The Bears? SO not jerkin

Rod Marinelli continues to live up to his porno name, and bend us all over some piece of furniture that people are bent over for sex in a very uncomfortable place. Like a Volkswagen. This time it was the Cardinals, scoring and scoring until I just couldn't take it anymore.

So, for the first time, I switched off a football game, and began watching a movie about grrrlpower and the super wonderfulness of best friends.


Josie and the Pussycats is a tremendously underrated movie. The cast alone - Rachel Leigh Cook, Rosario Dawson, Parker Posey, Seth Green, Alan Cumming of all people - makes it worthwhile. Then there's the satirical product placement, and the catchy pop punk.

But most of all, there is Tara Reid, in all her empty-headed glory. Sure, now she's unattractive and boozy and weird looking. But back then, she was a ditzy goddess, a walking blond joke. A female, live action Ralph Wiggum:

"These walls are mushy!"
"The tough make lemonade!"

And so on.

So no, I'm not ashamed.

The real question, though, is whether I'm overreacting. After all, the Cardinals are a solid team. So, it turns out, are the Bengals. And Crybaby is playing pretty well.

But my real concern is that I don't recognize my own team. A pass-happy team with terrible defense? I didn't realize I was rooting for the Oakland Raiders. If we use our first round pick next year on a receiver, I'm going to start freaking out.

Oh, that's right - we don't have a first round pick. We sent it to Denver with the Neckbeard.

Which brings me to my other problem with this season. In Bizarro world, Bizarro Fancy Pants is deliriously happy. The Bears are undefeated, with a 2-headed rushing monster - Matt Forte and (I can't BELIEVE I'm writing this) Cedric Benson. Neckbeard is under center, throwing short, sensible passes to people on his own team. Which is fine, because we're running all over everyone, and the defense is lighting people up. Mike Singletary turned down some absurd head coaching offer out west to come back to Chicago and coach the defense, and ever since their first game when they separated Aaron Rogers' legs from the rest of his body, no one wants to play them. Tommie Harris is a model citizen, because the only thing he's more afraid of than Coach Singletary is making Brian Urlacher angry.

And Rod Marinelli is lying dead in a ditch, or doing 50 chicks in a movie, or something completely unrelated to football, per the restraining order.

See what's going on there? There are a bunch of Bears having solid seasons - they just seem to be playing for other teams. And the current Bears don't resemble any Bears team that has ever worn Bears jerseys. Thus, Josie and the Pussycats.

Honk if you love hugs!
Honk if you love rainbows!
Honk if you love Pussy...cats!

Also - read this.

Tidbits, and mini-Paddlin'

First, to the Paddlin':

Sarah Palin - quitter. Wuss. But I am psyched to see that she still can't avoid the press, and continues to sound like an idiot. Man, the 2012 Presidential race can NOT come fast enough.

Congress - again with the pussiness. Pussyness? Pussitude? Either way, they're a bunch of mincing little girls. You knew about the torture of innocent civilians, you greenlighted an entire war based on little or no evidence, and yet somehow the idea of giving the middle class better healthcare is beyond your reach? All 535 of you are as useless as Pope Hat condoms, contraception for Catholics. Jerkweeds. Pikers.

House Hunters: Wife watches this show. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's watching Iowans choose between McMansion A, B, or C, all for under $55,000. After all, who doesn't love feeling superior once in a while? But it's on more often than Law & Order and CSI: Whatever put together, and she can't get enough. You know who I want to see buy a house? Nobody. I. Just. Don't. Care.

Limes: You're not fooling anyone, you know. I see right through you. You have exactly one use - stuck in the bottle of a Corona to make it taste less like pee (seriously, have you ever drunk a Corona without a lime? It has to be Mexican urine. I'm convinced. I don't know what this means about sticking a lime in there and drinking it anyway, but those ads are just so compelling!). But Lime-ade? Wrong. False. Incorrect.

You are a garnish! Lemon won this war, like, centuries ago. You had your chance. You could have been lemon. But you blew it. We all know the old story of the Last Supper: Jesus had you on one side, and lemon on the other. And what did you do? You made some crack about his beard, and he went with lemon, the silent and tastier citrus. Then you sold out lemon to the Romans, and they crucified him.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore, but my point is, shut the fuck up, lime. Go wait by the Corona.

Fantastic new Scientology ads: these have been popping up on my RSS feeds, and I have to say these are misplaced on the Paddlin' list, because they are hilarious.



Awesome! Hooray L.Ron Alien Man!

Recently I've noticed that I really want to be Scottish. This isn't new - I've been obsessed since I saw Braveheart for the first time. It's the accent, the liquor, the opportunity to wear plaid skirts without being a Catholic school girl (although if I do get reincarnated, not a bad choice, if you're listening, Hindu gods...).

But mostly, it's the music. Idlewild, Reindeer Section, Broken Records, Frightened Rabbit - but not Belle & Sebastian. I'm wussy enough as it is - if I started listening to them I'd probably have to start wearing eyeliner and keeping a dream journal.

Finally, a Turducken update: I have mastered the boning - that is, de-boning - or the removal of all bones, there, that's completely empty of bestial innuendos - of a chicken. What I found is that you just have to suck it up and dive in. Just get in there deep, using your fingers to probe around, and find the sweet spots. Crap, I let the sexual innuendo back in, didn't I?

Oh well. Next up - duck. I'm not going to do a practice turkey, because it's expensive, and Wife doesn't like turkey, so I'd be eating the damn thing myself. And I just don't like white meat.

Hey, at least I posted, right? Maybe next time you'll get some sort of structure, or focus.

Oh, and Simon Rich? Screw you too.

In my rush to get all political and such, I forgot something. Simon Rich has written a new book. Is it crappy? Is it yet another pus-filled boil upon the once-unblemished chin of humanity?

It is not. Once again Simon Rich, son of a bitch that he is, has written another funny book.

I hate you, Simon Rich. You and your book deal and your nonsense. Your unseemly and inappropriate way of taking up too much space in my brain. I have better things to do, Simon Rich, than to fixate on your career and successes. As I'm sure you've got better things to do than to worry I'll jump out one day and stab you in the shoulder, but not very deeply, because halfway through my thrust I'll realize what a stupid idea it is to stab you, and create a whole mythology over your oeuvre, tragically cut short by a maniac who can't end a sentence when he knows he should, I mean here's good, anytime really would be fine, ok then.

But it doesn't matter. I'm still going to obsess over your youthful and overly-precious skill, and you're going to have to remain paranoid about receiving a frightful shock, and maybe a not-so-attractive scar.

If you didn't want some weird not-so-old guy cursing you and making voodoo dolls of you from couch lint and pages of the New York Times, you shouldn't have been all funny and interesting. I'm not sorry at all.

That's a paddling

- "Addy." The word is address. IF you can't spell it, maybe you shouldn't be earning 6 figures at some fancy law firm. And if you can spell it, maybe you shouldn't pretend to be a 14-year-old cheerleader.

- The heat. I'm on record as anti-sun, but this goes above and beyond. Really it includes anything that makes me sweat. The only times I'm ok with sweating is when I'm running, or I'm naked. Or I'm in a room with a bunch of fat Russian men. It's a sauna, people. Must you go right to the sexiest, hairiest interpretation?

Humidity is a big part of this, as anyone trying to convince you to move to Arizona will tell you. In fact, I'm more against humidity than heat. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of its own bulletpoint. Take that, water vapor!

- Puberty. You'd think I'd have moved on by now, and let bygones be bygones given that I'm old, and a parent, and old. But my voice still cracks on occasion (the occasion being when I use sentences), I still get zits, and I can't stop noticing the different and wonderful ways that girls' bodies are so very different from boys' bodies. Maybe this means there's still a growth spurt in my future. Everyone gets one, right? At least now, as opposed to high school, I have to shave.

- Shaving. I try to get every hair. I do. But I miss entire regions, small but distinct swaths of facial and neck landscape that sometimes makes me look like an escaped mental patient trying to pass as an office intern. And it's always the same areas, no matter how carefully I focus on them. Maybe I should resort to plucking.

- Haircuts. That's not true at all. I love taking haircuts. I'd get one every week if I could afford it, baldness be damned. Those first couple of days I feel sleeker, more aerodynamic. Badass too, like elite soldier Buster Bluth.



- Miley Cyrus. What's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sting to get every male aged 12-40 arrested on kiddie porn charges (oh my gosh, did I just assist in the investigation?)? Didn't you learn anything from that High School Musical chick? Put some clothes on! Billy Ray, stop hosting your crap-ass TV show and pay attention to your daughter, Lord knows no one else was. This is obviously a cry for help. Or the epic finale of "To Catch 150 Million Predators."

- Harper's Magazine has this thing on its last page called Findings. It's telling that you're not even allowed to read the link without paying, because this is one super elite magazine. Basically it's a list of amazing scientific discoveries and knowledge that were made and found in the past month, or something. So fine, you've got your new info on starfish memories (not lasting more than a day, if you care). But then, they slip this in at the end:

There is evidence of time before the Big Bang.

No footnotes, no citations, nothing. Turns out, if you overcharge for a magazine that only comes out once a month, you can just make up crazy stuff, and the rich people will believe it. And then they mention it offhandedly at cocktail parties. "Hmmm, this is quite the piquant bordeaux. Oh, did you hear about that 'time before the creation of the universe' datum? Yes, I apprised Bipsy of that on our catamaran off Nantucket on Sunday, she nearly bit into her mimosa glass. Huhuhuhuh!"

Harpers, there's only one institution that's allowed to offer science without evidence - the government.

Oooooooh, it looks like you've been out in the sun too long, Harpers, cause you just got Buuuurrrrrrrrnnnned! (Stupid SNL/NBC, pulling their Youtube clips. Seriously, it was a really funny clip. Really.)

Ready, set, VENT!

- Ehud Olmert, you need to go. You've done nothing during your Prime Minister...ship but fail at negotiating with Arabs and Palestinians, lost enough face against Hezbollah in Lebanon that most people think they won that little skirmish, and taken money from American Jews. Kudos, sir!
You are everything wrong with the Israeli center. You seem serious about creating a two-state solution, but you are corrupt and rotten, and therefore an embarrassment to the country and the people. So go. Now.

- Fuck you, Spurs. Now I have to root for a Lakers-Celtics final. Hoo-frigging-rah.

- Commas are for wusses. I am now all about periods. You want a pause? Go play a video game.

- This one isn't actually a complaint. To me the sign of a civilized nation is respect for the word of law. One might think Boston, with its smoke-freeness and its gay marriage and its myriad of crosswalks, would embody civility. Instead I had to go all the way to smoker heaven Pittsburgh to find a population that respects the law that matters to me most - the law of physics.
If a large hulking object is hurtling toward you with no indication it plans to slow down, do you step in front of it? If you're suicidal, or a Boston pedestrian, yes. Even as a walker myself - on occasion - I loathed my fellow foot-traffic, strutting arrogantly against lights. Brakes would squeal and shudder while some jackass yelled at the traumatized drivers: "I'm in the crosswalk, you ass!"
But here in Pittsburgh there are many engineers. And they've all studied Newton. And they know what happens when a large object moving at high speed impacts a smaller, squishier object. So they wait until they have the light, and then they walk. And as they cross they warily eye the idling cars, because you never know.

- On the other hand, no one jaywalks. There's no car within 300 yards! Just cross the street already!

- As much as I should decry Agriprocessors' use of illegal workers (especially given my ode to the law a couple of paragraphs ago), I won't. I like my meat as cheap as possible, and illegal workers allow me to buy fruits and vegetables - for Wife and Child. Not for me. - and meat, glorious meat. Now I have to pay more. Thanks for nothing, INS. Go arrest terrorist watchlist suspect Nelson Mandela.

- I don't care what excuses you make up for your kid the first time he makes the cow-hamburger connection. Kosher has nothing to do with the ethical treatment of cows or chickens or sheep. It never will. You know what's ethical? Not killing and eating animals. Not drastically thinning global fish populations. So stop whining and finish your steak.

- You know who should be allowed to cover Tom Waits? Nobody.

Child shall never be a rightist!

Wife has been spreading vile insinuations and rumors about Child. 

"Oh, look, he's using his right hand again! I think he's going to be a righty!"

Shut it, odious woman! Bite that tongue! I will not have my boy abandoned to the common, to the oppressive "norm." Righties have the numbers, the history, the language (Latin for left? Sinister), the spiral notebook, the baseball glove, the guitar, the high school desk, the scissors. They believe this dominance will continue indefinitely. 

How wrong they are.

The left rises as the right sleeps. We plot, using our legal pads and smudge-free pens, to overthrow the right's bloated complacency. Sure, there have been missteps (Ned Flanders, paragon of lefty-ness? Oops. And by Matt Groenig, lefty bulwark! That was a paddlin'. Oh, and Maybe Mike Vick as lefty QB Messiah, wasn't the best choice), but now we've got our own presidential candidate. Obama, the Magic Lefty. He's done more to forward our cause than Lefty Grove, My Left Foot, Left Behind, and other left-focused cultural highlights put together. 

And yet, the right won't go away. You'd think we'd be safe in our own home, but just yesterday Wife, in hysterics as I tried to use her discriminatory scissors to cut some bubble wrap, finally couldn't hold back. "Are you ok? Can I help you? Here, why don't I take care of that, and you go do something that caters to your... unique talents."

For too long we've had to deal with this sort of condescension. Child will not be raised in an environment that disdains a discreet, substantial minority. So I've tied his right hand to his side, and only present toys to his left side. I don't use the word right; if he's correct, I say so, and if he wants to turn not-left, I figure he wants to go "wrong." 

I'm sure he'll turn out healthy. But this, lefty parents, is what you have to do to combat thousands of years of oppression. Stand with me, and we shall overthrow the rightist regime.

Texas. Ohio. The Lady vs. The Brother

I was set to do a write-up/liveblog of the results tomorrow night, but I realized that would be a waste of time. Between CNN, MSNBC, Fox, WE, WB, ESPNU, and Nickelodeon there will be about 45,000 analysts picking apart the exit polls, and as original as my fantastic wit can be, there might be some overlap. So tonight I'm violating the principles of time and space and the internet, and liveblogging it now.

8:30 - CNN starts its coverage, and 17 former student club treasurers are offering their take on what to expect in Ohio and Texas:
Anderson Cooper says that the economy will be the biggest issue in Cleveland, while Galveston worries about immigration.
Wolf Blitzer, his beard cultivated in the shape of ancient Gaelic runes, is adamant that pets rights will play an underrated role in people's last minute decisions.
Christiane Amanpour blazes her sultry eyes from a dimlit newsdesk, and proclaims the secret to be the pheromone advantage held by Senator Obama.

9:00 - the polls close in Ohio, and MSNBC calls the state for hometown hero Dennis Kucinich. The diminutive politician is unavailable for comment, as he's already given up the race to take his chances on the dwarf-tossing circuit. In his first heat, he finishes a disappointing third.

9:12 - Brit Hume uses the word "promising" to describe John McCain, and Sean Hannity promptly lays him out with a 2X4 he has stashed under his jacket. Watching off-camera, Ann Coulter completes her portrait (oils on sheepskin) of Rush Limbaugh, naked, riding an Arabian steed across a brilliant green vale. It's glorious.

9:25 - Keith Olbermann counts down the top 10 most evil people in Texas, topping off his list with Daniel Day-Lewis' character in There Will be Blood. "Just because he's dead doesn't mean his sinister legacy doesn't live on in the hearts and minds of the soulless oilmen of today. Dan Patrick, if you're listening, I'm less of a man without you. Come back to me, and we'll spit snark over this crazy thing they call 'democracy.' Dan! DAAAANNNNNNN!"

9:34 - Bill O'Reilly: "Well, early numbers favor Senator Hussein Obama, despite unconfirmed reports that he's molested Christian children as part of a terrorism instruction series he leads at his mosque in Chicago. Also, from sources who wish not to be named, and may or may not be affiliated with her campaign, Senator Hillary Clinton has consumed the heart of her husband Bill, as part of her attempts at swaying the gods who rule over the Texas panhandle. Folks, this is just another example of liberal communist extremists trying to subjugate good Christian folk with their progressive hoo-doo."

10:00 - CNN calls Ohio for Obama, and Chris Matthews has to go change his pants.

10:06 - Exit polls in Dallas put Obama ahead by 346 votes. Geraldo Rivera, in horribly accented Spanish, stands in front of a polling station and asks a young Hispanic woman who she voted for and why. "Geraldo, stop calling me at home. If you come near me again, I'll mace your eyes until they melt. Oh, and your mustache smells like rotting bananas." As Geraldo turns back to the camera, he smirks and says "obviously she's voting for Hillary." Anderson Cooper is not amused. His hair, however, is immaculate.

10:20 - Fox News comes back from commercial to find Dick Morris massaging baby oil into Gretchen Carlson's perfectly toned delts. Gretchen informs us that winos outside a Qwik -Stop in Austin are predicting a Clinton sweep of the border counties.

10:45 - Tim Russert is grilling Mark Penn, Clinton's campaign manager:
Russert: Tell me I'm your mama. Say it! SAY IT!
Penn: ok, you're my mama. Can I have my wallet back now?
Russert: First, let me tell you why tetherball moms are upending CNN's predictions about today's primary.

11:05 - Chris Matthews, tears streaming down his face, calls Texas for Senator Hillary Clinton. "Are you happy now, you blond fascist! What do you have against Barack? Can you not see his beauty? His life-affirming smile, his ears large enough to carry all our prayers? At least acknowledge that he has the legs of Abraham Lincoln. And you think you can do a better job as president than Abraham Lincoln's legs? What hubris, woman!"

11:10 - Rhode Island and Vermont have also evidently held primaries, but no one cares.