Kirk Cameron is Smart!

All right, here's the rundown: Been doing stuff, feeling stuff, annoyed by stuff. Hands hurt, look like Muppet hands, only not as colorful.

Rheumatoid arthritis is the shit! I mean, who wouldn't want hands like a Muppet? Very handy (pun!) when it comes to scaring small children.

Thing is, I must shave my mother's head today (how many of you have that on your daily schedule, huh?), and as cool as my Muppet hands are, they're not exactly working properly...Think I'll fortify myself beforehand with a Blue Light (or two), perhaps a Vicodin. Maybe a bologna sandwich.

Oh, don't worry, kids, no exposed, potentially lethal blades involved -- I'll be using clippers on Maw, will make sure the buzzing flappy thingie is set very high, so's not to, you know, accidentally scalp her.

Don't want to scalp my mother, oh, hell no.

Hey, speaking of hell, if you have a minute, or perhaps an hour, check out Kirk Cameron's nifty site of shame. Go ahead, if you're interested in having a good laugh. Seriously, I'll never look at a banana now without thinking of Kirk.

I also will never be able to say his name without smirking. Or referring to him as: Captain Kirk of the Starship Gloria in Excelsis Deo, Kirk of Nazareth, Kirkus Christ, Quixotic Kurt of Kalamazoo, Kirk, Son of Cthulu... Kirky, Kirky, Who is a Bit Jerky.

Eh.

Listen, if any of you happen to be fundamentalist Christians, and are appalled or offended by my obvious disdain for this mentally disturbed man and his, um, philosophies?

Please accept my sincerest fuck you.

If This Doesn't Put a Smile on Your Face...

Then you are either dead or:

a) hate Lost

b) hate prairie dogs

c) hate Ms. Lori

d) all of the above

Semantics Shmemantics

Thought I'd share a little story about my mother, her Pekingese, and an elderly landscaper whose grammar skills were less than perfect. And I'm being kind here.

Politically correct, this is not -- it is, however, absolutely true.

Back in the late sixties, when I was but a tot, my mother owned a vicious bitch of a Pekingese named Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell had a habit of not only biting small children, but she would, when let outside to do her business, run from the yard as fast as her nasty little legs would carry her. She had to be closely watched lest she journey into busy roads or large, snapping German shepherd jaws. Anyway, one morning, at our newly built home that sat in a newly developed tract, my mother let Tinkerbell out as usual, only this time, Mom was distracted by my baby brother, so Tinkerbell, being the idiot she was, ran from our yet-to-be-seeded, extremely muddy yard.

When Mom realized that Tinkerbell was gone, she panicked, rushed out into our muddy yard while still in her nightie and short robe, and was met by an elderly gentleman wielding garden implements. "Have you seen my Pekingese," my mother asked the kindly old gardener.

He replied, "No, ma'am!" while vigorously shaking his head.

"Are you sure you haven't seen my Pekingese? She was right --"

"Uh-uh, no, ma'am, no way was I peekin' at yo' knees!"

"Oh, Jesus. No, I think you've misunderstood, sir. I was wondering if you'd seen my little Pekingese, she --"

"I said I wasn't peekin' at yo' knees! No, ma'am, I would never peek at yo' knees!"

At which point he turned to his workmate and shrieked "She think I be peekin' at her knees! I ain't peekin' at no damn knees!" His workmate could only shrug.

Mom stood there open-mouthed as the poor old gent scurried away muttering, "She crazy, she damn crazy!"

Tinkerbell, unfortunately, found her way back home by noon.


ADDENDUM: Ew. Upon rereading this post, I am appalled by my complete lack of storytelling skill. I mean, "kindly old gardener"? "Poor old gent"? And just look at the horrid syntax!

Geebus Cripes.

That's what happens when one attempts creative nonfiction at four in the morning...After two hours sleep...For the fifty millionth night in a row...

Apparently, insomnia causes one to write like a precocious twelve-year-old Nanny McPhee fan.

Good day.

Eight Random Facts About Me

I've been tagged by the scrumptious Ms. Jordan Rosenfeld.

The rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Fine. Here are my eight random facts.

A Word of Warning: I am so fascinating, you may be lulled into a hypnotic trance, whereupon I will control you with my extraordinary psychic powers via remote mindfuck, and you will be my intellectually-controlled slave forever and ever and ever.

Which is just fancy talk meaning I will take over your brain and you will unwittingly buy me lots of books and send them to me on a weekly (or daily, depending on how grabby I feel) basis. Also chocolate.

Eight Random Facts About Ms. Lori

1) My middle daughter, my oldest brother and I all have Asperger’s Syndrome, although only my daughter and myself have been diagnosed, e.g., spent two trillion bucks to sit in a shrink‘s chair and stare numbly at their flapping lips.

My brother, forty years old, loves lizards and spiders, still lives at home with Joan Crawford Mom, and will ask you how much you spent on a gift you give him. He’s also the smartest, funniest, kindest man I’ve ever known, and one of the few people on earth who doesn’t get on my last freaking nerve.

2) I adapt well to living on the streets, as evidenced by my stints in Manhattan and York, England. Park benches, cozy courtyards, and abandoned storefronts can be lovely if you have no sense of fear and at least two dollars in your pocket.

3) If someone is in trouble, especially women or children, I will attempt to help. I do not understand people who stand around and do nothing.

In my next life, I shall be either a first-responder of some sort or an exotic dancer.

4) I taste words, a phenomenon known as lexical-gustatory synesthesia. My name, for instance, tastes like the gel-like icing they put on birthday cakes. The name “Boris” evokes bad breath smell, and makes me a bit nauseated. Seriously, I can taste it in the back of my throat. It is not pleasant.

5) I have smoked cigarettes since age twelve.

6) My handwriting/printing is like that of a four-year-old, unless I take my time and try really, really hard. It’s difficult for me to hold pens or pencils, and I often become “stuck” while writing something, almost like being trapped for a moment in quicksand. I also transpose letters, have to stop and think before writing a word. Which sucks.

7) I am afraid of wild ferns. Quick, embarrassing anecdote: During a Girl Scout camping trip when I was eleven or so (I lasted two weeks in the Scouts, by the way), the girls and I went exploring in the woods. Fine and dandy. Unfortunately, we came upon a huge patch of fern, and in order to get to the babbling brook ahead, we had to cross through the ferns. I stood there shaking as all the other girls carelessly trod on through the dark, fluffy, disgusting, monster-hiding hell. And then I cried.

I was forced to return to the campsite and sit there with Ms. Wackadoo, one of the chaperons. She was very old and very insane. I learned more than I needed about how to whittle Ivory soap into hideous duck-shaped figurines.

8) I am not ashamed to admit that I love Tom Jones.

I am tagging the following people. Ignore if you must, darlings, but I always play by the rules…

Gerry

Kirby

Olivia

Cassandra

John

Mr. Biscuits

Josh

Victor

Screw Toledo

Lar and I moved to Springfield!


Here's a still of me waiting in line at the supermarket. There's an asshole ahead of me paying for a pack of gum with a check, hence the look of disgust and bewilderment on my face.

Of course, I always look that way, anyway.



And here's Lar. I believe this shot was captured during a conversation he was having with a couple of nice folks who dropped by one day. They were bearing good news, and very eager to share!

I'm quite pleased with how well Lar and I have adapted to cartoon life. It never rains here, there are always plenty of doughnuts and beer, and we've become best friends with Homer and Marge.

Sure, we miss the kids, but here in Springfield, no one stays sad for long...Besides, Bart promised to build us four little robot children that will be close proximities to our human offspring. Even better, he said that he'll incorporate vacuum cleaners into his designs. How awesome is that?

Okay, gotta go now -- Lar and I are off to Moe's for a late morning round or two.

Cowabunga!

P.S. Want to join us? Click here .

Toledo?

Well, it was bound to happen...I lost my mind this morning.

Was just a matter of time. A matter of two long months of extreme mental anguish, stress, lack of sleep, screaming children 24/7, premenopause, and Lar buying vanilla frosting instead of dark chocolate -- LIKE I EXPRESSLY WROTE ON THE SONOFABITCHING SHOPPING LIST!

One cannot put vanilla frosting on a white cake. Should never be done, not ever.

One cannot expect a human being to gracefully endure all that I have lately without some sort of repercussions. I am not a robot, despite my stolid exterior. I have tried to hold it together, truly I have. But my God, VANILLA FROSTING???

I believe with all my heart that Lar deserved to be threatened with a cup of Kid's Kitchen Macaroni & Cheese.

Yes, you read that correctly -- I raised the cup of Kid's Kitchen Macaroni & Cheese and threatened to smash it on his head.

I also screamed at the top of my lungs and hurled toilet paper about the kitchen.

Then I shrieked the following:

WHY DON'T YOU TAKE THE KIDS AND GO TO TOLEDO!

I admit, that was shameful.

I hang my head in shame.

I Told You Phones Were Evil...

I'm a longtime hater of phones -- hate the way they look, sound, feel. Hate using them, hate speaking to disembodied voices, squirming through uncomfortable silences, vapidly staring at the wall while smiling and nodding at air.

Salespeople get to you through phones. Fund-raising hooligans bother you at dinnertime. Your mother calls when you're getting your freak on. Sure, you could just let her leave a message, but she'll keep calling, keep leaving messages, and the sound of her voice will cause your significant other much aggravation, will put a damper on things.

By the forth message, you and your honey muffin will be sober as popes, and the whipped cream will have turned into soup.

Phones are a hideous creation, to be sure. Alexander Graham Bell, I once read, was a disciple of Aleister Crowley.

No, I didn't really. But still.

Phones are evil, evil, evil, and anyone who does not realize this fact -- or worse, disagrees -- is a fool. Satan is reaching out to the masses via phones, he'll grab you with his smoky fingers and choke the life out of you if you're not careful.

And your soul will be his.

Throw your cell phones in the trash, people. Employ only one line in your home, and use it only for emergency purposes. You want to talk to a friend? Write a goddamed letter, like back in the good old days, when folks knew how to spell. Make a date to actually see your friend face-to-face.

Think I'm crazy, do you? Think Ms. Lori has finally lost the last five working brain cells she had left in her slightly misshapen skull?

Behold.