Love Is…Never Having to Stop to Pee

So we’ve all heard of Lisa Nowak, the former astronaut who went a little apeshit over her affair with a co-worker, and tried to attack some bitch who be triflin’ with her boo. Allow me to break it down for you. Our girl Lisa:

• drove 900 miles from Houston to Orlando,
• wore adult diapers in the car so she wouldn’t have to make any pit stops,
• donned a disguise that enabled her to approach the other woman in an airport parking lot,
• knocked on the woman’s car window,
• and pepper sprayed the bitch when she rolled the window down.

Am I the only one here who thinks Lisa Nowak is…kind of awesome?

I mean, when she finds out that some two-penny ho is messing with her man, she doesn’t sit at home and cry about it – she slaps on a pair of fucking ADULT DIAPERS and BRINGS IT.  It’s NASA meets Maury Povich, and I fucking love it.

“You better not be sleepin’ with my baby-daddy, you weightless bitch! Now get yo’ skank ass to the cockpit and  propagate our orbiter state vector.“

Man, love is a bitch, isn’t it Lisa? I mean, you can fly a damn shuttle into outer space, but you can’t control how love turns this:

Into this:

And makes this:

degenerate into this:

Shall I compare thee to an absorbent panel?

 

When a Douche Repro-douches…

… you get Bridget Moynahan & Tom Brady’s newborn son, John Edward Thomas Moynahan.

What up, Bridget? Is he a Kennedy? Because if not, that name is perilously close to one of my favorite British slang terms for a penis.

I still wish she would have gone with Defamer’s baby name suggestion: “Fuck Tom Brady.”

Douche.

[Go Steelers!]

“I hated her SO much…that…it…it…flame – flames. Flames, on the side of my face, heaving… breath…heaving breaths. Heaving breath.”

Conversation had with a co-worker over a cubicle wall, when we had a small power outage one morning:

ME: Oh, my desk light just went out.

THIRD PARTY, SHOUTING FROM A FEW ROWS OVER: My computer just went out.

ME: Mine didn’t, just my light. Tim’s laptop went out though.

CO-WORKER: What’s that beeping?

ME: That’s the low-battery warning on Tim’s laptop. It’s going off because his laptop lost power from the power cord. Is your computer off?

CO-WORKER: How can you tell?

ME: Uh…is your screen on?

CO-WORKER: I don’t think so. [WTF??????]

ME: OK. Well, my computer is on. Only my desk light is off.

CO-WORKER: Is that what that beeping is? Your desk light?

ME: NO. That’s Tim’s LAPTOP.

CO-WORKER: How can you tell?

ME: Because it happened the last time the power went out. Also, the NOISE is COMING FROM his LAPTOP.

CO-WORKER: Well, how come I hear you typing?

ME: My computer is on.

CO-WORKER: It is?

ME: Yes. My computer is ON. Only my desk light is OFF.

CO-WORKER: Oh. Should we tell someone?

ME: Yeah. Call tech support.

CO-WORKER: You already did?

ME: NO. You should.

CO-WORKER: Oh. So your computer is off?

She makes HOW much more than me?

Although I have to admit, “The Singing Bee” does fill me with murderous rage

I read on CNN.com this morning about an evangelical Christian group called “Teen Mania,” that seeks to help teenagers resist the pressures of modern popular culture and guide them back onto God’s path. I’m not a very religious person, but I have to admit that there are far worse groups for kids to fall in with. I’d much rather encounter a group of teenagers high on God’s word than a group of teenagers high on whippets and cough syrup, ready to beat my ass in an alley for a cell phone and the 35 cents I usually keep in my wallet.  Although I did find this comment by Christian teen Jared Hutchins about The Beatles sort of…puzzling:

“‘I had to stop listening to them for a while,’ said Hutchins… He said the group’s world view ‘had a negative effect on me,’ and made him irritable and angry.”

Wait. We’re talking about The Beatles here, right? These guys?

The only thing negative about this photo is the realization that my mom had John Lennon’s haircut throughout my entire childhood.

OK, well…I’ll give Hutchins the benefit of the doubt here, and assume he’s talking about the later years, with the drugs and  naked pictures with Yoko and such. But THEN, Hutchins goes on to say that he enjoys the music of Pink Floyd. As in:

“Ticket to Ride” vs. naked lady with flaming skull pulling a dead fetus out of her mouth. WWJD?

Later on in the article, Teen Mania’s founder Ron Luce weaves a gentle metaphor about secular pop culture and its effect on our nation’s teens:

“They’re raping virgin teenage America on the sidewalk, and everybody’s walking by and acting like everything’s OK.”

Wow. OK. I agree that our culture is fucked up, what with the absolute shit on network TV these days, jacked up ideas about body image, and the fact that Hollywood will spend millions of dollars to bring us images like this:

You made him rich for this, America.

But comparing the influence of pop culture to rape? Jeez. Pull it in a little, Ron. We’re talking about US Weekly and “The Bachelor” here. Settle down.

Besides, there are signs that things are taking a turn for the better. Have you heard about the ban on baggy pants that some cities want to put into action? That’s definitely good news in my book. After all, if we start tightening our pants, can this majesty be far behind?

I’ve seen the future…and it’s orange, tweed, and fabulous.

Pug in Tux, 1; Baby in Cocoon, 0

So, HoST and I have been seriously discussing how we could simultaneously throw our lives into complete and total upheaval while also depriving our bodies of sleep and enlarging the size of my ass. That is to say, we’re thinking of having a baby in the next year or so.  This is quite a new thing for me, since I’ve gone my whole life without the least bit of interest in pushing another person through my genitals, but when Jive Turkey turned 30, it seems that her Jive Uterus and her Jive Ovaries decided to fuck with her Jive Head. So we’re all very happy & excited over here at Jive Turkey HQ at the thought of passing on our special brand of batshit crazy to a whole new generation. And frankly, I’m getting really tired of shelling out $20 a month for that bitch of a birth control pill. Future Jive Turkey Chick, you will come into this world as the result of a planned and much anticipated pregnancy, and because your mama is too cheap and lazy to drive 3 blocks down to the Rite Aid every month. Plain and simple.

And while I’m slowly getting more and more excited at the idea of all this baby hoo-ha, there is one thing that is not changing: I hate those fucking Anne Geddes baby pictures with the burning hot intensity of the deepest realm of hell.

Gross.

This is nothing new for me. I’ve hated those asinine pictures ever since I first laid eyes on them. In fact, when HoST and I first started dating, the hatred of Anne Geddes and her fucking Baby Produce Department was something that brought us closer together. We were walking through the mall one day, and we happened to pass a Hallmark store with one of those infuriating Baby-on-a-Pumpkin photos. I turned to HoST and said, “I hate those,” to which he replied, “Me too.” And I am not kidding you when I say I fell a little bit more in love with him that day. Ah, romance. And hatred of innocent children.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me hate those pictures so much. It’s not that I don’t like cute things, because I will nearly have an aneurysm if I happen to see someone walking a puppy down the street, and I’ve come close to slamming my car headfirst into a telephone pole as I strain to get a better look at those fucking adorable puppy ears. And if you dressed a kitten up as a yellow tulip? I might piss myself with glee. So I like the cute. I think it’s that I don’t like “cutesy.” I despise teddy bears and baby talk and those creepy-ass porcelain dolls advertised in the Sunday paper that I just imagine some poor mentally-unbalanced, baby-obsessed woman has propped up and posed all over her sad little studio apartment where she spends entire afternoons cradling and talking to each one, pretending they are real.

Double Gross.

I guess I kind of expected that when I was ready to have a kid, all of this stuff would immediately appeal to me, but…no. Absolutely not. For a while this kind of bothered me, because I thought it meant I was going to be some horrible hell-beast of a mother, but fuck that. Dressing babies up as fruits & vegetables in an attempt to make me say “Awwww!” and explode into a pile of ovaries just does not work for me, and probably never will. And I am OK with that.

So, to recap – I hate this:

Confidential to Anne Geddes: a baby is not a disgusting under-developed bug pupa, you sick fuck.

But I love this:

He’s fancy!

This is wrong:

“Honey, I was thinking of having Anne Geddes dress our baby up as a giant, hairy piece of dog shit - what do you think?”

But this is oh, so right:

FUCKING BRILLIANT.

I Give My Future Grandchildren Permission to Push Me Down the Stairs if I Ever Act Like This

Like so many people with theatre degrees, I work in an office. On a computer. In fact, I’d venture to say that I do about 95% of my job on my computer. My company is really into online forms and cutting down on faxing and paper use, which is totally fine by me. Not so much because I want to conserve our precious woodlands, but because less paper means less getting up off my ass to fax or file something. You understand. 

You’re lucky I’m lazy, you endangered sumbitch.

My co-workers in this office are also remarkably technology-savvy, even the ones who – shall we say – came by computers late in life. Because, really, if you just apply yourself a little, any asshole can learn how to use a computer. You need look no further than an episode of “To Catch a Predator” for proof of that.

The thing is, we have this other office. On the other side of the country.  It’s our main office, and came into existence back in the days when “Fatty Arbuckle” was a perfectly acceptable name for a celebrity.  Since the office has been there for so long, there are certain colleagues of mine who were hired before we were required to ace multiple computer proficiency tests just to score an interview with this place. What I’m trying to say is: there are a bunch of olds in that office who have no idea how to work a fucking computer.

Why isn’t my english muffin getting toasted in this contraption? And what is Sammy Davis Jr. doing here?

The annoying thing is, my company is very aware that these senior employees need extra help and training with computers and basic software, so there are fully-paid classes and training opportunities everywhere you turn. There’s no excuse to be ignorant to the mysterious ways of the Dell. You don’t need to understand HOW email works, just please fucking learn how to send a reply that:

1. Doesn’t sound like a telegraph

2. Gets sent to ME, and not the person whose last name is identical to my first name (this happens about once a month, and is also the reason why I have sprouted a new wrinkle on my forehead)

3. Does not include those annoying colored/patterned backgrounds and/or a biblical quote with a winking smiley face at the bottom. I am telling you right now that Christ himself would roll his eyes at that shit (unless, of course, you sent the email to Darryl Christ instead of Christ Lord, because you still cannot grasp the perplexities of the Outlook address book)

As I mentioned before, my job is performed almost exclusively on the computer. Which is why it blows my mind that I still get questions like “How do I print in color?” and “What does ‘number lock’ mean?” from my dusty-ass old counterparts who make more money than me because they have been working since the dawn of time. How are they doing their jobs? How?! The only answer I can come up with is that they’re not doing their jobs (or at least not doing them very well), but no one wants to can Granny lest they get slapped with a messy age-discrimination suit. Nevermind that she still prints out every email she receives, completely negating the paperless office concept – we’ve got to keep her old ass hired until she decides to pack up her Anne Geddes posters and get the hell out of there.

I’m sure this will all come back to bite me in the ass someday when I have to call my grandson to come over and help me figure out how to operate my newfangled diabetes shoes. But until then, I’ll keep bitching about my crusty old co-workers on the internet. At least I know they’ll never find my blog.

What’s with the random slam up in the third paragraph? Sheesh – a guy kills a young actress after sodomizing her with a champagne bottle and he never hears the end of it.

Today in OHMYFUCKINGGOD

In yet another uplifting CNN.com article, scientists discuss the behavior of a white dwarf star similar to our sun. The last few sentences of the article are by far the best:

“Astronomers believe the sun in perhaps 5 billion years will go through the same process, ending up as a white dwarf.

“UCLA astronomer Benjamin Zuckerman said when our sun starts to expand in size and lose mass, the planets closest to the sun, Mercury and Venus, will get engulfed and destroyed. Other planets, probably including Earth, and the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, will spiral out of their orbits, Zuckerman said.”

Happy Friday, everyone!

Today in Shock

So, according to the German magazine Bild, Siegfried & Roy have come out of the closet and have publicly stated that they are in a homosexual relationship.

Whaaat? Noooo. Whaaat? Nooo.

Oh, Evan Rachel Wood

If you have not read all about this poor 19-year-old girl who thinks she is in love with Marilyn Manson, please, for the love of God, read this, and have a good laugh.

Then, go here, and try not to become paralyzed with embarrassment on behalf of sweet, delusional Evan Rachel, who is making the biggest I-Was-19-and-It-Seemed-Like-a-Good-Idea-at-the-Time mistake IN THE HISTORY OF WOMANKIND.

Because, oh, she is so 19-years-old in that People article that it hurts my heart – what with the “kissing while it was raining blood was SO romantic! Squeeee!” and the “oh, we’re just a boring old normal healthy couple, and one of us just happens to look like a vampire.” Sister, those words are going to come back to haunt you in SUCH a big way, I almost cannot bear to think about it.

After all, I’ve been there. I dated some…unusual guys in college, and often my reasons for dating them were no better than “He has a car and can take me to that nice Taco Bell off-campus,” or “He has a forty of Little Kings in his dorm fridge that he said I could have,” or – my personal fave – “he cried when I said we should just be friends.” So, yeah. I’ve been there. Not proud of that. But it happens, because I was 19, and therefore: stupid.

Case in point (which is making me cringe already): So, this one time? When I was 19? I got really really reeeeeally drunk off of box wine and broke down in complete hysterics at a party because I had just gotten dumped by some frat guy. As my devoted friend Deez was dragging my sorry ass back to our dorm room, this guy – who apparently had a fetish for weeping, red-eyed, runny-nosed hysterical girls who reek of white zinfandel – stopped us and creepily asked for my number. And I…oh, Lord…I GAVE IT TO HIM in a state of drunken self-pity, despite the protests of poor, put-upon Deez. And because I am now so embarrassed that I’m finding it hard to breathe, I will sum up the rest of this story in list form:

1. This guy looked like Opie.
2. He actually called me and asked me out.
3. I actually agreed.
4. On our first date, he wore white jeans and a black turtleneck. Please take a moment and picture that.
5. The end of our first date found us in his mom’s basement watching Batman, and at one point, I noticed I was sitting next to a can of Blue Star ointment, as in JOCK ITCH CREAM.
6. I met up with him a second time (I KNOW!!!), and he actually said to me, “So, are you going to sleep with me or what?” (and NO, I DID NOT, thank you very much, because even stupid 19-year-old me had standards, albeit very odd ones.)
7. After that disastrous evening, I stopped returning his calls and his MOTHER (who I had never met) found my number and called me, begging me to go out with him again.
8. Some time later, I found out he lied about his age. And was way old. And not even a student at my college like he told me he was. Yay.

Blurrgh. I feel sick now.

But as bad as that story is (which is very, very bad), Evan Rachel Wood will be able to TOP IT. After all,

My mistake:

“So, Aunt Bea, are you going to sleep with me or what?”

Her mistake:

“Honey, can you pick me up some more clown white at the store?”

In Other News, Somewhere a Puppy is Dying RIGHT NOW

CNN.com ran a really positive, uplifting story today about the various ways your body is ravaged, butt-fucked, and bitch-slapped by aging.

I’m pretty sure this was my favorite excerpt:

“As early as age 20, people may notice the beginning signs of aging: fine wrinkles, thinning skin, loss of firmness in hands and neck, graying hair, hair loss and thinning nails. At age 30, the human body’s major organs begin to decline.” 

WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

In other words: By the time you are old enough to figure out what the fuck you are doing with your life, your body is a wrinkled, thin-skinned, hairless, flabby-necked, weak-nailed rotting pile of ass. Enjoy!

Next stop: pissing yourself and not remembering where you live!