Yes, I'm grinching it up the day before Christmas. Deal with it.
Now, don't get me wrong, I fuckin' love Christmas. I do. Not even angry people can resist trees, ornaments, candy canes, gaudy light displays, people being around 5% less mean than usual, the birth of the baby Jesus, (you thought I wasn't gonna put him in here. I know what Christmas is about. Don't doubt me ever again) the annual worldwide lie to kids under 11 about the existence of Santa Claus, the holly, the ivy, jingle bells, and forced family bonding. And nothing puts you in the mood for all of the above like some good old Christmas music. I have to give a big shoutout to the radio stations that play 24/7 Christmas music during the holiday season (as long as they start after Thanksgiving.) I see what you're doing, 106.7, and I applaud you for it. However, playing Christmas music nonstop for a month gets difficult, and every so often, they'll throw in a song for variety's sake that makes you go: "Really? Someone recorded that? On their Christmas album? To make people happy about Christmas?" There are some "Christmas" songs that just make you feel weird and uncomfortable, like you and Christmas have been violated.
The other night I was jamming to the Christmas tunes on my way to work, and this came on. Go ahead, listen for a little while. I'll wait. If you're lazy, look up the lyrics. Still waiting, take your time........
Aaaaaaaaaand we're back. First things first, let's point out that this song is by a gentleman named Dan Fogelberg. Um...okay, I know we're PC and everything, but Mr. Fogelberg, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you're celebrating Hanukkah. I know there's a lot of pressure to have a Christmas album out, but it's okay to say no, especially when we get a sketchy number about an awkwardly sexually charged encounter with an ex-girlfriend (or "old lover," as he puts it, which is even weirder, as it implies a no-strings-attached hookup from college or something. TMI.)
So he sees this chick in the grocery store on Christmas Eve, and they decide to go knock back a few at the bar. Why are both of you shunning your families to get hammered with your old fuckbuddy on Christmas Eve? Won't her kids say, "Daddy, where did Mommy go? We have to make cookies for Santa!" Like, how can you just break your kids' hearts like that? And then they can't find an open bar. What a fucking shocker, it's Christmas Eve, everyone else is home with their families. Normal course of action: bars are closed, go home. It's a sign. You guys are not supposed to kick it tonight.
But no, what do they do? Buy a six pack and drink it in her CAR. Okay, the buck stops here. That's fucking weird. Not to mention, she tells him she's married but she doesn't love the dude. Did anybody else think they were gonna throw on some Luther Vandross and do the bumpty bump in the car? No? Just me? Allllllrighty then. Regardless, at the end of the song when she drives off and the snow turns to rain, your reaction isn't "YESSSSSS, LET'S HANG SOME STOCKINGS AND TRIM SOME TREES, MOTHERFUCKER!!" It's, "Wow, that was depressing...and weird...I kinda just wanna get in my bed and cry." Thanks, Fogelberg.
[Update: Dan Fogelberg died nine days before Christmas in 2007, of prostate cancer. I'm going to hell.]
Another one that you probably know is "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime." Why did Paul McCartney, who I would say knows how to write a song or two, decide to go with some weird synthesizer shit? It's annoying, and makes me think of the mean futuristic neighbors in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. See for yourself. Doesn't it seem like they would listen to weird synthesizer Christmas music? Yes, it does.
The last Christmas song to draw my ire is the classic grotesque favorite of sadists everywhere, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer." Why did this ever catch on? Why are we singing when grandma is dead? If you like this song, go ahead and think of your poor grandmother every time you gleefully sing the refrain. Not so fun, now, is it? No, because now you're making fun of your grandma's untimely death at the hands (or hooves, as it were) of Blitzen, who is probably under a lot of pressure from Santa to make it to your house anyway because you're such a spoiled brat. So in reality, it's your fault that grandma's dead. But keep singing, really, because what's funnier than dead old people at Christmas?
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Clichés That Don't Make Sense
(Yes, I put the accent on the "e" in "Cliché". I was a French minor, and also happen to have an affinity for things that are correct. I know what you're thinking..."ugh, how bougie of her." Well, "bougie" comes from a French word. So how bougie of YOU. Suck it. Moving on.)
When speaking in everyday English, we often toss out certain age-old phrases, known as clichés, because we've heard them before, other people use them, they sound right for the situation. But unfortunately, we fail to independently examine these phrases and realize that they are the SOLE reason why the rest of the world thinks we are fucking NUTS. All the fat people walking around, the amount of energy we consume, our healthcare system--none are reasons why the rest of the world hates us. It's because we walk around saying shit like "You can't have your cake and eat it too."
Um...what? You're telling me I have cake, which is a particularly delicious food item, but I can't eat it? What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Stare at it? Drool on it? Use it as a nice, fluffy, frosting-covered pillow when I pass out from the stress that results from having a piece of cake in front of me that I am forbidden to eat? If I can't eat the cake when I have, it, when do I get to eat it? When someone else has the cake? Do I steal it from my friend's plate? It's her birthday, I don't wanna steal her cake. I already showed up late and drunk to the party and forgot a present, I really can't do that to her. Maybe I can eat the cake before anyone has it, before they bring it out and sing! Can I eat it before it's cooked, while it's still in the batter stage? That's almost as good. But I'll get in trouble with whoever is cooking the cake. I'm so lost...my confidence is shot. Can I just have a little tiny piece of cake...please?
"Kill two birds with one stone." That one makes a little more sense...get a bunch of shit done at once. A little morbid, but hey, birds die. Fact of life. My question is, can we modernize it a little? "Kill 7 birds with one bullet if they're standing close enough together and you're using hunting ammunition, unless you're Dick Cheney, in which case you're killing your friend's face." A little longer, doesn't roll of the tongue quite as easily, but you can bet it'll be a fun conversation starter! When you're killing those two birds with one stone, keep in mind that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So if you have the opportunity to throw a stone of death at two birds, make sure someone is holding them. They'll be worth twice as much. I think. Hopefully enough to pay for that person's broken hand.
"There's more than one way to skin a cat." Now, we all know I'm not the biggest fan of cats. But, gross. This one raises a whole host of unanswered questions. First, why are people skinning cats? When in history has anyone ever used cat fur for anything? Seriously. You can skin a rabbit, a deer, a moose, a bear, your friend (if you're Dick Cheney) but a cat? Unless you got really angry at your cats after reading my previous post, in which case I take absolutely no responsibility for your sudden cat hatred and will certainly not take the blame when PETA shows up at your house. Can you make a cat rug? No. A coat? Imagine your friend's face when you present the coat you got him, made out of cat fur. So that's a no. Slippers? Boots? Hats? No, no and no. No one skins cats. Ever. Secondly, how many ways are there, really, to skin a cat? I can think of one...with a knife. Do they have cat-skinning peelers, like giant vegetable peelers? Are there machines? If you leave the cat there long enough, will the skin just kind of peel off? For something that is supposed to imply that there are a lot of alternatives to accomplish what you are trying to do, they certainly picked an activity with very few different methods. How about, "There's more than one way to drive to Canada!" I mean, that's very true. You have the whole northern border of the U.S. to deal with, I'm sure there are hundreds of ways to cross it. Ok everyone, start saying "There's more than one way to drive to Canada." Do it. Make it a thing. Step one to world domination.
"It's as easy as pie." Clearly, whoever made that one up never even came close to making a fucking pie. That shit is hard. Take apple pie, for instance. Peel the apples. Core the apples. Slice the apples. Make the cinnamon-y gooey delicious shit and mix it all up with the apples. Mix all the crust ingredients together and roll the dough into a ball. Put it in the fridge. Watch the Ellen DeGeneres show. Take it out of the fridge. Roll it flat. Get angry when the crust gets stuck to the rolling pin and tears a hole in the flatness. Roll it up into a ball again. Roll it flat. Try to pry it off the counter without ruining the flatness. Fail. Roll it up into a ball. Roll it flat. Pry it off the counter and lay it over the pie dish. Put the gooey cinammon-y apples in the pie dish. Roll the other crust flat, and repeat all steps above for the lower crust. Lay the upper crust over the pie. Pinch upper and lower together to try and make it look like a lovely wavy scalloped edge, but wind up with deformed globs of crust at uneven intervals throughout the pie. Yell "fuck you!" at the photo of Martha Stewart staring at you from the cookbook, holding her perfect pie and standing amongst her tasteful Thanksgiving decorations. (who decorates for Thanksgiving? Really, Martha?) Throw the pie in the oven, storm out of the kitchen and yell at someone. Now, in what world would that ever be considered easy?
"In between a rock and a hard place." Really, cliché maker-upper? You couldn't be bothered to spend ten seconds to think of another hard place? Like, "In between a rock and an anvil." Or, "In between a rock and...another rock." C'mon dude. A little creativity here.
I could go on and on. There are hundreds of clichés out there, being used every day by unsuspecting citizens who are unaware of the crippling effect they are having on our global reputation. They're making me lose my marbles. So slow down. Get your ducks in a row. Think of a different way to say what you're trying to. Make a difference. If not, we'll all go to hell in a handbasket. And thanks for reading my blog. You're the bees knees.
When speaking in everyday English, we often toss out certain age-old phrases, known as clichés, because we've heard them before, other people use them, they sound right for the situation. But unfortunately, we fail to independently examine these phrases and realize that they are the SOLE reason why the rest of the world thinks we are fucking NUTS. All the fat people walking around, the amount of energy we consume, our healthcare system--none are reasons why the rest of the world hates us. It's because we walk around saying shit like "You can't have your cake and eat it too."
Um...what? You're telling me I have cake, which is a particularly delicious food item, but I can't eat it? What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Stare at it? Drool on it? Use it as a nice, fluffy, frosting-covered pillow when I pass out from the stress that results from having a piece of cake in front of me that I am forbidden to eat? If I can't eat the cake when I have, it, when do I get to eat it? When someone else has the cake? Do I steal it from my friend's plate? It's her birthday, I don't wanna steal her cake. I already showed up late and drunk to the party and forgot a present, I really can't do that to her. Maybe I can eat the cake before anyone has it, before they bring it out and sing! Can I eat it before it's cooked, while it's still in the batter stage? That's almost as good. But I'll get in trouble with whoever is cooking the cake. I'm so lost...my confidence is shot. Can I just have a little tiny piece of cake...please?
"Kill two birds with one stone." That one makes a little more sense...get a bunch of shit done at once. A little morbid, but hey, birds die. Fact of life. My question is, can we modernize it a little? "Kill 7 birds with one bullet if they're standing close enough together and you're using hunting ammunition, unless you're Dick Cheney, in which case you're killing your friend's face." A little longer, doesn't roll of the tongue quite as easily, but you can bet it'll be a fun conversation starter! When you're killing those two birds with one stone, keep in mind that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So if you have the opportunity to throw a stone of death at two birds, make sure someone is holding them. They'll be worth twice as much. I think. Hopefully enough to pay for that person's broken hand.
"There's more than one way to skin a cat." Now, we all know I'm not the biggest fan of cats. But, gross. This one raises a whole host of unanswered questions. First, why are people skinning cats? When in history has anyone ever used cat fur for anything? Seriously. You can skin a rabbit, a deer, a moose, a bear, your friend (if you're Dick Cheney) but a cat? Unless you got really angry at your cats after reading my previous post, in which case I take absolutely no responsibility for your sudden cat hatred and will certainly not take the blame when PETA shows up at your house. Can you make a cat rug? No. A coat? Imagine your friend's face when you present the coat you got him, made out of cat fur. So that's a no. Slippers? Boots? Hats? No, no and no. No one skins cats. Ever. Secondly, how many ways are there, really, to skin a cat? I can think of one...with a knife. Do they have cat-skinning peelers, like giant vegetable peelers? Are there machines? If you leave the cat there long enough, will the skin just kind of peel off? For something that is supposed to imply that there are a lot of alternatives to accomplish what you are trying to do, they certainly picked an activity with very few different methods. How about, "There's more than one way to drive to Canada!" I mean, that's very true. You have the whole northern border of the U.S. to deal with, I'm sure there are hundreds of ways to cross it. Ok everyone, start saying "There's more than one way to drive to Canada." Do it. Make it a thing. Step one to world domination.
"It's as easy as pie." Clearly, whoever made that one up never even came close to making a fucking pie. That shit is hard. Take apple pie, for instance. Peel the apples. Core the apples. Slice the apples. Make the cinnamon-y gooey delicious shit and mix it all up with the apples. Mix all the crust ingredients together and roll the dough into a ball. Put it in the fridge. Watch the Ellen DeGeneres show. Take it out of the fridge. Roll it flat. Get angry when the crust gets stuck to the rolling pin and tears a hole in the flatness. Roll it up into a ball again. Roll it flat. Try to pry it off the counter without ruining the flatness. Fail. Roll it up into a ball. Roll it flat. Pry it off the counter and lay it over the pie dish. Put the gooey cinammon-y apples in the pie dish. Roll the other crust flat, and repeat all steps above for the lower crust. Lay the upper crust over the pie. Pinch upper and lower together to try and make it look like a lovely wavy scalloped edge, but wind up with deformed globs of crust at uneven intervals throughout the pie. Yell "fuck you!" at the photo of Martha Stewart staring at you from the cookbook, holding her perfect pie and standing amongst her tasteful Thanksgiving decorations. (who decorates for Thanksgiving? Really, Martha?) Throw the pie in the oven, storm out of the kitchen and yell at someone. Now, in what world would that ever be considered easy?
"In between a rock and a hard place." Really, cliché maker-upper? You couldn't be bothered to spend ten seconds to think of another hard place? Like, "In between a rock and an anvil." Or, "In between a rock and...another rock." C'mon dude. A little creativity here.
I could go on and on. There are hundreds of clichés out there, being used every day by unsuspecting citizens who are unaware of the crippling effect they are having on our global reputation. They're making me lose my marbles. So slow down. Get your ducks in a row. Think of a different way to say what you're trying to. Make a difference. If not, we'll all go to hell in a handbasket. And thanks for reading my blog. You're the bees knees.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Cats
This post is going to take the form of a fun little role play scenario. (Not that kind of role play, relax and keep it in your pants.) You decide you want to buy a pet, so you go to the pet store and a nice lady who works there helps you decide what to get. She also happens to be the most honest person to ever walk the earth.
Option A is adorable. He's a cute little pile of fluff, and as soon as you walk up to his cage, he's so fucking excited to see you that you're afraid he might explode if he's not allowed to jump into your arms. He's got big, happy eyes and when he's looking at you, you know at that moment, you make him happier than he will ever be. The honest pet lady tells you what Option A will be like if you bring him home. He will always be adorable. He will think that every single thing he does is the most unbelievably exciting thing that has ever happened. He will never leave you. Ever. When you come home, whether you have been gone for 5 minutes or 5 months, he will absolutely lose his shit when you pull into the driveway. He will probably put his paws up on the window, looking outside, trying not to burst before you walk in the door. And when you walk in, it's over. He will be hysterical with excitement. Every single time you walk in the door, it will be the single happiest moment in his life so far. Without fail. He comes with a tail that moves back and forth whenever he is happy. It will always be moving back and forth. He is loyal. He will stay with you through thick and thin, and always love you no matter what kind of miserable shit you do. When you have a shitty day, he'll know. You'll sit down, and he'll walk over to you, rest his head on your knee and make you feel better. Always. When he finally passes away, you will feel like you've lost a kid, but you'll be forever grateful for the time you spent with him.
Option B is also cute, and fluffy. When you walk over to his cage, he's cool to just kind of kick it in the corner, and look at you as if you are a foreign invader. Honest pet lady tells you the deal with Option B. In a few months, he won't be that cute anymore. He won't really take any interest in you, he just kind of does his own thing. If you try to touch him, his back will arch, his hair will stick up, and he will emit an ungodly shriek that may make your ears bleed. If you persist, razor sharp talons will shoot out of his paws and he will hiss at you until you retreat to no less than ten feet away. When you get home, he will not come to the door. He will be in the basement, brooding about being held captive by such an inferior life form and planning your demise. If you let him get outside for even a minute, he will run away and never come back. Why? Because he hates you. He hates you, he hates people, he hates Option A's and Option B's and all other animals. And all other inanimate objects. He hates everything. Never try to pick him up. You will be scarred forever by the talons and he will shoot out of your arms and across the room. He pees and shits in a box that smells like pee and shit. This box makes your house smell like pee and shit. If you have a rough day, he won't have any idea, and if he does, he won't give a flying fuck. When he kicks the bucket, you will miss only the presence of a furry thing in your dwelling. You won't admit it, but your days will be a bit brighter and less stressful.
Ok, role play over. EVERYONE and their mother knows that Option A is a dog, and Option B is a cat. Why? Because cats suck. They do. For all the reasons I have enumerated above. I am a grown ass woman, and last summer I found myself crouching on a kitchen counter in a tiny NYC apartment, with oven mitts on my hands for protection, throwing string cheese at a cat to try and save myself from an untimely death at its hands. This thing took one fucking look at me and pounced. Unless you happen to be close with Michael Vick, that shit just does not happen with dogs. As I type, right at this very moment, my dog has walked over to me and laid down on top of my freezing bare feet. How did he know my feet were cold? Because he's a dog, which automatically means he's fucking awesome. If you want a pet that doesn't give a shit about you, at least get a gerbil or a rabbit or something...it's socially acceptable to keep them in a cage. But if you already have a cat...go ahead and get a cage, I won't tell anyone. Trust me, you'll be happier.
Option A is adorable. He's a cute little pile of fluff, and as soon as you walk up to his cage, he's so fucking excited to see you that you're afraid he might explode if he's not allowed to jump into your arms. He's got big, happy eyes and when he's looking at you, you know at that moment, you make him happier than he will ever be. The honest pet lady tells you what Option A will be like if you bring him home. He will always be adorable. He will think that every single thing he does is the most unbelievably exciting thing that has ever happened. He will never leave you. Ever. When you come home, whether you have been gone for 5 minutes or 5 months, he will absolutely lose his shit when you pull into the driveway. He will probably put his paws up on the window, looking outside, trying not to burst before you walk in the door. And when you walk in, it's over. He will be hysterical with excitement. Every single time you walk in the door, it will be the single happiest moment in his life so far. Without fail. He comes with a tail that moves back and forth whenever he is happy. It will always be moving back and forth. He is loyal. He will stay with you through thick and thin, and always love you no matter what kind of miserable shit you do. When you have a shitty day, he'll know. You'll sit down, and he'll walk over to you, rest his head on your knee and make you feel better. Always. When he finally passes away, you will feel like you've lost a kid, but you'll be forever grateful for the time you spent with him.
Option B is also cute, and fluffy. When you walk over to his cage, he's cool to just kind of kick it in the corner, and look at you as if you are a foreign invader. Honest pet lady tells you the deal with Option B. In a few months, he won't be that cute anymore. He won't really take any interest in you, he just kind of does his own thing. If you try to touch him, his back will arch, his hair will stick up, and he will emit an ungodly shriek that may make your ears bleed. If you persist, razor sharp talons will shoot out of his paws and he will hiss at you until you retreat to no less than ten feet away. When you get home, he will not come to the door. He will be in the basement, brooding about being held captive by such an inferior life form and planning your demise. If you let him get outside for even a minute, he will run away and never come back. Why? Because he hates you. He hates you, he hates people, he hates Option A's and Option B's and all other animals. And all other inanimate objects. He hates everything. Never try to pick him up. You will be scarred forever by the talons and he will shoot out of your arms and across the room. He pees and shits in a box that smells like pee and shit. This box makes your house smell like pee and shit. If you have a rough day, he won't have any idea, and if he does, he won't give a flying fuck. When he kicks the bucket, you will miss only the presence of a furry thing in your dwelling. You won't admit it, but your days will be a bit brighter and less stressful.
Ok, role play over. EVERYONE and their mother knows that Option A is a dog, and Option B is a cat. Why? Because cats suck. They do. For all the reasons I have enumerated above. I am a grown ass woman, and last summer I found myself crouching on a kitchen counter in a tiny NYC apartment, with oven mitts on my hands for protection, throwing string cheese at a cat to try and save myself from an untimely death at its hands. This thing took one fucking look at me and pounced. Unless you happen to be close with Michael Vick, that shit just does not happen with dogs. As I type, right at this very moment, my dog has walked over to me and laid down on top of my freezing bare feet. How did he know my feet were cold? Because he's a dog, which automatically means he's fucking awesome. If you want a pet that doesn't give a shit about you, at least get a gerbil or a rabbit or something...it's socially acceptable to keep them in a cage. But if you already have a cat...go ahead and get a cage, I won't tell anyone. Trust me, you'll be happier.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Radio DJs With Verbal Diarrhea
When I'm listening to music on the radio...I wanna listen to the damn song. Yelling shoutouts to your cousin Marty and your dad whose birthday is coming up in the middle of the song that I am trying to listen to does not a DJ make. If I really need to know what your twitter account is (It's your dj name. I know it, you know it, every damn listener out there knows it. And if they don't know it, they can fucking google it.), you can tell me between songs. Sheek Louch is gonna be on hot 97 tomorrow? Great! There's a Nicki Minaj concert on Christmas Night? Fabulous! I couldn't be happier for you! Would it be too much to ask for you to contain your fucking excitement until Trey Songz has finished serenading me? There are not too many things that are more awkward than belting out Rihanna at the top of your lungs, only to have the song cut out for a few seconds. The beautiful note I was singing turns into a meek warble and eventually dies, along with my dignity, while I look down and suddenly start examining my fingernails with the meticulousness of an IRS worker trying to screw someone out of a couple bucks. Is your shameless self promotion really worth the unending humiliation and embarrassment that I must endure? Even when I'm in the car by myself, I'm still ashamed. It takes me a good three or four songs to get my confidence back and start singing again. If you're going to yell and holler about yourself, at least be honest. Don't say anything about how you're "on the one's and two's." You're not. You're on the microphone. Incessantly. All the time.
Also, you are not a DJ if all you do is play the first three bars of a song over and over again. How the fuck am I supposed to know when you are finally gonna stop fucking around and play the song through? I sing the first three bars, then keep singing like nothing is wrong...except you fuck with me and start the song over. Now I know what's up, though, and this time, after bar three, I know to start at the beginning of the song again. But this is where it gets tricky. Now I have to do a quick mental over-under of how many times you're gonna play the beginning before you let the song ride. So again, my confidence is gone, I'm singing quietly for fear of screwing up, and I'm going slowly insane. Every time the song starts, I think "Maybe this time!" Nope, he brought it back. "It's gotta be this time!" No, no, he's still not mentally ready for the whole song, he had to play that stupid siren noise and start over again. "Ok, now I know what the deal is, 3 bars and we're starting over. I can do this." GOD DAMMIT HE STARTED PLAYING THE SONG THROUGH AND NOW I'M SINGING THE BEGINNING WHEN WE'RE HALFWAY THROUGH THE FIRST VERSE!!! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME DJ ENUFF? WHY?
Then my brain explodes, I drive my car into a tree, and it's all over. Hopefully they don't have DJs in heaven.
Also, you are not a DJ if all you do is play the first three bars of a song over and over again. How the fuck am I supposed to know when you are finally gonna stop fucking around and play the song through? I sing the first three bars, then keep singing like nothing is wrong...except you fuck with me and start the song over. Now I know what's up, though, and this time, after bar three, I know to start at the beginning of the song again. But this is where it gets tricky. Now I have to do a quick mental over-under of how many times you're gonna play the beginning before you let the song ride. So again, my confidence is gone, I'm singing quietly for fear of screwing up, and I'm going slowly insane. Every time the song starts, I think "Maybe this time!" Nope, he brought it back. "It's gotta be this time!" No, no, he's still not mentally ready for the whole song, he had to play that stupid siren noise and start over again. "Ok, now I know what the deal is, 3 bars and we're starting over. I can do this." GOD DAMMIT HE STARTED PLAYING THE SONG THROUGH AND NOW I'M SINGING THE BEGINNING WHEN WE'RE HALFWAY THROUGH THE FIRST VERSE!!! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME DJ ENUFF? WHY?
Then my brain explodes, I drive my car into a tree, and it's all over. Hopefully they don't have DJs in heaven.
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