A Humor Blog For Horrible People
That’s my new tagline – and one that will take up residence on my newly-designed website in a month or so after all of my Paltry Meanderings’ readers have caught on. You may have noticed that I’ve got a new name and look. It was time for a change or, as David Bowie would put it, it was time to turn and face the strange.
However, my blog makeover is only one of several metamorphoses I’ve undergone recently. In fact, during my brief August sabbatical:
1) I’ve Become A Vegan:I know…I may as well have just confided to you that I’ve moved to Oregon, stopped shaving my legs, taken to rubbing a chunk of crystal under my arms instead of deodorant, started wearing Birkenstocks, and sold my televisions in order to donate the money to my local farm co-operative. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I don’t even use deodorant. For the record, although I love all critters, I decided to eschew meat and all animal-based products because I had some addiction issues to conquer – namely my lifelong enslavement to one particular substance – not because I wanted to have an excuse for wearing the fugliest shoes ever created. Breaking this dependence was critical to my relationship with my husband, my parents, my friends and my waistline.
They say, Admitting you have a problem is the first step.So here I am to announce to all of you today that I, Miss Snarky Pants, am an addict. I can’t remember not drinking. I suppose whole milk was my gateway drug, but then my mother further mired me in the Swamp of Dependency by introducing me to Nestlé Quik. Within days, I was a chocolate milk junkie. Mom enabled my new addiction by permitting me to slug down a glass every Saturday morning – as long as I woke her first and asked permission. Of course, I scored half pints of the stuff in the school cafeteria; you’d be amazed what you can get in trade for an apple, half a Twinkie and a bathroom stall blow job.
From there, I moved on to more solid forms of dairy: cheese, ice cream, yogurt and, eventually, sour cream. There was no stopping me. I had no self-control. Addiction is a genetic badge of honor in my family. If you think I have a problem, you should have seen my grandmother. Not only did she eat a bowl of ice cream every single night of her life, she drowned it in a pint or so of moo juice first so that the chunks of butter pecan would float like icebergs, the bulk of their mass hidden beneath the milky waves. I followed in her footsteps and joined the Church of the Holy Udders, eventually becoming the religion’s first High Priestess.
My mother was and is the worst offender. She eats a little baked potato with her sour cream. She drinks a little coffee with her half and half and whipped topping. She likes her cheese with a couple of macaroni. Butter isn’t a condiment; it’s a main course served in meatloaf-like slabs with sides of hollandaise and cream cheese frosting.
During my blogging break, I visited with Mom and we ended up at a local grocery store. Though she’s well aware that I’m in recovery, she held up a round of brie just inches from my nose and asked, “Should we get this to snack on tonight?” I hesitated. I could practically taste the creamy fromage melting in my mouth. It would be so simple to nod. Hubby was on the other side of the state. He’d never know. But I stood firm. No, I told myself, you can do this! There’s no need to call your sober living partner. “Erm, no Mom,” I replied. “I’m a vegan, remember?”
Puzzled, she returned the brie to its place on the Shelf of Dairy Iniquity. Later, at a restaurant, I perused a menu that didn’t offer many vegan alternatives. Mom helpfully pointed out the french onion soup. “Nope, that’s made with beef broth, Mom,” I said, shaking my head. Scrunching up her face, my mother made it clear that broth didn’t count in her book and that she thought I was now just being militant about the whole thing. I’m surprised she didn’t ask me if I was also planning to become a lesbian. In her mind, vegans, political activists, feminists, lesbians – they’re all the same. They all have short hair and wear hideous shoes.
2. I’ve Given Up Hard Liquor: No more Ketel One Jell-O shots in the morning. Not only is vodka fattening, it turns out that Jell-O is made out of the hooves, bones and other icky bits of horses, cattle and pigs. It’s also a treat most commonly enjoyed by Mormons. In fact, the residents of Salt Lake City eat more lime Jell-O than any other city in the nation. According to The Atlantic’s Scarlett Lindeman, Utah not only leads the country in Jell-O consumption, but the state went as far as to adopt the wiggly, jiggly goo as its official snack and Bill Cosby as an honorary Utahn. As far as I’m concerned, this is just another reason why I don’t trust Mitt Romney. If he becomes President, I’m pretty certain that Thanksgiving turkey will be replaced with this:
Yeah, I realize that turkey isn’t vegan, but I’m married to an omnivore. Though Hubby has been extremely supportive during this transition, he will not be denied a dead, twenty pound bird come this November. He gets grumpy when he’s hungry. So in the interest of ensuring that all of my digits remain intact, I will dutifully roast him a big ol’ ass gobbler while I
grumble my way through enjoy a veggie burger.
Now don’t go assuming that I’ve become a teetotaler because that would be a tad extreme. I still enjoy my wine and I’d happily guzzle down a couple bottles of Angry Orchard Hard Cider every day if each one wasn’t packed with 200 calories that are genetically modified to permanently reside in my muffin top and give birth to baby calories that will later migrate to both of my ass cheeks. This is not acceptable, particularly considering that this blog is called Miss Snarky Pants, not Miss Snarky XXXL Stretch Pants.
3. I’ve Been To The Ghetto: Now this wasn’t Miss Snarky Pants first trip to the hood; however, it was her first trip there for the sole purpose of identifying stolen property – namely, Hubby’s Piaggio scooter, which was allegedly purchased by the perp (that’s cop lingo for perpetrator) from a man named Chris for forty buckaroos. Hubby and I can’t score a decent meal in this town for that amount, but a white trash meth head with a record of priors longer than John Holmes’ schlong thought he could talk his way out of an arrest by claiming to have bought the scooter for less than the price of a parking ticket.
The fact that the $2500 retail Piaggio had been hotwired, the ignition gouged to bits by a screwdriver, and the locks on the mini-trunk and seat busted open apparently didn’t give our poor, little, alleged
thief purchaser of stolen goods a clue that the scooter might be, erm, stolen. Hmmm. Perhaps because there is no guy named Chris? Perhaps because the alleged tweaker with a penchant for roughing up police officers was the same dude who rolled the scooter right out of our condo parking lot the night before it was discovered in his backyard?
What does this have to do with me and my ch-ch-ch-ch-changes? My perception of my community has been altered. I live in a transitional, downtown neighborhood, in which homeless people are a frequent pedestrians and residents. However, I’ve never felt threatened. I like to think that I’m cosmopolitan enough to embrace urban living – even though there is a certain amount of risk involved. But that trust in my immediate community has been marred. While I waited with a girlfriend in a neighborhood dotted with boarded up and graffiti-covered bungalows for the tow truck to arrive to bring Hubby’s Piaggio home, I felt violated. The alleged perp’s family and friends were all gathered in the front yard like the cast of a John Waters’ film, one of them using his cell phone to videotape me. As one pink-haired Weeble wobbled her way out of a pickup truck, I became certain that the late transvestite, Divine, had been reincarnated and was now living out her role in Female Trouble right here in the Florida projects.
All of the attorney piss and vinegar drained out of me and I experienced fear – even with three police cruisers parked in the center of the road, lights flashing. Nervous as a horse being dropped off at a Jell-O factory, my friend retreated to the safety of my car. One officer asked me to keep my distance from the alleged perp’s family because Divine and the brood were now claiming that they knew my friend. Before I could think, before I could process a truly rational thought, my subconscious took over and my instinct spoke for me. “That’s ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “She’s a vegan. She taught a cooking class at my condo.”
It was in that moment I realized that – deep down – I believe that all vegans are just good people. Particularly ethical vegans who stopped the personal carnage in their lives because they place animal rights above their bodies’ own need for vitamin B12. Vegans don’t steal things; they trade dairy-free cookies and host pot lucks. They teach others how to properly drain tofu and turn it into something that doesn’t taste like paste. They gave up bacon, for chrissakes! The fine art of hotwiring is not among their skills. Plus, no vegan would ever sell someone a scooter for a mere $40. These are people who shop at Whole Foods – and everybody knows that you can’t buy a banana, a bundle of kale and a can of organic, vegan refried beans for less than fifty bucks in that place.
My precious readers, I return to you a different woman. One who is both more and less cynical; one who is more gassy (it’s the beans, people) and less, erm, intoxicated. One who is going to be putting her life on the line to bring you coverage of the protesters who will be rallying for the next week outside of the Republican National Convention. Oh yes, it’s true. Miss Snarky Pants is in Tampa – and before you start begging, Jon Stewart (yeah, we all know you’re in town), I will not accept a position working for you as a Daily Show correspondent. Erm, unless you offer to pay me loads and loads of cash and allow me to wear a tiara during interviews. Oh, and I want a dwarf. Seriously, it’s no deal without the dwarf.
So stay tuned because I’ll be posting every day next week. Did I mention that the Romneyville encampment is located just down the street in a vacant lot? Or that this image:
was discovered on the roof of a building just a stone’s throw from my place, along with a collection of bricks and pipes – supposed weapons of mass Republican delegate destruction? Or that I’ve been awakened every morning this week by helicopters hovering over my building for several minutes at a time? Or that Tropical Storm Isaac is headed right for us?
Don’t worry folks. I’ve got my galoshes. I’ve got my Ikea umbrella. Anyone mind lending me a taser gun?
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Update: One Occupy protester Tweeted at me, asking why I was afraid of the protesters when I should be afraid of the police. I responded that I’m not afraid of the protesters. Would I be asking protesters to contact me with their stories and information about their causes if I was afraid of them? I am concerned that there are parties out there who have threatened to use violence and the destruction as a form of free speech during the RNC. To be clear, I won’t be covering any organization that endorses violence or damage to private or public property.
As far as the police go, I think we can all agree that there are good cops and bad cops. It’s unfair to generalize beyond that statement. I’m appreciative that there is a substantial police presence in Downtown Tampa and I hope that they can help protect the property and lives of the 99 percenters who reside downtown – and the majority of us are in the 99%, including Hubby and me. Likewise, I hope that law enforcement is judicious regarding the use of force. Most of the protesters aren’t here to cause problems; they’re here to be heard. And I’m listening.
Amelia Dyer via listserve.com
Birkenstocks via sodahead.com
Butter via news.discovery.com
Jell-O via clickamericanan.com
Female Trouble via allmovies.com
Anonymous/Guy Fawkes via examiner.com