"Drunk Run Over by Train, Lives"

I cannot really do this story justice by writing about it here. So go forth, read it, and muse over this quote (which is always the best part of these yahoo news stories):
"I counted only six beers," a bewildered Lozano Lopez told local newspaper El Norte. "But who knows how many more there might have been. I don't remember."

Guess what Jose? It was way more than six.

"Some of the people who come inta tha sah-lan ah sooo malcawmpetent!"

One would think that in this age of technology in which music and movies are illegally yours at the click of a button on some type of piracy software, in which the phrase "I'm going to rip that," is a known entity, and in which solid businesses like Netflix and (though I am loathe to admit it) Wal-Mart have made cheap, easy movie rentals the order of the day, that media mogul Blockbuster could get their freaking act together.

But that is not the case. No.

Last night, P. and I walked the one block to my neighborhood Blockbuster to rent the classic, freakydeaky flick: Deliverance (for no better reason than I had had Dueling Banjos stuck in my head that day). Finding the movie was easy enough, despite the fact that every time I go into a Blockbuster, they seem to have less and less movies as their Christian Coalition owned leadership seems to be cracking down on anything cutting edge, arty and not having to do with heterosexual humping, patriotic violence, and other good American values (someone get me a vomit basin, plz.). This is not to say that the 1972 Deliverance is anything cutting edge, but there is the notable scene in which Ned Beatty is requested, nay coerced, by a certain toothless mountain man to "squeal like the pig that [he is]," whilst taking it up the ass.

I digress.

So after quickly finding said movie, P. and I get in line behind two other groups of customers, who are tended to immediately by the two clerks at the counter, and naively believe that we may be helped at some point in the near future.

But that is not the case. No.

So we finally get to the counter, (once again naively!) believing our transaction will be a quick one, as we are competent people with all the necessary tools to be speedy. O! We are fortune's fools! First, I handed over my membership card. After scanning it, I was asked my last name. Ahh, but why do a this, then this? The conversation that ensued is below.
MaryT: T----
BBminion: Did you renew?
MaryT: Renew what? I didn't think I had to renew.
BBminion: Where do you usually rent?
MaryT: Uhh, here.
BBminion: Are you sure?
MaryT: Yeah. Sure. I live a block away.
BBminion: Well when was the last time you rented?
MaryT: I dunno. Like a month or a few months ago.
BBminion: Well which was it? A month or a few months? Was it more than three?
MaryT: I...I don't know. What's the problem?
BBminion: The system deletes you after three months of inactivity, (hands me a longass application) but if you'll just get out your driver's license and a major credit card, we can rent you this ($2, old) movie."
MaryT: But I just walked from home. I don't have all that. I have $5 and my membership card...and I...
P, boy wonder: Whatever. Forget it. We're going to Hollywood Video. We don't have time to mess with your form. Fuck Blockbuster.

I must admit that upon hearing "Fuck Blockbuster," a little jolt of hope and love and admiration shot through my heart and shone in my eyes.

Now last summer, S. had a similar experience when she went to rent The Cutting Edge for us (shut up). The ordeal took so long that while Mollybee and I were waiting outside for her, it started pouring and the three of us ended up at our house soaked to the bone. Not only that, but I just bought the damn movie rather than having S. register for the cult of the Blockbuster. ( It is one of the few movies I own on both vhs and dvd. Once again: shut up.)

The point of all this is to say: Blockbuster, you don't have a leg to stand on. You have really given me and my peops (talkin' 'bout my generation!) the shaft too many times. Netflix is cheaper and easier than your crap. Hollywood Video people are more knowledgeable and their stores are less censored. Even Wal-Mart mail-in dvd service is making a laughing stock of your biz-nass. I mean--wal-mart is upping you in my eyes. Do you even know what that means? You're dishing out less service, value, and smarts and more evil than WAL-MART?!

Go ahead and just shoot yourself now. You're so finished. The generation-- my generation-- that gave you rise as the number one video provider nationwide is about to chew you up and spit you out.

Sucks.

I Award You No Points, and May God Have Mercy on Your Soul

What I am about to discuss can best be summed up by this quote from the Princess Bride. "Truly, you have a dizzying intellect."

I have addressed the matter of many popular lyrics possibly being penned by a complete assclown, but I must exhaust this issue once more as I consider all of the completely retarded things that get published in conjunction with the fame and fortune of their authors.

I'd like to begin by addressing the "band" LFO with a simple question:

What. The Fuck?

And that's really all I have to say about that, but I will also leave you with these LFO lyrics:

"Sometimes we sit around just the two of us on the park bench
Sometimes we swim around like two dolphins in the oceans of our hearts
But then I think about the time when we broke up before the prom
And you told everyone that I was gay, OK"

These are the kind of lyrics that put an intellectual giant like the reigning Miss USA, Shandi Finnessy (or something of that irritating ilk) to shame. Please enjoy this excerpt from a Yahoo news story detailing Ms. Finnessy's big win.
"During the final question category, [Miss Missouri] was asked what serves her better in life -- experience or education. She immediately chose the former, saying 'You can have all the book knowledge in the world, but to have the knowledge from experience. ... I think that teaches you more knowledge than anything you could possibly read in a book.' "

You write good!

You know something that really irks me? Well, most likely you can tick off several things immediately on your hands and more if your shoes are off, but I am going to be a scoche more specific, for your convenience.

Here's what: people who do not appreciate the sublime difference between writing and speaking, by which I mean, people who are completely incapable of writing for an audience, comic timing who, in my opinion, should have some heavy restrictions on their poetic license.

You should know from interacting with people that quite a large majority are inarticulate. I don't mean that they lithp, st-st-st-stutter, or are in some other way handies, but rather that the art of words eludes them. On the refrigerator of life, their magnetic poetry reads something akin to: sun heats hot , so fried, is are an ugly eggs spattered on the driveway of picnic tables, though admittedly, that is rather poetic in its savagery. But I digress.

I'm not that great at a lot of things. I certainly don't pretend to be, I don't think. But one thing I can do (though would not call myself a master, by any means) is write. I can craft a sentence that will make your toes curl in delight, in understanding, in empathy for my human condition. As a wordsmith, I am therefore required to occasionally work the gate, a la the Emerald City.
"Who goes there?"
"Incompetent writer. "
"Incompetent writer who?"
"Don't cry; it's only a joke."

I think you get the general idea.

I'm a writing elitist; it's true. You know it. I know it. In fact, I wrote it here and you likely nodded your head. I border on irate when I hear people imply that anyone can write, but that more analytical skills, such as mathematical computation and so forth require actual ability. (I do believe mathematics is *also* a skill, which not everyone is easily capable.) Anyone can write, eh? Write what? His name? Maaaaaaaaaaybe. A complete sentence? Questionable. A body of prose or poetry that is simultaneously beautiful, funny, sad, true and masterfully crafted? Unthinkable. And if you think so, please join the legion of morons that I invite to fuck off.

So what has set me off on this tear, aside from my usual snarky, bitter temperament? Well, several things really that I prefer not to go into at this time, but the catalyst of which I would be happy to discuss. It begins with Craigslist. Many of you know I read this with some regularity (by which I mean to infer: compulsively). One of the sections is the personals (including men seeking transvestites, weirdos seeking labrador retrievers, rants and raves, etc), a very special forum for writing that I hold dearly for many reasons, not the least of which is why people are there at all. For some, it is a sick sort of voyeuristic endeavor (but who would do that? umm, yeah...), but for many it is an actual plea to the world: please God, help me find someone who will make this life a little better than its current state of shittiness. There are some in-betweens as well, but the latter reason is, I think, my favorite. Shittiness being the case, people are desperate to package themselves neatly, carefully, humorously, attractively, any -ly that makes them more desireable to the kind of mate they lust after. A hilarious farce of this very thing was posted recently, (not by me) and is worth looking at.

The problem of course is that when you are out in the ocean of personals, swimming with all the other fish you have only discourse, wit and language with which to arm yourself against sharks and with which to charm some guppy into biting off your head. ( I don't think guppies do this, but preying mantii don't swim, so...) And HERE is where language makes the difference, because if you are interesting, creative, eloquent and you exude style in your language, you are a god(dess).

I dare not digress into the fantasy underworld which is the personals (of newspapers, internet, message boards, etc), but instead will get back to this catalyst of annoyance that lit the fire under me to actually blog again (and for that, I thank you, o' irritant).

So this girl is saying she's a stripper or something or maybe she said she had a nice body because she is a former stripper. (It doesn't matter because whatever it might have aimed to say, it definitely was total crap writing.) And then she immediately tacks on "Did I just say that?"

This whole rant is to say: Yes, dumbass, you most certainly did say that and you know damn well you did because the world of internet writing is not spontaneous. Writing and speaking, though overlapping in many areas, are not the same. And if they are for you, you're probably not that hilarious in either one (hilarity being a major consideration as to whether or not I think you're a bit of an assclown).

Maybe on some types of ICQ or rendezvous messengers there is spontaneity. But that is clearly not the point. The point is, saying "Did I say that?" on something so unspontaneous attempting to be spontaneous is about as funny as the 500 millionth time that we heard Steve Urkel say "Did I do that?" And no, you silly sidewalker, Steve Urkel was not hilarious. Not even that "Do I smell cheeeeeese?" bit.

There is something to be said for spontaneity; it's true. Often that is the meat and potatoes behind French Roast. I believe I have mentioned before that sometimes I think of things to write for you all, only to have lost the will to write about it by the time I actually get a chance to. I do like striking when the iron is hot. It lends my posts a certain verve and enthusiasm. But if I typed something and immediately realized it wouldn't fly, you'd so never know that I had said it if I didn't want you to. For loyal readers, you also know that I do have occasion to edit my posts. This paragraph is a good example. Further, you'll note that when I'm on a complete tear, my subjects and predicates are often bickering, my tangents are many, and veeeeery occasionally, my good spellin' goes AWOL.

And in conclusion, you should always use an outline, lest your essay about the important (and somewhat rare!) skill of writing well go astray and take the midnight train to Family Mattersville because of a no-talent stripper, thereby proving that a lot of people can't write, including you.

Stuff that Annoys Me No End That I Just Have to Get Over

1. Elevator stops on the way down. This never annoyed me in any other building, but it totally does at my work. I think because most of the people I run into are complete white trash and they're either a) gossiping about something that makes me cringe and generally involves a trip to City Streets, a girlfriend, and some guy named Randy who never called or b) eating some nasty, greasy food from the "deli" downstairs which makes my building's lobby smell like the lard bucket after making a few pigs' worth of bacon. So Randy, if you're out there-- fuck you, too. So back to the elevator stops: Yeah, it makes me fucking irritated, especially if there's more than one.

2. My neighbors will never not be slackers unless I start demonstrating the physics of foot to ass for them(as a side note, if this repeated physics of foot to ass joke is not funny for you, I don't care because it made me and P. laugh for like an hour one night). Examples: They had a party this Saturday involving a dirty prize pinata, by which I mean it was filled with the condoms that you can buy in a 20 pack at the Only $.99 store, for, you guessed it--only $.99. (yick) But not just condoms, also "motion lotion", cheap (according to P.) joint rolling papers, and the foulest Mexican candy ever were all part of this pinata of horror. So in case you didn't notice, it was pouring rain on Saturday, so they asked me if I'd move my car so they could have the pinata in our carport. Ever the kindly neighbor, I agreed. But now, it's Tuesday afternoon and my driveway continues to be littered by personal lubricant and limon/chile candy and I am completely appalled. Worse, these people were home ALL DAY yesterday (because they certainly had enough time to move ALL my laundry out of the laundry room) and did nothing about this. Last night, while attempting to do laundry, I noted the Rotel dipped ladel from Saturday *still* in the sink, which went well with the sticky tack pads stuck to the laundry room door left after a rousing game of Pin the Immigrant on the map. After writing this, I want to bathe myself in rubbing alcohol. And they NEVER take out the goddamn trash even though it is always PACKED with their shit and on average ONE of my garbage bags from the week. In their defense, they're pretty nice people.

3. Horse trailers driving through my neighborhood. I have a sizeable yard for this neighborhood. It's probably not the biggest, but it's definitely not the smallest. Could I fit a horse? NO is the correct answer. My neighborhood certainly has its fill of gardeners, young persons, dogs and cats, but horses? No. This is an urban neighborhood. No one is baling hay on the weekends or mowing their lawns with their John Deere riding mowers. GET OUT OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD HORSE TRAILERS! Our driveways were built for like narrow 40s cars. Our streets were built similarly. It's all I can do to park my freaking Protege in my carport (when not doused in lube, that is). I can't see around/over you in traffic and what's more THERE ARE NO HORSES IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD!

This is actually quite an extensive list, but that's rather enough of a catharsis for one lunch period.

Reasons Why My Company Should Have Hired a Trained Monkey Instead of Me

1. The "Allign Paper Here" component of the hole-puncher escaped my college-pedigreed attention anyway.
2. drbananas@mycompany.com is a way funnier email address than maryt@mycompany.com
3. Trained monkey unlikely to be tempted to send emails to crazy cat lady describing the physics of monkey foot to human ass.
4. Flinging poo in office breakroom is much livelier than making a pot of coffee.
5. A monkey in business casual v. me in business casual. Monkey is clear winner.
6. While my lunch break takes an hour so I can go home and let Molly out, a monkey's lunch break would consist of going outside the building and eating ants for a few minutes.
7. Trained monkey unlikely to take offense at title of "Office Whipping Bitch" under name on business cards.
8. Monkey shares many habits and mannerisms with majority of engineers in my office, including, but not limited to, combing hair for insects, scratching butt in public, and a proclivity towards cell-phone holsters.
9. Though no one can outsmart office copy machine, monkey standing on it and jumping around hooting from photocopying insanity is a spectacle the whole office can appreciate.
10. There's just nothing better than a trained monkey.