Mr. H insisted on dragging me off to Antarctica or Canada or Maine or wherever the hell we went. We went on a boat. There was weather on this boat. I am making a face about being on the boat. A puss. The paparazzi imortalized this moment several times over. I share it with you lest you think my life is such a heady whirl of glamour that I am unapproachable.
On the plus side, I saw some dogs. Many dogs. Dogs like me, and I like them.
Eddie Albert died! I don’t know if it is possible for me to ever enjoy a TV show as much as I enjoy Green Acres. Perhaps you enjoy it too. If not, I don’t ever wish to speak with you again. Get bent.
Classic theme song (with pictures!)
French version (pictures again!)
Punk version
Rap version
Oh, Internet. You are looking sallow today. Go outside! There is a patch of blue sky. But you care not for blue sky. You wish to remain adrift on your own personal Raft of the Medusa. Young people today. You never finish anything you start. Uh huh, I am talking to you. Remember when you started that zine? And that eyebrow piercing, that was hot. Thai cookery? Wooo.
***
Tom Cruise, you crazy fucking Scientologist, you are the new David Hager. Apparently, one should use vitamins to treat post-partum depression, and Brooke Shields is a total washed up whore for treating her PPD with Paxil. (Not a) Dr. Cruise goes on to say that “when you talk about emotional, chemical imbalances in people, there is no science behind that.” I’ll keep that in mind, thanks!
Tom, you are a motherfucking lunatic: witness the hooting and leaping during a recent Oprah appearance. Or not, because it’s rather disturbing. His mid-life crisis seems to be right on schedule. Take some vitamins for that. Eat a raw pork chop and have a nap.
***
I am old, Internet. That freckle is a melanoma, I’m sure. My toe joints hurt when it rains. These white hairs are a sign of premature menopause. I rap children on the knuckles with my platinum-tipped cane, and my eyebrows are drawn on up to my hairline. It’s time to retire! See you in Pismo Beach. I need a chair to sit in while I shower.
What’s up, Retardo Montalban? Yeah, you like that one? I thought of it in the drive through at Dunkin’ Donuts. Sometimes I call the cat that, so you are not even worthy of an original insult.
In addition to my laundry and Zellweger duties, sometimes I like to take the car in for regularly scheduled service. The dealership pimps both Hondas and German Cars Assembled in Mexico, and today the waiting room was full of Honda people. Fucking Christ. They were all knitting and passing around Pampered Chef catalogs taken out of tote bags that came free with some mundane woman’s grooming item purchase. This one douche bag took over several chairs with her “scrapbooking” gear. She was mutilating photos of her children by trimming with a paper cutter and then bedazzling them on pages made out of what looked like wallpaper samples.
So I scrunched down in a chair, holding an issue of Travel + Leisure two inches from my face, to protect me from the Honda rays. I was reading about truffles and figs and suckling pigs with brittle skin and restaurants I’ve recently eaten at, and Scrapbook Lady started blah-blahing to Knitting Lady (I am doing a writing thing that John Gardner hates here) about how it would be so great to travel to places like “Europe.” And how she’d like to see the llamas some day. I am pretty sure you can go see some llamas in Jamaica Plain, but maybe she meant Lorenzo Lamas? At any rate (more crappy writing), a little man soon appeared and called me by my husband’s last name. He called it several times before I realized Mrs. Mr. H meant me. I asked him what kind of car he had, and he said a Honda. Jerkass.
Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Did you know there are calories in food? I just found out about this. I am going to lodge a complaint with the maitre d’!
Don’t worry, this personal homepage is still about Renee Zellweger. I just thought I’d mix it up with a Nicole. I got a million more Zellwegers.
Hey, let’s talk about having sex with animals, in a totally non-topical way. Neal Horsley, anti-abortion wingnut who started the Nuremberg Files website to provide personal details about abortion providers, admitted to Alan Colmes that he’d had sex with a mule. But see, the mule wanted it. It was consensual bestiality, if not outright mule prostitution. Mules: they want to come over and bone us. I bet this is how the herpes spreads.
Ok, Zellwegers, I have to go buy organic fabric softener now.
Renee Zellweger attempts to blend in with her environment. Renee doesn’t know that the shark in the next panel (not pictured) can totally see her. I have to look away now.
This personal internet homepage on the internet is now about two things: Renee Zellweger and laundry. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Why am I doing six loads of laundry today? How did we get to be so dirty? Oh, right. You pig.
Picture Renee Zellweger making a face as if she were smelling something really pungent and terrible.
I recall that I threatened to tell a story about a crackhead and a toothless alcoholic, so here we go. Put on your damn water wings, and keep your hands inside the log flume. You repulse me. What are you, Renee Zellweger? I digress.
Someone we know had a little on-again, off-again relationship with crack. I can see the appeal: smoke crack or participate in reality? Dur.
But he is on the wagon and doing rather well now, and part of his success is going to NA meetings every night. He went to the first meeting, and was accosted during the smoke break by a toothless girl. She popped up faithfully during the next few evenings, bringing him cups of coffee and generally sticking like glue.
Then this girl told him she is twenty, and that she only goes to meetings to meet men. She doesn’t actually have a substance abuse problem. She’s just exploring her options.
This is a humorous enough story in itself, targeting recovering addicts to find love, but I told it to friends at dinner, and when I got to the toothless part, one dining companion stopped, looked thoughtful, and said “Ohhhh…PURE VELVET.”
I officially gots nothing. Mr. H said “well, don’t post until you have something.” But that defeats the entire purpose of the internet! My language and smartsing skills have painfully deteriorated. Know what’s in my head? A pastiche of OMG OMG, look at that dog, somebody feed me. Do I feel like a fraud when anyone thinks I do a good job at anything? Yes. Is it good to allow that out on a page unchecked? Hell, hell no. I once knew how to punctuate and write without run-on sentences. I still do, honestly, but the problem is that I’m lazy as crap. And the internet allows me to splatter unedited offal every which-a-way. I don’t even fucking spellcheck. This is bad, bad, bad. But then again, reading anything well-written on the internet annoys the crap out of me too, like the writer in question is just showing off. If I want sensitive and thoughtful, I’ll go get a damn Jonathan Lethem book and eat a damn scone at the bookstore while I am doing that.
I have this sense of impending doom like you wouldn’t believe. If the situation allowed, I would stay under the duvet all day and all night, only emerging for pasta and more of that $8 wine I like so much. Everything is post post post post everything else. McSweeney’s and the internet, I hate you so much. I hate you, cheeky advertising copy. Driving in the car is so bad. Going to the store is so bad. Requiring chemicals to think normal things are actually OK: so bad. I go back and forth on that one. Rationally, I know existentialism is sneaking back up on me because I cut the amount of happy chemicals in my body. And blah blah, a diabetic isn’t a bad person because he has to take insulin. A diabetic is a bad person because he cheats on his girlfriend! Or because he never finishes anything he starts and then complains about it. Shit, I am that diabetic. One day I will write a book called Lackluster Plans Started in Fits of Enthusiasm. OR NOT. Why’d Mom have to eat all that lead paint while gestating?
While the following may have nothing to do with anal sex, consider it painful and unexpected, in the spirit of David Hager.
Mr. H and I went for a walk t’other day, and we ended up close to a Dunkin’ Donuts. Since I can never pass up corn syrup solids, I jabbed him in the ribs until he agreed to buy me a Dunkaccino. He’s the one that carries the wallet on our little walks. I am not to be trusted. But he needed to use the ATM, and while he mis-entered his PIN with his monkey paws, I gawped at a sign that read “Atention Dunkin Donut’s Customer’s. Use ATM before making you’r purchase.” I flailed and sputtered, and he laughed at me.
Then I noticed the sign on the other side of the beverage delivery bay: “Dunkin Donut’s Customer’s thankyou for you’r patience. All our machine’s are working again, including latte’s and gift cards. Thankyou.”
Mr. H said that the sign was funny, but how bent I got was funnier. Fine! It took me many blocks to shut up about it, and that was only because I knew I could talk about it again on the internet. My drink sucked anyway. It was diluted with the tear’s of the infant Jesu’s. At least I hope that’s what that was. You’r a jerk!