, I'm going to walk to L.A., find her house and knock on the door and punch her fake nose off. I heard about it on my alarm clock this morning, I saw news about it scrolling across the bottom of the tv screen during the news when I was getting ready for work, I heard about it on Howard Stern which made me switch to another radio station, then I heard about it on THAT radio station, and then EVERY WEBSITE I go on says something about it. Please shut the hell up. I think it was very retarded, and I also think the Britney/Madonna thing was retarded, and that Bennifer was retarded, and that kid who played Corky on "Life Goes On" was DEFINITELY retarded.
One can only hope that Adrien Brody will take one of his balls out at the Oscars, so America will have something new to talk about.