Weekly Shocks' Blog


Brilliant

As someone who appreciates good, witty writing from all ends of political, religious, and social spectra, I highly recommend Christopher Buckley’s tribute to his recently-passed parents in today’s New York Times Magazine.

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Uh Oh! Overshare!

Don’t you just hate it when you have a 6am flight and you toss and turn in your bed all evening, completely incapable of sleeping because 1) you’re a paranoid weirdo who is convinced she’ll sleep through her alarm, miss her flight, then be forced to sell a kidney so she can pay for a new one and 2) you badly overindulged in good American food on your last night in the States and it’s not sitting so well in your stomach, oh, no, not at all, until, finally, at around 3am, you bolt out of bed, convinced you’ll never make it to the toilet, so you open the window (and thank God the screen fell out because your damn cat clawed its way through because you’re convinced it wants to kill you while you sleep: you swear, that damn thing is in league with Satan, you should probably look into that) and after you throw open the window, you blow chunks out into the still, cool night, and then you spend the next few hours wishing you were dead as your body continuously and violently rids itself of every item of food you’ve put into your face over the past three weeks and you miss your flight anyway, because British Air is staffed by fogies and prudes who don’t seem to like vomiting passengers, and then, here it is, two days later, and you’re still in the States, and you should be back in the UK, but you’re not, and, oh crap, we’re all gonna die?!?!?!?

Yeah. Me too.

Bottom line: disgustingly unwell at the moment, and none too pleased about it. I should be back in lovely L’Angleterre by Monday, provided, of course, I stop emptying the contents of my stomach into the nearest toilet at every opportunity. Let’s see how this goes, yes?


Why aren’t any of these damned body parts labeled?!

"Let the healing begin," or "Time to die!" You decide.

"Let the healing begin," or "Time to die!" You decide.

Having undergone a couple of surgeries myself, I’m pretty sure that what just happened in Minnesota is probably a lot more common than the medical community would like us to believe. Really, is it just me, or is surgery perhaps the grandest example of how messed up human behavior can sometimes be? Sure, it’s miraculous and it saves lives and all that rubbish, but imagine an alien race observing our typical medical procedure and the impression we’re giving: a masked stranger drugs an unwell, often terrified victim patient, then slices into him or her with a knife, takes a gooey hunk of innards out, tosses it into a pan to be looked at later at his convenience, and sews or staples the flesh together again. And you have to pay to have this done to you! I think I’m well within my rights when I say, with all sincerity, “Ew,” and, just for good measure, “AGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”


Yet another reason why I’m going to hell.

I cannot stop watching this or laughing my ass off at it. Poor dog. Given the number of YouTube hits he’s got, though, I suspect he’s got a multi-million dollar movie deal in the works. Hope it’s worth it!


Wipe That Grin Off Your Face Before Someone Breaks It!

I tend to smile a lot. I can’t help it. I took part in a bizarre, very illegal experiment a few years back when I was a wee bit broke, and I now receive a series of small electrical shocks if the forced, mildly-hysterical grin fades for even one second from my twitching, sweaty  face. Little advice, folks: those “medical experiments” you see advertised on rickety old subway trains at 6:30 in the morning? Scams. ALL SCAMS. UTTER AND COMPLETE FRAUD! RUN, RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN!

In all seriousness (or as serious as I ever get), I’m a pretty cheerful person. If you can’t tell by this blog, I’m easily amused, and, as a result, I have a running commentary of rollicking weirdness trawling through my head most of the time, which results in the perpetual, goofy grin, and an occasional, ill-timed giggle. The giggling thing is a problem, actually. Of course I giggle during the obviously comical moments in life, like when sloshed people fall off the drunk bus in Oxford, or during academic seminars when the lecturer starts howling like a dog whistle as she rants away on rape and slavery in the Old South  (oh, I am so going to hell). But I also have the very bad habit of giggling when I’m nervous or uncomfortable or wishing I had a jetpack and could fly away from awkward situations with the touch of a button and a few thousand pounds of fossil fuels. My concern for the environment ends where my social ineptitude begins, folks, and, damn it, I’m ok with that.

I went on a date once with a guy who seemed to lack serial killer tendencies and had no discernible body odor, which are pretty much my only requirements for a first date these days. About five minutes into our little outing, he began a twenty-minute exposition/rant on his theory on how sex with thirteen-year-olds was a completely normal, natural event and he just didn’t understand what the big deal with pedophilia was. At this point in the evening, I probably should have quietly excused myself and then run screaming for the hills, stopping only to give Chris Hansen a call. But because I am incurably polite even in the face of horrific creepiness, I did the next best thing. I giggled. Loudly. For several minutes. And just to ensure this weirdo that I found what he was saying unbelievably offensive and disgusting, I blushed, too. And can you BELIEVE this freak thought I wanted to date him again?!  I mean, yes, of course, I was kind and threw in another six months of dates like these, like any nice girl would, but come on! How come these perverts are always the ones who are incapable of taking a bloody hint?!

Oh, I am pathetic.

Anyway, yeah. The smiling thing kind of defines who I am, but don’t be jealous! Keep in mind that it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m happy or I like you! I could be wishing you dead at this very minute! Oh, that was mean: I’m sorry. No, really, I am: you’re lovely. Seriously. Do you need me to lend you a few bucks? Need a place to crash for the night? Spare kidney? I’d love to help.

Where the hell is my jetpack?


Apparently I flushed my brain down the toilet.

An actual sentence from my latest dissertation chapter:

It is possible that the recent alteration in North Carolina’s testing data is indicative of a wider-scale momentum shift in educational reform, cross-correlated with job loss figures suggesting an overwhelming reconciliation of service-sector replacement with white-collar professions, which is an inevitability the state’s school system is unable or unwilling to address or mitigate.

I supposedly wrote this puddle of cow vomit and I have no idea what it means. If you happen to see my brain in a gutter, or if you have a Bullshit-to-English translator, please email me. I need help.


There’s a New Sheriff in Town!

US Obama Dog

Have you guys heard anything about the Obama family getting a new dog? Seems to be some minor blip in the news lately. They named the little guy Bo, which is a cool name for a dog, I guess, but he was apparently named Charlie before, which probably means the poor thing is suffering from some severe existential angst-y trauma right now. It’s stuff like sudden name changes that causes dogs to pee on carpets and maul small children. (bullshit) Fact.

Anyway, he’s a cute little mite, but I just don’t understand why anyone would choose him, when, as rumor has it, this little guy is still on the market:

samugliestdoglulu

Whatta looker, isn’t he?! I bet President Obama could just break this handsome lovely out whenever the Republican Congressional minority gets uppity and they’d all just coo over the wee creature until all our financial woes disappeared. Politics at its finest, folks.

‘Scuse me, hafta claw my eyes out now.


Camping (aka, Spending Money to be Voluntarily Homeless)

One of the dangers in living in a country as beautiful and temperately mild as the UK is that you occasionally run into people who think spending lots of time sleeping on the ground outside and fending off wild animals is just the most brilliant idea in the whole wide world. I seem to know all of these weirdos. Most of my friends know better by now, but when I first moved to this country, every six weeks or so one of them would drop acid and then suggest six of us pile into a tent designed for two small children, hike through the wilderness until pus-filled blisters oozed through our socks, and then ended up wishing each and every one of the others were dead, eaten by wolves, and roasting in hell. Ah, good times.

I may not have made myself clear: I am not a fan of camping. Seriously, what’s the point? I’m spending a bloody fortune to educate myself so I won’t have to be a homeless bum burning leaves for warmth. Why do it “for fun?” Judging by the number of camping enthusiasts out there, I sincerely worry that there are large swaths of mankind who actually enjoy going days on end without showering, peeing and crapping in the woods, and getting dysentery from a half-raw, half-burnt dinner of moldering hot dog buns and roadkill. A love of camping suggests dark things, my friends, very dark things, indeed.

I think my view on camping may be tainted by the fact that I lost a good portion of both my soul and my sanity the first time I went and have yet to retrieve either. I also lost many of my toenails as well. Those, luckily, I got back, which I should be grateful for, I suppose. Still, it was an utterly traumatizing experience. One day, when I was eleven, my parents decided they wanted some quality time to themselves, so they sent their three pre-teen daughters off into the woods of New Hampshire, along with a pair of well-meaning but woefully unqualified camping guides, six other inner-city girls, and a Ziplock bag filled with trail mix. It was times like those when I questioned whether my parents really loved me. I think the entire trip lasted only a weekend, but I seem to remember slogging up the White Mountains for months, perhaps years, wondering if there was in fact a merciful God and what I had done to deserve such punishment at His hands. Really, there are only so many ice storms you can endure and only so many times you can sink in mud up to your waist before you start thinking maybe that eternal pact with Satan in exchange for a warm bed and a shower isn’t such a bad deal after all.

On Day 7,435 of our Journey Through Hell (or Day 2, I can’t really remember) I decided halfway through our afternoon death march that a change of socks was in order. My feet were soaked, either because of the previously mentioned Mud Pits of Doom or my blisters had finally broken and a lovely combination of blood and pus was now filling my boots. These boots were ever-so-slightly too small for me, which isn’t much of a problem if you’re a city girl and have no intention of hiking, but “ever-so-slightly too small” turns into “instruments of unmitigated torture” when you’re on a dirt trail twelve hours a day, trudging up a bloody goddamn mountain. (Did my parents love me? Seriously?) Anyway, as I slumped on a boulder, peeling off my filthy socks and wondering how this could possibly get any worse (WARNING WARNING WARNING IT GETS ALL KINDS OF ICKY AWFUL WORSE), four of my toenails responded by committing suicide and peeling off entirely from my foot and onto the sock!!!!! Holy Mother of GOD!!!!! I mean, honestly, what do you do with yourself when you’re eleven, your parents clearly hate you, your boots are too small, you’re covered in mud, your toenails have shuffled off their mortal coil, and you have seven hundred years left before you can go home again, take a bath, and change your underwear?!

So, yeah, thanks anyway, but I’ll take a pass on the camping if you don’t mind, freak. You go right ahead without me, though, and have yourself just a lovely time getting a rash, pneumonia, and Lyme Disease. Just make sure you take a shower or three before you come see me again, ok, buddy? Enjoy!


Sloth: American Style

garfield

Important stuff first: despite rumors to the contrary, I had nothing to do with this.

Now that we’ve dealt with those heinous accusations and slurs against my good name, sincere apologies for falling off the grid the past couple of days, folks. I’ve been rather busy with my loving family, visiting the poor of my parish, tending to the sick, concentrating on my prayer life, celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, and, in general, being full of crap.

I actually have been busy, sort of, but mostly I’ve spent my time happily readjusting to American life, which for me means delicious laziness. Part of this is obviously because I’m on vacation at the moment (don’t tell my supervisor that), but, really, life in the States offers all kinds of modern conveniences that make day-to-day activities so blissfully easy it paradoxically becomes difficult to do anything at all. Seriously, compared to America, living in England is like being on an episode of Survivor, only with stranger accents, more beer, and, thankfully, fewer body lice.

I never expected this when I first went to England. It’s not as if the country is some Third World hell-hole. Oxford, for example, is a jaw-droppingly lovely city, rich in history, culture, architecture, and traditions, a place where you can feel confident that students and locals alike will stumble out of pubs at 2am, bellowing about the football, and then vomit all over themselves and each other before brawling in the streets and passing out in pools of their own blood and urine. True, glorious civilization, as it were. And thank God I live there, because there are only so many American yokels I can take before I go utterly mad and disown my entire redneck family! Haha!

(My mom is totally going to kick my ass.)

Anyway, England. There are all sorts of things about England I didn’t expect. Like windows without screens. Which is fine as long as you never want to get any fresh air without every bug in a fifty-mile radius coming into your room and draining your body of all its blood while you sleep. But, hey, not having any blood is actually a benefit in the UK. Partly this is because everyone there looks as if they wandered off the Twilight set, but mostly it’s due to the fact that the British have yet to master the grand technological wonder of mixed faucets. This annoys me to no end. It is impossible to wash a damn dish in that country without either burning off all the skin on your hands or having your fingers turn into icicles and snap off into the sink. But, again, because you have no blood, at least it cuts down on the clean-up. And you’ll need every bit of help you can get in the clean-up department, because the English don’t seem to like garbage disposals either. I found this out the hard way. After a hearty meal of hiding bits of blood sausage under a giant, oozing pile of mushy peas, I was appalled to discover that the hole in the kitchen sink was simply a hole without any sign of the friendly, waste-grinding machine I had taken for granted all my life. Nothing makes you long for a garbage disposal more than digging around in a kitchen sink hole and bringing out fistfuls of greenish, black-flecked gunk that reminds you of a gangrenous wound, or, worse, that revolting meal you were just forced to eat. It’s enough to make an American weep for home.

Ah, beautiful American living. It really is a glorious place, but it does turn me into a drooling cow. When I’m in Oxford, for example, I walk three to four miles a day, easy, just because I have to – there’s really no other way to get around the city unless I want to get squashed under a lorrie while riding my bike or wrestle with the drunks on the bus. And walking in Oxford is wonderfully pleasant: the city is so conducive to strolling around, I can’t imagine navigating it any other way. I always wonder if the people trying to drive in its impossibly narrow and curving streets are either high on crack, insane, or both. On the other hand, when I’m back in Boston, which is supposed to be one of the most walkable cities in the US,  I cannot be arsed to walk the two blocks from my house to the mailbox. I swear this is shamefully true. This is partly because Boston drivers are, in fact, both high on crack and very, very insane, and view sidewalks as simply the far right lane, so getting mowed over while on a peaceful stroll is more than a remote possibility. But it’s also because no one – NO ONE – in the city would even think of walking to a mailbox and if I were seen doing so, I’d either be shot or carted off to a looney bin.

So, really, it’s much safer for me to stay indoors, enjoy my home filled with mixed faucets, lovingly caress my garbage disposal (this wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had, by the way), and do nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing. I know, I know, it’s not much of an apology for my lack of blogging over the past couple of days, but frankly, it’s all I can muster on the limited pool of energy I’ve got left after all the conveniences of American life have sapped me of my will to move. God bless this country. Moo.


Well, aren’t I a GRADE A MORON!

See, I should know better by now. I really should. Yet I go ahead and do it anyway. I write stupid blog posts about Viagra and Cialis and other products designed to embarrass me when they are advertised on television during quality time with my eight-year-old niece. And it’s inevitable that Google picks up this post, and now I have all kinds of  sad folks landing here, innocently searching the web for simple, sweet things like “penis performance” hoping that somehow Weekly Shocks can help them please their ladies. To all those who came here for that purpose, I deeply apologize. I got nuthin’. Lots of stuff on puggles, though. May want to check that out. Chicks dig puggles, trust me.

Now, why the hell have I just gone and written another damn post about naughty drugs?! What the hell is wrong with me?! Must seek therapy in the future when I’ve finally made contact with my Level 15 Magic Elf and we find The Charm Bracelet in the Forest Dune. Off to finish my quest, my good people. Wish me luck.


First Puggle, Now Penis? WHAT IS THIS BLOG COMING TO?!?!

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a little on the weird side and I subsequently attract and enjoy all kinds of weird stuff, but, honestly, this is is getting to be a bit much even for me.

Some of you may notice that I moderate comments here on good ole Weekly Shocks. It’s nothing personal, I promise, it’s just that certain family members of mine occasionally read this blog  (hi Mom!) and certain friends of mine (you bastards know who you are) like to take advantage of that fact and write things that I’d rather my pure-as-the-driven-snow loved ones not see. Gotta keep up appearances and all that. Besides that, though, the oodles of junk mail that I seem to collect in my seventeen hundred email accounts have somehow migrated to the comments section of this blog. I am quickly and inexplicably becoming a repository for Viagra, Cialis, VigRX, and other naughty devices designed to improve your happy areas.

In all sincerity and with all due respect, what the hell?! I can deal with the odd and charming puggle-seekers. I can smile wryly over the occasional bizarre and mildly disturbing internet searches that land people here (latest favorites: “waste dump,” “fart protector,” and “why catholics [are] going to hell.”) I can and do adore the witty and charming comments posted here by the bright and engaging masses (keep ’em coming, folks!). But seriously: what about this blog suggests that the author requires manhood treatment?! Am I coming across as that insecure, that needy, that male?! Bugger it all to hell, people! I am very happy with my completely normal-size-for-my-situation penis. In fact, if it were any bigger, I may run into some very real trouble in my personal  life (heh heh…shuffles nervously…coughs…). I’d also have to field many awkward questions from my primary health care provider and would most likely end up being referenced extensively in the New England Journal of Medicine. Then, I’d have to fulfill my inevitable destiny, and join a circus! But I’m not ready for that yet! None of these options really fits into my busy procrastination schedule right now, so, please, move on! Back off, penis people! SO NOT INTERESTED!

OK, deep breaths.

Anyway, let’s keep the weirdness of this blog a bit on the wholesome side, shall we? For example, wanna guess what I’ve been hooked on lately? Old episodes of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego! And how amazing was that theme song?! Now there’s an obsession I think we can all enjoy before getting the song irretrievably stuck in our heads, going mental, and swinging from the rooftops in Scooby-Doo underoos and pickaxes!

If you just can’t get behind the Carmen Sandiego craze (you soulless prole), please remember the following simple guidelines. This is ok:

puggle-4

This, not so much:

viagraswitch

Choose wisely.


Brawling And Beer at Funerals: Good Times. What Else Is New?

OK, so if you’ve hung around this blog long enough, you’re probably well aware of the fact that I have a penchant for goofy news stories. Yes, I know, it’s a bad use of my time, education, and intellect. And yes, I know that most of these stories are idiotically puerile, but hey, so am I. And, besides, who are you to judge me, damn it, the court at Nuremberg?! Back off, buddy!

Sorry. I’m off my medication.

Anyway, yes, I love the Dumb News. It saves me the trouble of reading the real stuff, which is mostly just doom and gloom anyway, and I frankly don’t have time for that nonsense. I’m too busy teaching my dog to use the toilet for her messy business so I don’t have to carry around Ziplock bags when we troll the neighborhood for cute guys. I’m a busy girl, you know.

Regardless. Today, Dumb News profoundly disappointed me. That’s because I ran across a story of a woman holding a beer can at a memorial service and subsequently starting a brawl. Come on! How is this news? Have these people never been to an Irish Catholic wake before?! Bugger it all to hell, when my great aunt died last fall, we all took shots of Miller High Life in her honor! (I swear by all that is holy, this is true.) It’s just sad to see journalistic integrity and profundity slip so far.


Aw Crap, It’s Only the Governor.

bostonredsoxlogo

You’ll forgive me (or you won’t, that’s cool too), but today is Opening Day and I’m carefully monitoring my heart rate to make sure the old ticker doesn’t explode inside my chest, then leak out of my nostrils.

Finally, after a long, dark winter of sketchy reports from some bizarre place called “Florida,” endless injury-watches on aging, hurting men, and months of mega-million dollar trade talks falling through at the last, miserable second, finally, finally, finally, baseball season begins here in Boston. As a life-long Red Sox fan, this is basically Christmas in April, except Santa is being played by a bald man named Francona and includes an elfish second baseman MVP, who probably stands in at about 5’4″ and weighs 120lbs soaking wet. God love ’em all, I can’t wait for that opening pitch. And for the first time in, oh, ages, I’ll actually be in the city to enjoy it.

It’s not easy being a baseball fan in England. The Brits have some sweater-wearing, tea-drinking, pansy-ass pseudo-sport called cricket, which is enough like baseball, sort of, that they pretty much ignore the real thing over here. Cricket is a monstrously complicated, yet soul-crushingly uninteresting game that goes on for days and is often prescribed as a sleep-remedy for incurable insomniacs. For the life of me, I fail to understand its appeal in any other capacity. But, after three years in the UK, I’ve come to accept that there will always be oddities about that strange and wonderful country and its mildly insane inhabitants that will forever perplex me. Besides, I haven’t got time to delve into the attraction of cricket: I’m too busy trying to figure out how Pop Rocks work.

Anyway, if you’ve been a Red Sox fan long enough, you’re bound to have more than a few memories that you just love boring into the skulls of OTHERS, i.e., the non-fans, the people who are slowly but surely starting to hate you and your massive, pulsating, ubiquitous tumor of a team. I’m no exception and now you’re all going to have to suffer through my favorite Red Sox memory. You poor suckers. Of course, seeing the Sox win the World Series in 2004 after that epic comeback against Satan the Yankees is a classic. And watching cars being set on fire as a means of celebrating said victory was perhaps the highlight of my senior year in college. But that’s too easy. I gotta tell ya, the best memory I’ve ever had of my boys occurred on May 1, 2006, which was really just a run-of-the-mill, early season, fairly forgettable game at Fenway…OR WAS IT?!

Of course it wasn’t, you fool! This was the first head-to-head match-up of Sox vs Yankees in 2006! This was the Light vs the Dark Side, this was Innocence, Trust, Teamsmanship, and Consummate Love of the Game vs Soul-Sucking, Money-Grubbing, Devil-Worshiping, and Fun-Hating Banality! This was real baseball! And this was also the first time that that traitorous, throws-like-a-girl doorknob Johnny Damon would return to Fenway Park after his mercenary defection to the Evil Empire. The crowd was already in fine form, jeering loudly at our once beloved Johnny and the Bleacher Creature Faithful were busy throwing dollar bills onto the field in order to shame the troll-like beast for his hypocrisy and sordid infidelity. Well, either that or they were trying to get the saucy center fielder to strip. It’s always a little hard to say with Fenway fans, especially after the alcoholic third-inning buzz sets in.

Regardless. Jeering on Johnny was not my favorite part of the game. Big Papi David Ortiz blasting a Mike Myers’ (another former Sox) fastball into New Hampshire to put my boys on top was not my favorite part of the game. The clean cut Red Sox win, sending them into first place in the AL East was not my favorite part of the game. My favorite part of the game actually occurred before it had even technically started, but it demonstrated just how incredibly awesome (and absurd) it is to be a Red Sox fan.

See, once upon a time, there was this catcher named Doug Mirabelli. I liked Doug. He was unassuming, cheerful, had the speed of a walrus on land, and he hit around .200 in a decent season. But Doug could catch a knuckleball and he could do it better than perhaps anyone else in baseball. And it just so happens that my all-time favorite Red Sox, in fact, my all-time favorite baseball player, is a knuckleball specialist named Tim Wakefield. I had never seen a knuckleball pitch before, had never even heard of it, in fact, until Tim joined the Sox way back in ’95. Immediately I was hooked. Watching a knuckleballer pitch is, for me, baseball at its best. At the very least, it’s never, ever boring. When Tim’s on, he’s damn near unhittable, and it’s an absolute treat watching batters swat hopelessly after this softly-tossed ball that dances around at about 55MPH before dropping out of nowhere deep into the strike zone. The problem, of course, is that when Tim’s off, it’s like a pig to the slaughter, and batters have a field day launching his pitches out of the park like golf balls. Perhaps even more nerve-wracking is that the knuckleball is almost as impossible to catch as it is to hit, which is why many in Red Sox Nation groaned miserably when they learned that our dear Dougie had been traded to the Padres in the 2006 off-season. Who was going to catch Timmy now?

For a while, the Sox tried a kid named Josh Bard who showed some potential by only having about 479 passed balls in seven games with Tim, which actually isn’t too shabby for catching a knuckleballer for the first time. But rumor had it that Dougie seemed a bit unhappy out in the San Diego sun and was lonesome for his battery mate and old team, a team that actually had a fan base who gave a toss about it. So the Sox got him back. On May 1st. The very day Tim was scheduled to pitch against the filthy, slimy, disgusting Yankees who had also tried to get Dougie on their team that day, for no other reason than to screw over the Sox. (Wikipedia tells me this is true, and as we all know, Wikipedia never lies.)

The question, the drama, the excitement, of course, was, would Doug make it to Fenway in time to catch Tim? And if he didn’t, who the hell would? The televised pre-game festivities were an exercise in raising blood pressure. I remember sitting in my living room, rocking back and forth with my knees clutched to my chest, wishing, praying, pleading with the Big Guy to get Dougie into Boston as soon as possible, to zip him down into the Fens via turbo jet if necessary. Nothing was too good for Dougie. The announcers were beside themselves, hopped up like crack fiends,  practically ripping their hair out over the anticipation of this game (this regular season, one-out-of-162 game) and all that it might mean to the Sox. And where the hell was Mirabelli? Would he get his ass to the PAHK in time?! I think three of them died of sheer nervous exhaustion and stress-induced aneurysms before the National Anthem was even sung.

Then! Suddenly! A Black SUV flanked by state troopers picks its way down the Fenway traffic zoo! Could it be Doug?! Was he going to make it after all?! Would he stride out of that car, manfully returning to his proper home, and quickly punch Johnny “Judas” Damon in the face before storming out onto the field and single-handedly winning the game, the series, the season?! The driver of the SUV hustled out and quickly and efficiently opened the back door, and, and, and!

And, aw crap, it’s only the governor.

And I’d be a fool not to laugh at this. In fact, I worked myself up into a nice, heady stream of hysterical giggles over my epic, completely disproportionate disappointment over the arrival of the Commonwealth’s leader to a regular, run-of-the-mill baseball game. On television, the surviving announcers laughed at the pure silliness of the situation too, but it reminded me how utterly amazing and obsessive baseball can be in this town. Seriously, where else would this happen? Where else would the appearance of the governor – who, by the way, is a guy named Mitt Romney and is already starting to explore a very serious run for the Presidency –  be entirely eclipsed by the anticipated arrival of some backup catcher for your number four starting pitcher? God help us, if it happens in any place other than Boston, I think we’re all doomed.

Anyway, for the record, Dougie made it in time. Apparently he had to change into a Sox uniform on the ride over to Fenway and caught all of the first inning without protection for his, ehrm, man bits. But these are small prices to pay for Red Sox glory. He threw a runner out in the second inning of the game and the cheers that greeted him at his first at-bat could not have been more boisterous and adoring if he were the second coming of Jesus.  And, as I said, the Red Sox won. Perfect game.

So, yes, I am very excited about tomorrow, but more than a little unnerved as well. See, Opening Day was supposed to be yesterday, and I had this blog post all typed up and ready to go for you good folks. But, again, because this is Boston in April, the weather decided not to cooperate at all: the heavens opened up early in the day and took a giant leak all over the city, washing out any chance of a game for the afternoon. The forecast for tomorrow predicts sun and partly cloudy skies without a drop of rain in sight, but weathermen are known charlatans and liars and I don’t trust a damn one of them any further than I can toss their sorry asses.

Still, tomorrow’s game has to happen. It has to. I’m starting to get the baseball withdrawal shakes here and if I don’t see some ball-playing soon, I may just lose it and start searching the BBC International channels for cricket matches. No one wants to see that happen, so really: if you’ve got a spare minute, wish for some good weather in Boston tomorrow, will ya? Please? I’ll owe you one and maybe I’ll spare you another long, rambling Red Sox-related post in the future. Maybe, though. No promises or anything.


I’ll have a chocolate-filled one and a regular coffee to go. Does this come with a communion wafer?

Posted without criticism or judgment, simply a sense of awe and wonder at how profoundly bizarre Western Civilization is:

dunkin1sg

And the thing is, he really did, too.


Alpha Inventions and the Guilt Trip

Gosh, Alpha Inventions is just such a lovely place, isn’t it? Just stick your little blog address into their randomizer and watch the hits roll in! I credit the site with enabling both my somewhat obsessive blogging addiction as well as contributing to a rather obscene increase in readership over the last month or so.

There is one minor problem with the site, though: it’s made for all kinds of blogs, not just bits of fluff, goof, and absurdity like mine. (I’m actually trying to find other blogs like mine and am failing. I attribute this to my incurable oddness and the fact that other people have lives.) I enjoy nearly all the blogs featured on the site, but many of them are very serious in nature, dealing with politics, or religion, or the economy, or really anything of substantive value, none of which, frankly, you’re going to find much of here. I can’t help but look at my site with its bizarre and inexplicable devotion to my cheesy, unfinished novel, puggles, stupid news stories, and the occasional obscenity-filled rant and be a little embarrassed. I feel as if my site is a little, oh, I don’t know, silly? Is silly the right word? Perhaps morbidly inane, pointless, buffoonery? A prime example of a good education wasted on utter rubbish? Authored by a barely literate hack with unmedicated ADHD and chronic, self-obsessed neuroticism?

Huh.

Anyway, if you have a blog and would like an increase in readership, Alpha Inventions is the way to go. I do love the site, even if it does fill me with shame, but, really, what doesn’t these days?!


Like, OMIGOD!

Overheard yesterday (pretty much verbatim) while on a walk with my dog:

“Like, so we went to, like, this totally sketch store near Newbury Street? And I’m, like, ‘Why don’t we just f*cking go to Newbury Street, because the stores there are, like, way better and I need new shoes anyway,’ and then that bitch called me a ‘f*cking stuck up c*nt,’ and I’m like, ‘F*ck YOU, sl*t,’ and like…”

I just smiled. Holy God, I’ve missed the States.


Trampolines in the Sky and Why I’m Starting to Hate Canada

So, I’m home safely, in one piece, and very well fed. Last night I enjoyed my favorite pasta dinner from my favorite Boston restaurant before collapsing into bed for eleven glorious hours. This morning, I had ice cream for breakfast, and tonight I’m planning on eating sushi until I throw up. Gluttonous? You bet. But frankly, after the flight I had yesterday, I deserve it.

I’ve done the trans-Atlantic thing more than a few times now, and there seems to be a rather unfair pattern emerging. The flight will consist of roughly five hours of relative peace and calm as we trawl across the ocean, and is supplemented by ninety minutes of pure, vomit-inspiring terror as we swoop down the Canadian border. At this point, our plane ceases to be a graceful example of modern technology, a crowning tribute to the ingenuity of mankind, and turns into a giant trampoline that dozens of obese, invisible sky giants are bouncing on, giggling with child-like glee. For whatever reason – jet streams, high winds, Canadians themselves – the turbulence over Canada is absolutely terrifying. I’m a horrible, nervous flier to begin with, but I always find myself engaging in whispered, frantic conversations with God when we ricochet along the coast of Newfoundland, promising the Big Guy extravagantly ridiculous things in exchange for getting my sorry ass on the ground safe and sound. God is well aware of the fact that I am completely incapable of keeping any of those promises, and it’s only a matter of time before he gets fed up with my spineless blasphemy and curses me with a rat tail or a third arm growing out my forehead or something equally freakish. Still, I can’t seem to help myself.

What made this particular journey a bit more interesting was that, while we were being tossed about in the sky like a hackey-sack among a group of stoners, a little boy began crying and didn’t stop until we were on the ground.  Usually I don’t mind sobbing children on planes (hey, often I feel like sobbing myself) but this small child sounded uncannily like Gage Creed in Pet Sematary after he had been resurrected and was systematically turning his family and neighbors into tasty mid-afternoon snacks. I was convinced I was going to either die in a fiery plane wreck or be eaten by a zombie-toddler equipped with viciously sharp teeth and his daddy’s scalpel.

Obviously, because I’m writing this now, I made it through the ordeal in one piece, unless the zombie-toddler got to me after all and I’ve since been reanimated and have forgotten about it. That would make me a pretty pathetic zombie, though, wouldn’t it? Regardless. What I certainly do remember is our rather lively landing, which consisted of the pilot bouncing us along the runway three or four times before swerving dangerously close to a ditch and finally righting the plane into something resembling a straight line toward the terminal. At that point, he turned on the overhead speaker to apologize for the Canadian turbulence, the “bit of a rough landing,” and – why not? – announce the football score.

Anyway, Canada, I’m sorry, but you’re going on my shit list. It’s only fair, because you clearly seem to have me on yours, and I thought we were cool, man. Apparently not. Until you apologize, Canada, and stop trying to kill me in planes over your borders, I’m going to scoff at your weird-ass, goofy money that looks as if it came out of a Monopoly box. I’m going to tell all my British friends – most of whom really don’t know any better anyway – that the US is fully planning on annexing the entire country in a manner of months and selling it to India. I’m going to tell the following, awful joke to as many people as possible: “What do urine samples and Canadian beer have in common? The taste.”

I’m going to toast your ass, Canada. Bring it on, bitch.

Now, please enjoy this bit of giggling, Midwestern humor from folks (and puppets) who also have difficulty in disguising their revulsion for our northern neighbors.


That’s today?!!

It’s the first of April, commonly known as April Fool’s Day, and I’ve got nothing for ya. I’d like to give you folks a good excuse as to why, but really, I just plain forgot. No, seriously, this isn’t an April Fool’s Joke (or is it?), I’ve got nothing. I thought about RickRolling you good people, but then I decided that I don’t want my lovely readers to tear me to bits and feed me to their children. Besides, I kind of like that song. Yes, yes, I am a huge geek, we’ve already established that.

And speaking of RickRolling, if you haven’t checked out YouTube today, I recommend you stop by. Those crazy bastards are at it again. Either that, or I’ve got a really bad case of vertigo.

Also, mom? I’m pregnant. See you in a few hours!