I love Hollywood.

The real John Dillinger looked like this:



Johnny Depp looks like this:



Because who the hell wants to see a movie starring a weasel-faced, squinty eyed dude that looks like a low-level hobo? Not a high-level hobo with his very own cardboard box or an elite hobo with his very own shopping cart. Just a low-level hobo whose only possessions are lice and scabs. Nobody, that's who.

I love Hollywood.

Holy CRAP! I totally plead the fifth.

I swear, officer, I had NOTHING to do with killing Billy Mays. I mean, yes, I posted a rambling blog about how much I loath him and yes, when he comes on the tv, I think, "Nobody loves you. You're a black hole of suck", but I didn't smother him in his sleep.

Don't tase me, dude. I didn't do it.

I've got one cold-hearted duodenum

Michael Jackson died today. It's shocking and all, but I refuse to be too sad. After all, he was an elderly white woman and he had a full, interesting life.

I grew up with Michael Jackson's Thriller goodness. I loved Michael Jackson when I was a kid. I opened his album to the kick-ass picture of him in a sexy white suit, all jerri-curled and hawt, holding the tiger by a chain, and I would dance and dance and pretend I was a tiger. Ahem.



So it's moderately sad that he died. I say that from the very outer-most surface of my heart...ok maybe not really from my heart at all, but maybe somewhere near my duodenum.

Before you say I've got ice cold blood running through my duodenum, consider this: the whole Michael Jackson thing has been sad for a very long time. I've mourned the loss of MY Michael Jackson since around 1993.

And now, you just KNOW he won't rest in peace. It's gonna be some Elvis-conspiracy-aluminum foil hat-freakshow from here on out. Guaranteed. Go ahead, doubt me. Come back in a few days and I'll even let you apologize.

Also...

A.W.E.S.O.M.E.

Phantom Awesome-ness

So scientists announced that people still feel "phantom fat" even after dramatic weight loss. They maintain a "larger than life" self image and this feeling can linger until their "brain catches up to reality".

Well. Well well well. So THAT'S why, 20 years after high school, the guy down the street still thinks he looks awesome in his letterman's jacket. And his 1986 t-top Camaro with the gold eagle decal on the hood? Still awesome. Poor little guy's BRAIN just hasn't caught up with REALITY.

And that lady at the grocery store who thinks it's still 1989 and frosted mall bangs are what ALL the cool kids are wearing, and seems to have no idea that her size 10 stonewashed jeans with the zippers at the cuff should've been retired about they time she had her 2nd kid. It's not her fault.

Gotta give these folks a break. They're simply suffering from "Phantom Awesome-ness". It's science, people. Look it up.

You wanna put your what in my where?

Oh, you know you want one.

Sabotage, thy name is Mom

I don't think it's a secret that I would prefer it if we lived in a completely segregated society where boys couldn't get anywhere near my daughter and girls couldn't get within a brick wall and barbed wire fence of my son. Unfortunately, that's called a CULT and is frowned on by most. That being said, I insist that other preventative measures must be taken. Applying butter to their faces while they sleep to clog their pores, hiding their deodorant, filling their shampoo bottles with mayonnaise...there are many ways, grasshopper. This mom knows.

Becca's youth group has the right idea: boys are red, girls are blue, and there shall be NO PURPLING. But that doesn't mean there aren't shades of violet and a wee bit of perriwinkle every now and then. Nice try, Church Lady.

Matthew's school has a rule against "flirting", and their definition of "flirting" is wonderfully hazy and abundantly unclear, thus confusing the awkward 12 and 13 year olds, and making this mom very happy. Matthew says, "Mom, I got talked to by Mr. X today because he says I was flirting with (*insert harlot's name here*) but all I was doing was asking her for a pencil." I reply, "You need to be more responsible. You're grounded."

The guy who does our yard (I can't call him our "yard boy" because that may imply that he is a hot Latin gardener in nothing but 501s and work boots...and he's not that kind of yard guy at ALL) has been bringing a helper, a strapping fellow about 18 years old. Becca and her friends press their faces against the livingroom window and watch him. I stand in the next room with a sign pressed to the window, "My scissors + your balls = don't be a hero, boy."

So far, my subterfuge has prevented Becca from making any progress whatsoever towards dating. However, my 17 year old niece already has a boyfriend. I consider that my own personal failure. I will not let it happen again.