Mom, I got gyped by the Easter Bunny!

Let me just say that I hope "gyped" isn't an ethnically/politically charged term. I don't mean it to be offensive, but it's the best way to be funny in this particular instance.

Okay, did you know that Target sells pre-made Easter Baskets? (if you didn't, are you retarded? They've been doing that since like the 70s.) Anywho, these days, they're putting individually wrapped tic-tacs in a big plastic egg and putting them in these easter baskets. Can you imagine the disappointment factor here? Here is one example of possible trauma involving these tic-tacs.

Ring. Ring
Hey! Billy?
Oh hi, Fishface!
Oh man! The Easter Bunny brought me crazy amounts of candy! Cadbury eggs! DVDs! Stereo equipment, etc! What'd you get?
Umm, tic-tacs (not packaged for individual retail sale!)
Dude. Sucks.
The Easter Bunny hates me, okay! And I hate you! Fishface!
Click.

Therapy ensues.

And there you have it. Don't let the Easter Bunny bring your kid something so terribly sucky. Do the right thing and rot the teeth right out of their head.

And mom, I hope you're reading this, because I don't want no tic-tacs in my Easter Basket. And yes, I am 22 and still receive an Easter Basket (because the Easter Bunny loves me, punk!). Wanna make somethin' of it?

I cry at movies.

Yeah, pretty much at all movies. That's one reason I really like the Oscars. It reminds me of all the times I cried, and oh! how I adore crying at the movies! Tonight, Olivia de Haviland was a presenter and just the quick flourish of music they played from Gone With the Wind made me tear up. And Julie Andrews--Mary Poppins of my life.

I was pleasantly surprised this evening. Adrien Brody won for The Pianist and Michale Moore got boo'ed off the stage for anti-war sentiment by a bunch of bleeding-heart liberals.

That's entertainment.

P.S. M!: I know you're laughing at me, and to you I say--shut your piehole.

You Probably Already Knew This, But...

Your very own Mary T. is a frigid bitch. No, it's true. Strange things have been happening in MaryTland which helped me to realize what has probably been true all along.

I mean, I've always had a "No, really, please don't ever touch me," rule with most people, which probably should have been a tip-off, but you know how it is when you're in denial. (You deny things, yes?) And by the way, this "please don't touch me" rule applies muchly to the first date. I don't know you and therefore do not want to: a) kiss b) hug c) shake hands. It's too soon to know if I'll want to kiss you. I think hugs are phoney with people you don't honestly want to envelop and remember in a few weeks (right?) and a hand shake to me says, "Thank you for the business lunch, Phil. I'll have my secretary fax those forms right over." And please don't try to give me a high five or even a kiss on the cheek. Give me a wave or a thumbs up if you must, but really-- please don't touch me.

So, beyond this obviousness, how did I discover that I was such a frigid biatch?

For reasons unknown to me, I have been blatantly hit on by two guys in the past 24 hours. This never happens, unless you count the ubiquitous cat-calls from Montrose construction crews. (Motto: We make neighborhoods uncomfortable with our conspiciously placed PortaPottys and tasteless admiration of the womenfolk!) Last night while walking my dog, Chickyboom's friend* tapped me on the back and said "Aww, you're so cute when you walk your dog," at which time I immediately stiffened and pointedly moved away and directly into my apartment where I could wretch in peace. Tonight, a completely harmless young man at Jamba Juice who sees me, 2-3 times per week but never speaks to me, was suddenly all chatty and *wrote his phone number on my Jamba Juice receipt,* which I promptly threw out and backed away quickly. What? I am in there all the freakin' time and believe me, this gigantic zit on my chin and my grey hoodie and jeans don't make me out to be any kind of big winner.

I cannot explain these outbursts of admiration, but I can explain my behavior: F.B.--and you know what it stands for.

*Yes, chickyboom, my supposedly "evicted" neighbor is still living noisily above me. Was he evicted? No. Is my landlord a filthy, lying animal who has not taken care of the life-threatening mold in my apartment? Why, yes he is.

P.S. New poll.

Operation Enduring Comedy

This is ridonculously hilarious and much needed on the eve of this stupid war we're obviously about to have. If you don't believe me, sample this excerpt:

Guy 1: Oh my God! This war on terrorism is gonna rule! I can't wait until the war is over and there's no more terrorism!

Guy 2: I know! Remember when the US had a drug problem and then we declared war on drugs and now you can't buy drugs anymore? I'll be just like that.

There's more where that came from, so: Get your war on.

Kiss Me, I'm Irritated

Whatever happened to people wearing green on St. Patrick's Day? M! and I were super disappointed by the lack of the green at the Galleria today. Of course, we were disappointed by Nordstrom not being open yet and the charity event at Foley's which required us to take a 6 mile hike to get to the mall. But I got a slice of pizza and all was irie once more.

And now a St. Patty's Day joke:
Q. What's Irish and stays out all night?
A. Patty O' Furniture.

I kill me. More exciting blogs coming soon!

Sans Blague!

What I really mean is, sans blogger.html. Now that I have moved Council of Elders to a new site, French-Roast.com will be losing the "/blogger.html". It's time, you know?

Update your bookmarks!

Because He's STILL Funny

If you're partial to the Daily Roast (yes, my site), you should make sure to buzz on over to my suggested links. I don't recommend any blogs I don't read myself, except maybe Cynical McBastard, but only because I think the name is hilarious. The blog, well, you know.

But this entry is about my long-time blogging pal and all-around good guy, M!. I was just at his site and was horrified by the number I saw on his site meter. He is way funnier than me. I don't know what you're doing here. I'm not even really that funny anymore. M! has really been on a roll lately and he's a heck of a guy also, so just yes to visiting Anonymous Rex, today.

The Violent World of Radio

What is the deal with radio stations bashing each other? I mean, even on network tv, which has clearly scraped the bottom of the barrel to get viewers (Married By America, anyone?), they promote themselves but aren't flashing subliminal messages like "Other Station Sucks!" (Or are they? Hmm.) To their credit, they avoid all of this mud-slinging that seems to go on everywhere else in the world.

Probably the worst station about this in Houston is 93Q (KKBQ). They spend so much time telling listeners how many fewer commercials they play than their competitors, that the whole thing is self-defeating. Sometimes I change the station just so I don't have to listen to them say how horrible they *aren't* and listen to Mattress Mac on another station (or every station) instead (I mean, he does "save you $$$ today!" after all). Now even 106.9, the Point (KHPT) is getting in on the act. For awhile, Breakfast Club was so chill. There was even an awesome theme song that you have to hear to appreciate, but it was all 80s and would work well in other venues if sung with neon lipstick on: Breakfast Club with Heather Walters-- it's so outrageous! Now the ads just bash the other stations' morning shows and the fact that morning shows just blabber on incoherently for most of the morning. While the point is well taken because frankly, most morning shows make me want to vomit up my breakfast-- can't we all just be cool without getting threatened?

P.S. Clear Channel is the devil. Thank you.

I reject this.

Blogger is having my blogs for lunch. Doesn't anyone want a manwich meal anymore?

Smooth Like Peggy Lee

Have you ever listened to a song and heard a voice that was just so badass you wanted to marry it? I am having this problem. I am currently engaged to an a cappella version of Shenandoah and a male college a cappella singer. That is all I know at this time.

Relevant Dr. Katz excerpt:
Dr. Katz: So Bill, tell me about your wife.
Bill: Well, she's a nurse. And...she's from Canada. And that's all I really know. I should've asked.

I have never played Meg W. at Trivial Pursuit

...and I have my pride and think I am the master of disaster and everything, but I am pretty solid on the fact that she would school me...and you, too.

King Cake: Neither King, Nor Cake, Nor Good--Discuss

Happy Fat Tuesday one and all! I can tell that all of my viewers out there in tv land are strict observers of Lent and all. But what can I do? Convert you all? We can't all be whiskey drinkin' bingo addicts. (But it sure would be fun if we were!)

So one tradition of Mardi Gras is the King Cake. There's a little plastic baby baked in the cake and the person who gets the baby in their slice gets two things really. The honor (honour--hmm?) of baking next year's cake and the opportunity to choke on a small plastic baby. Yay!! Does the fun ever start!!

For those of you who have not encountered such a cake, it's basically the cinnamon roll equivalent of a bundt cake in shape, but retaining all the qualities you look for in a stale, dry cinnamon roll. (I believe King Cakes are quality tested for sheer gagability and nuclear reactive levels of colored sprinkles and frosting, in fact.) The "cake" is covered in a frosting that tastes like if you had an entire cupcake made out of frosting, and then put frosting on it, in a variety of radioactive colors. The King Cake's claim: Nothing occurring in nature here! No sireee!

Some people claim to like these cakes. They are either deluded or liars, or both. People buy them/make them out of tradition, but not because they're good. Because dude-- they're not.

And I hate Mardi Gras. Thanks.

Further Proof that Houston Was Designed by a Neanderthal

Okay, so I guess enough people called the city to complain that the streets inside the loop were basically unnavigable because of potholes, drifters, pimps. etc, so there is like a crazy paving craze going on. And that is something I can get on board with.

What I can*not* get on board with is the fact that the city first strips the old pavement (because amazingly some still remains) with what amounts to acid rain. My entire neighborhood is flooded with muddy, chalky, acidy residue. The street formerly known as Fairview (and formerly known as a street) is now kind of like a double black diamond ski area in that the only remaining pavement is in mogul-like bumps and concaves and occasionally, there is a gigantic drop-off.

What's really interesting is that as I crossed Fairview with Molly a minute ago, I noticed that a lot of the holes in the street were holding quite a collection of seashells. And correct me if I'm wrong but Tropical Storm Allison aside, the last time Houston was under the sea was something like *million* of years ago.

Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Wedding Bell Blues

More wedding rant: Married By America...is awesome. Finally, the job of deciding the fate of these peops willing to do anything to get on tv is in my insidious hands. Mwahahaha.

The problem? They all look exactly the same to me.

We're Gettin' Hitched, Biatch* or Mary T. and Her #1 Biatch Have No Honour

So I have been visiting my parents in Mineolapalooza the last few days and last night, my mom was showing me some wedding invitations she has received. Before I begin ranting (and let's face it, it's too late; I already have) let me just say that deep down in my cold, black heart: I do believe in love. In fact, I believe in ghosts and all sorts of junk. But back to love (and ranting!). I think marriage is great and beautiful and so on and so forth and a ritual of which I may even partake myself someday, but only if I can get respectable invitations. I mean seriously-- have ya *seen* what's out there? Oh my.

Last night I nearly gagged to death while reviewing a particular invitation of an acquaintance. Mr and Mrs. John Soandso and Mr. and Mrs. Joe Soandso invite you to celebrate the marriage of their children. Now the problem with this wording is three-fold. Yes, three-fold, although troubling on more metaphysical levels.
1. Children should not get married.
2. Are these peops brother and sister? This isn't Alabama! (See M!'s discussion of book-learnin'.)
3. Though I am bucking tradition, I hate it when people are referred to as Mr and Mrs John Schmoe. The woman is named John Schmoe also? I'm sorry, I was under the impression that Mrs. Schmoe was named Gladys. I have my own name after all. (Cue theme music: "Independent Woman")

And on another note, if your invitations are fabulous enough (i.e. written by an individual calligrapher, on Crane paper, non-gaudy, etc).--I can forgive you almost any wording, though if you are partaking of these fine ammenities, shame on you for not knowing better. Often however, these fabulous invitations are paid for by a parent who requests the honour of your presence. Certainly, if you are paying for a $$$ wedding with all of the bling bling, then hell, request whatever you want. Write your name on every envelope flap. But otherwise--this is America. My kid did not beat up your honour student. We don't shoppe at a centre. And I don't request your honour. You have none. Unless you are Q.E. 2 et al. in which case, I'll make an exception.

So you're probably wondering if indeed I ever get married what my invitations will say. E. has suggested that they say something like "See you there, dude." In all likelihood, they will probably say: Mary T. and Joe Q. Schmoe (he may be the son of Gladys and John, but by golly unless they're writin' the check, they can just be in the damn photos!) invite you to join their celebration of blah blah blah.

Either that or "Mary T. is gettin' hitched, biatch. See you at the eats table!"

Note: I will skip the apologies for not blogging because I haven't felt like it and now you will all deal.

*Thanks to E. for this marvelous (and eloquent!) title.