Up My Own Ass

So, I had a birthday recently and, since I am rapidly approaching “mid-life,” I needed to commemorate it properly.  A lot has transpired in my life recently, specifically a series of decisions made to bring more positivity and to eliminate all that is negative.  Something that would serve as a constant reminder that life is about setting goals, achieving them, learning from setbacks, and not letting petty, insecure, self-righteous, jealous bitches decide what you are worth, what you can accomplish, what you should do, or with whom you should do it.

How else am I supposed to commemorate all of that but by getting a tattoo?

I’m the one with the vacant stare, biting my lip until it split.  That other fellow is Pat “Master of Ink and Flesh” H. from Fast Lane Tattoo.  He cheerfully agreed to simulate the sensation of having a Swisher Sweet extinguished into the tender flesh of my forearm, and the price was extremely reasonable for what you will see is am amazing bit of art. 

Anyway, getting back to the reason I got the tattoo…  Everyone with tattoos usually craves more, and when the perfect tattoo sings to the soul, it becomes like a crack addict hustling for a fix.  If I don’t get a tattoo RIGHT NOW, I will stop breathing.  Or, something like that.  When I saw THIS tattoo, I knew it had to be carved into my physical being so that I, along with everyone else, would not be the least bit confused by my attitude and demeanor.  I will never again be allowed to believe that I can’t do something, no matter how impossible it may seem.  I will never again allow myself to be manipulated by people who want nothing more than to see me fail, or worse – achieve only limited success and have my attempts be met with a condescending “oh, bless her heart for trying.”  “Impossible” is not in my dictionary, and neither is “no,” unless I am correcting someone else’s misguided notion of my capabilities.  I will live my life as it suits me, and nobody will ever again make me shed a tear about it or suggest how “the rest of the world” might see it.  Fuck the rest of the world, and fuck anyone who sees me in that light.  If there is a line to be drawn from this point and moving forward, it is MY LINE to draw.

“Ev’ryone deserves the chance to fly!”
And if I’m flying solo
At least I’m flying free
To those who’d ground me
Take a message back from me
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity
I’m flying high
Defying gravity
And soon I’ll match them in renown
And nobody in all of Oz
No Wizard that there is or was
Is ever gonna bring me down!

For the first time I feel…WICKED.

Um, thank you?  I don’t even really know what this magazine is specifically about, but it poses the question, “What is happening to PASTORS?”

I am not sure, but judging by the photo it probably involves a rifle and a clocktower.  Not sure if it’s the PASTOR giving or receiving the lead host, but I am intrigued either way.  I have been fairly vocal about my dislike and distrust of organized religion, but I am pretty sure that nowhere in my Catholic school education do I recall any verses to the effect of, “the armed shall inherit the Earth” or “that whosoever packeth in his name shall not perish, but have  life everlasting.”

What church is this?

The other part of this equation that confuses me is the title of the magazine juxtaposed with the picture.  It reminds me of an ad in a National Lampoon book that showed a picture of a rifle and the tagline, “SURPRISE HIM THIS CHRISTMAS!”  I guess so.

I’d really hate to see the cover of “Bad News, Tucson.”  I guess I should actually read the article.

When you saw only one set of footprints in the sand, they were your own.  I was carrying this gun. 

Amen.

I couldn’t think of a proper title for this… Jesus Christ it’s cute… maybe too cute. I love the fact that video cameras are so prevalent so we can capture stuff like this and stick it on YouTube.

We previously blogged about “Epic Beard Man“, the 60-some-year-old man that beat down a teenager who suckered him on the bus. Re-watching the video you get this sense that EBM is some American Hero who was just trying to get home to feed his cat and take care of some homeless kids, but it look like someone tracked him down to interview him and well… he just seems like a crazy old homeless dude:

The interesting thing about crazy homeless people, is that they talk in constant stream-of-thought and seem to make stuff up on the fly… you can tell during the stuttering phases that he’s trying to formulate some awesome idea to share with the camera and I’d venture a guess that near 80% of what he said was a lie.

Now I’m wondering if the kid he beat down was a priest or something…

Not that I think there was any requirement for an apology.  It’s none of my business.  It’s none of ANYONE’S business.  He cheated on his wife and got caught, but why is that national news?  This man makes his living by chasing a ball with a stick.

Who the hell do we think we are that we feel any sense of entitlement to an apology?  Does his infidelity affect the way he plays golf?  More to the point, does it affect any of us even indirectly?  NO.  I think this whole situation has my dander up because we are not, nor should we be privy to anything that goes on in his life.  That is not in his job description as a professional golfer.  How do we know his wife isn’t a ball-busting psycho?  The first thing that bitch did was try to get money out of this deal.  How do we know she isn’t an abusive clam who beats him with his own golf clubs? (contrary to what he said in his apology)  There are two sides to every story.

[...]

Life doesn’t always play out this way; some young whipper snapper getting beat down on a bus by an old dude with an epic beard, but sometimes it does and we are so happy when someone has a cell phone to capture it all for us:

I grew up Catholic.  For the most part, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, except for the part where I had to go to mass at 7:30 every morning before school.  Ugh.  I get tired and bored just thinking about it.  Oh, yeah, and the part where the Catholic church believes that everyone should live a lie and be miserable in the name of God in order to get into Heaven.

I will tell you the part that I hated the most.  Ash Wednesday.  I dreaded it all day.  Standing in a long line of ostensibly repentant Catholics to have the priest treat me to a generous application of oil-soaked ash.  It also smelled.  Since I went to Catholic school, I had no opportunity to wipe that shit off my forehead before anyone saw it.  If I didn’t have any ash, the nuns would likely march me right back across the street to the church to get me more, not to mention the fact that I would then have gravely sinned against God and be required to some sort of additional pentance.

Look at that poor girl’s face…not only is she thinking, “Really, Father Moreno, Really?  Don’t spare any on my account, my dignity evaporated the minute that photographer started taking pictures.”

Now look at the shit-smear on her forehead.  It serves no purpose but to be symbolically marked and pigeon-holed.  I can tell you that I received ashes for YEARS and it didn’t keep me from sinning like it was my job.  I have never killed anyone, though…so that’s probably why.  In fact, it may have made me want to sin MORE so that the ashes would stop sticking to my forehead.  Nobody likes Ash Wednesday.  Not one person.  It’s not like that crap stays on your face…NO…it starts to crumble off the minute you walk away, and it gets EVERYWHERE.  All over your cheeks, your lips, your food, your clothes.  You look like a friggin’ mechanic by the end of the day because, again, wiping it off would equal a fast-pass straight to hell.

I am devising a social experiment where I create the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Gaga, and I am going to replace the ashes with glitter.  Now THAT would be cool.  And since crosses really do resemble a target on your forehead, I am going to wear the glitter in a star shape, which will mean that I am a big, sparkly star and God loves me! 

Besides, I think that’s what is going on in New Orleans, anyway…

Now, if you are Catholic and reading this:  God will not smite you if you wipe that crap off your forehead.  You will feel SO much better.  It will liberate you in ways you cannot imagine.  You know you want to…

*hands reading audience members a moist towelette*

Now, go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  Amen.

Well, tomorrow’s the big day, folks.  Quite possibly the lamest, most high-pressure holiday in existance, created for the sole purpose of making people spend huge sums of money on useless crap to prove their love…or, at the very least, make people feel like complete douchebags.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am a girl, ergo I like to receive high-dollar tokens of affection.  It’s a genetic certainty.  However, I must concede that Valentine’s day serves no real purpose.  It is true that there is a Saint Valentine, but his existence is really not relevant given today’s practices of buying cheap milk chocolate and heart-shaped necklaces, just to keep girls from crying.  Seriously.  The REAL Saint Valentine was a healer and an evangelist who was imprisoned for giving aid to martyrs in prison.  He was beaten to death and beheaded.

How romantic.

Anyway, at some point, Hallmark undoubtedly decided that creating a gift-giving holiday in February would offset the rapid decline in business after Christmas, so they designated Valentine’s day as THE day for proving your love.  Everything turns pink and red (colors that would NEVER be paired for any acceptable reason), disgusting confections appear in heart-shaped boxes, ugly, meaningless teddy bears appear, and a glittery pink blanket of self-loathing covers the land as the expectation of unachievable perfection sets the bar for disappointment, tied up in a low-quality red ribbon with “I LOVE YOU”  screenprinted across the top.

Nobody wants silky boxers with Necco sweethearts printed on them.  Nobody wants chocolate roses.  Nobody wants a merry widow made of cheap, itchy red lace.  Nobody wants one of those stupid cards that play music or let you record your declaration of love to be saved for posterity.  That’s the problem, it will never get thrown out because it is a strange amalgamation of sentiment and garbage.  Also, don’t buy those oversized, puffy, satiny, quilted cards that come in their own box and say disgustingly sweet things.  Those are gay.  It’s all a farce.  Don’t fall for it.

If you really want to make this girl happy on Valentine’s day, you will present her with a heart-shaped box filled with an assortment of chocolate-covered Ativan and Soma.  Next, you will adorn her heavily medicated body with impressive gemstones and pearls to accompany her Downy-fresh fleecey loungewear.  Finally, you will squeeze her feet until every trace of arthritis, gout, and bunyon pain disappears.

A pepperoni pizza wouldn’t hurt, either.  Heart-shaped, of course.

For a while now we’ve known certain things about cats, dogs and bunnies. For one, cats can “has bunnies“. It was only today that I ran across texasgirly1979’s videos on YouTube in which her sweet-as-can-be pitbull, Sharky, has all sorts of friends.

First there are pre-bedtime kisses:

which somehow led to the bunny sleepy on Sharky’s head:

I’m barely even able to keep typing. But if you take the time to look at the rest of texasgirly1979’s videos, you’ll notice it’s not just Sharky that loves other animals. It’s her cat too and just about every animal you can find getting along, snuggling and playing together. Case in point:

I don’t know what she is doing over there to create such a wonderfully docile and safe environment for all those animals, but godbless her for it. They have to be truly happy to not be provoked by any of this.

One of the best parts of thrifting, aside from finding fabulously valuable merchandise that you can flip on Ebay, are the small windows that open, allowing a deliciously voyeuristic glimpse into humanity.  Take Cynthia, for example, who probably didn’t even realize that she tucked these important papers into the book she was reading in the hospital after her near-fatal heart attack. 

This first one is the note from her doctor asking Curves to hold her membership because she is in cardiac rehab.  A perfectly reasonable request, of course.  She doesn’t need the undue stress of this membership hanging over her head, and she could probably use that money for something else, right?  I wonder what she used it for?  Let’s check out this next document to find out!

If you guessed “five cartons of cigarettes,” you would be spot on, my friend.  Please note the dates on both documents. 

Anyone got a light?

I know it’s suppose to be funny, but the meat-arms look real enough like musculature that it makes me sick to my stomach. Enjoy!

Thanks to Marc Chung for sending over a link to a great Cracked article on hidden easter eggs (secrets) in real-life art.

One of the easter eggs is supposedly the “hidden musical notes” inside of Lenoardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” piece. The claim is that if you overlay a standard 5-bar musical notation graph across the painting, lining up on the people’s hands and then mark down each of their hand positions you get a small composition of music, like so:

uhh… I love conspiracy theories just as much as the next guy, but just because you played the notes with an organ doesn’t mean it was embedded music. What about this picture? This could be the theme to Jaws — it’s just 2 notes:

… da-DUM indeed.

The rest of the article goes on to show UFOs in action paintings and eventually full on renaissance art-porn which is certainly interesting… including a black-and-white picture of horses ejaculating all over the place. That’s pretty common behavior for horses in the wild, to just stand around in packs, blowing slurry all over the grassy hillside so I can understand why they painted that.

I won’t put that picture here, but I’ll put a different one… of the world’s tallest horse. Holy shit that’s a big horse…