So my Tivo.
I’ve been using it religiously. To record Friends. Cry for me now. Mofo Friends. And not the new Friends that I missed because I was watching Big Tom and Big Tom’s Ass Crack on Survivor. No. I’m recording classic 1994 Friends repeats. You know, back when Joey wasn’t a mongoloid and Monica wasn’t freakishly thin with a nose that could slice cheese and she didn’t scream so much. And I think that Ross actually might have had a penis back then too.
How you doin’?
I am oh so glad that I now owe the government a luxury car for my education in classic literature. Seriously. That’s money well spent right there.
I read The National Enquirer sometimes too. I know. I’m ashamed. But not too ashamed to jump on any copy that talks about how Meg Ryan is trying to use sex to lure Russell Crowe back to her adorably cute arms. That’s educational too, I suppose. Like, maybe I want to see if it can actually be accomplished. Because I’d like me some of that there randy salty goodness’. No wait, pesky little marriage license thing. Shit.
But seriously’ how you doin’?
Don’t worry. I have shame for this. I do ab crunches the entire time that I watch American Idol and Jackass. It’s a penance. The National Enquirer‘ well, its punishment is that I leave it in the bathroom’ aka Room Of Strange And Also Wonderful Things. Wonderful in that I am often naked in there. Strange in that Esteban spends some royally foul ass time in there as well.
There it is then.
That’s one of my favorite sayings, by the way. Those of you who know me in person know this already. It occurred to me that I rarely actually write that out but I say it an awful lot. I usually imagine that it comes out sounding slightly British, which would make me sound so much more clever, but in actuality, it probably makes me sound like a master of the obvious. But there it is then.
Unlike ‘I’m Just Sayin&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-, which I write and say with a fair amount of frequency. Strange how stuff like that works.
Today, Pretty Penny and I had an intervention with the Lovely Carissa. She’s been making waffle noises about going to MulletFest 2002 (aka Journey concert this weekend at the local county fair, after the tractor pull’ I am not making that up. Shut up. I am not.) because she’s unsure if she can get a babysitter for her child. Her husband is taking their oldest child to Chicago for a Nascar race. I’m not making that up either. Her husband thinks my Monte Carlo is sexy. I adore him anyway. But back to MulletFest 2002, she isn’t sure if she’s going or not, so instead I had to remind her how much fun MulletFest 2001 we had, and how it was one of my favorite days from last summer. She responded ‘Well, we’ll see’ which is Momtalk for ‘I don’t bloody think so’ and Penny pouted a bit so I started singing ‘Don’t stop beleeeeeevin’ to which Carissa joined in and we quietly sang the chorus because we were standing in a cube farm and were surrounded by a bunch of Hindu contractors who already look at me with great awe, as though they don’t know whether they should have sex with me or worship at my feet.
Either would be fine, actually.
And then Carissa’s boss came around the corner and said that we sounded lovely, much to our shame and embarrassment. Well, mine, mostly because I don’t know him and he looks a bit like a Kennedy. And then he said we should have sung louder and the entire song. Sadly, I think we could have done it from memory too.
It’s all about how not cool I am. I am such a colossal dork sandwich sometimes. Seriously. Sometimes I’m so damn hot I can barely stand it and then other times I’m all excited to catch ‘Cracklin Rosie’ by Neil Diamond on the radio when I’m making a hummus run at lunch. Bah Ba Bup Ba Bah! Chyeah!
On a similar note: If Carissa is able to go to MulletFest with Penny and I, I’ve declared that we are going to the Retro Bar. The bar Carissa and I have gone to twice and has twice seen the serious kicking of my non-alcoholic curvy medium-jeans fitting ass. Carissa gave me a speculative look and I swore that I’d be good and she replied ‘No, you can’t help it.’ And I agreed with her. It’s a bad bar for me. It makes me do evil things. Evil things with tasty liquor. And seriously, if the two snotty girls are there again, I’m taking them out. Malibu or no Malibu. I’m going to flatten them.
Well, not like they weren’t flat already!
Oooh! Already it starts. I know that many of you are setting your alarms for a nice drunken Weet entry early this Saturday morning. I should be ashamed, but I’m not. Not even a little.
I’m just fooling myself that I’m not a big hivey lump of white trash.
There it is then. Chyeah!
