When you have gazillions of dollars and no job, you aren’t “unemployed.” You’re “retired.”
London is an international, financial hub with a port, the first underground rail system and nearly 8 million people. Salt Lake City is dot on a map with a lake, a genealogical library and less than 200,000 people. Don’t get them confused again.
I know the trees in London look like they’re exactly the right height, but don’t say that out loud.
“At the heart of ratcism is the religious assertion that God made a creative mistake when He brought some critters into being.” – Friedrich Otto Hertz’s rat
Most people dislike rats. For some, it’s the misplaced belief that today’s domestic rats are the same critters that spread the Bubonic Plague throughout Europe during the Middle Ages. Of course, this is absurd. Any historian worth his salt – like Mel Gibson, for example – will tell you that there was no Bubonic Plague, just like there was no Holocaust or 1969 moon landing. And even if there was a Plague – and I’m not saying there was – the poor rats were mere pawns manipulated by the true perpetrators: fleas, who used the rats as a form of mass rapid transit with a conveniently-attached dining car.
For others, it’s the fear that rats will chew off their babies faces while they sleep. To those people, I say, “Wipe the friggin’ jelly off your kid’s mouth before putting them to bed.” And why do you have wild rats scurrying through your home in the first place? Have you never heard of Truly Nolan? Could it be that you live in a Hoarders-worthy pigsty and the stacks of newspaper that form the interior walls of your home provide perfect nesting material for vermin? In that case, rats are the least of your worries. Still, others get the willies just looking at a rat’s long, rather scaly tail – and understandable phobia considering how many deaths are caused every year by vicious rat tail thrashings that can leave a person’s skin looking like a slave’s back in Roots.
In first grade, my parents bought me a gerbil. Its name escapes me, but it’s demise will be forever ingrained in my memory as one of the most horrifying moments of my young life. This is what happens when your parents entrust the animal care in your home to a person who will eventually become an infamous cat burglar. As our pet sitter was too occupied with stealing jewels from stately Miami mansions to remember to close the gerbil cage properly, we returned from our vacation to discover Whatever-Its-Name-Was in a bloody, mutilated mess – and our cat, Pumpkin, well fed.
The Amazing Blog Goddess of the Universe, Sweet Mother, dedicated today’s post to praising my Paltry Meanderings blog. The Amazon Amaze-balls Blogger Whom I Most Admire is waxing sentimental about my writing?????? What’s next? Is David Sedaris going to show up at my door with an engagement ring? Is Aaron Sorkin going to beg me to join the writing staff for the second season of The Newsroom? Is bacon going to be declared vegan because pigs spend so much time with their noses in the mud?
Please read, share and send Sweet Mother every bit of blog love you have. And if you aren’t reading her blog and think you’re too busy to do so, you’re wrong. Brushing your teeth two to three times a day is just a suggestion, not a friggin’ law. Sleeping – you can sleep when you’re dead (or when both Sweet Mother and I am dead and no longer blogging). Sex – ha! You weren’t having sex. Stop being silly. Immediately follow Sweet Mother, then report back to me and tell me how fucking awesome she is! Or how awesome I am. Or how awesome David Sedaris is. Even two out of three would be good.
Oh, it’s been a cruel, cruel summer. I started this blog out with such a fervor. I was in a frenzy. I was frackin’ dedicated. I’m still dedicated, but I’ve got the wahs and the blahs. If this long, hot, cruel, summer doesn’t end soon, I fear I’ll have nothing left to write about, but paper bags. Don’t think I won’t do it? I will. Heck, I could talk about the plastic bag right now… Did you know the sanitation departments of America often refer to plastic bags as, “Satan’s resin” because they never feckin’ break down? Did you know that Los Angeles has nearly outlawed the plastic bag? I have a joke for that and it goes:
Los Angeles has outlawed the plastic bag. You have no idea how funny it is to watch Tom Cruise pick up dog poop with a bev nap and a pair of…
I enjoy reading The Huffington Post. It delivers my news in the crunchy-granola, tree-hugging, Obama-loving, non-homophobic, NPR-listening, organically-grown, Jon Stewart-worshiping, ballet-flat wearing format that makes me feel happy, informed and secure. If TheHuff Post editors eat meat, I’m sure they feel guilty about it later. For years now, reading my news online delivered me from the hell that is local, conservative news programming – or worse – vapid, syndicated morning shows, which make me nauseous with their bright, Crest-strip smiles and regular visits from the local zoo. Meet Nagini, the albino python or a horde of hissing cockroaches. Please – not before I’ve eaten my oatmeal, okay?
But then things changed. AOL came into the picture and acquired The Huff Post. Suddenly Arianna Huffington was in the hot seat on every liberal media program mumbling her way through interviews in a Greek accent thicker than a tub of Chiobani. Despite the fact that AOL is a true bastard bastion of news organizations, up there with The National Enquirer and US MagazineTime, The Economist and The Atlantic, recent headlines have been less than compelling.
Now I’m not going to blow bullshit dust up your ass; I love my pop culture and I pepper my posts with references to the Kardashian Empire (now which one is Anastasia?) just as often as I defend Obama’s birth certificate or my desire to own Vladimir Putin as a guard dog.
Thomas Edison legendarily tested potential employees by inviting them to dinner. If they sprinkled salt on their food before tasting it, he refused to hire them, viewing their thoughtless salting as a sign that their preconceived mindset would prevent them from analyzing a situation thoroughly before taking action. To be fair, this method of eliminating job applicants has also been attributed to Henry Ford, IBM, and General MacArthur, to name just a few.
And I think it’s bullshit.
I love salt. A dash brings out the subtle flavors of food. Salt is to the beefsteak tomato what Matt Damon is to Ben Affleck – the ingredient that makes it worthy of notice. Though I often taste my food before sprinkling it with salt, I like to think that my decision to pre-salt my bowl of Fly Bar’s truffled macaroni and cheese doesn’t make me incapable of critical analysis, but rather demonstrates that homo sapiens are able to learn and make choices based on previously acquired knowledge. Sure, it’s possible that the restaurant could hire a new chef who knows how to properly season food with what I affectionately call The White Devil, but an extra dash of salt never hurt anybody.
And pepper – make mine freshly ground and applied as liberally to a dish as Donald Trump’s self-tanner is sprayed onto his Oompa Loompa orange face. Black pepper is fine, but a gourmet combination of black, white, red and green peppercorns is sublime. If I had a dick, fresh ground pepper would make it hard.
I’m a terrible person. If Jennifer Aniston had married me (which would have been creepy because she doesn’t have a penis), when we finally divorced and I posed for photos with Angelina Jolie (not nearly as creepy because I’m pretty sure she does have a penis), she would have told the press in that whiny manner of hers that I have a sensitivity chip missing. Blog success came early, along with the accolades that often accompany this lowly profession (erm, if profession means something I do to while away the hours after I’ve completely emptied my bottle of Ketel One each morning) and, as a result, I’ve been uninterested remiss in acknowledging and responding to some of the lovely awards that have been bestowed upon me by my fellow bloggers.
Today, I’m cheating. I’m stealing the book of alice’s format right out from under her, just this once. Why? Because I met the most hilarious 7 year old boy at an Independence Day pool party this afternoon.
Dripping wet and shivering, Freddie was searching for a dry towel.
Me: Do you want to use one of my towels? They’re dry.
Me: Why not? I promise, I don’t have cooties.
Freddie: I know, but I don’t want to give you cooties.
Me: Oh, I doubt you have any cooties. Haven’t you had your cootie shot?
Me: (taking Freddie’s arm in my hand, I draw two circles then poke him with my finger tip twice) Circle, circle, dot, dot. Now you’ve got your cootie shot.
Freddie: (a look of humor mixed with a healthy dose of disdain on his chocolate-smudged face) What is that? Some kind of baby rhyme?