Reason #2,392 Why Ben Made A Huge Mistake Picking J-Lo Over ME:

Sugar Highs

At this very moment, I have three boxes of Frosted Mini-Wheats sitting on top of my refrigerator. All of them are half empty (or half full, if you prefer). I’m not sure why I open a new box of cereal before I finish the old one, but the result is an impressive shrine to the holy trinity of The Cereal Gods: Kellog’s, Post, and General Mills.  Today’s selection: Frosted Mini-Wheats (3 boxes), Fruity Pebbles (2 boxes), Lucky Charms (2 boxes), Golden Grahams (1 box), and Cocoa Puffs (1 box). 

How many days beyond the “sell by” date would you still drink the milk in your fridge? The “sell by” date is a bit inaccurate, don’t you think? Instead, there should be a “drink by” date. Usually, I purchase my milk at least week before the “sell by” date and it is rare for me to finish off milk that is a day or two past that date. 

But tonight I was desperate.  The cupboard is bare, so the only thing I could cook** for dinner was cereal. Unfortunately, the “sell by” date on my milk is November 21. Today, of course, is the 25th.  Four days.  That’s pushing it, especially since I opened the milk over a week and a half ago.  Admittedly, the milk smelled a little weird, but there was no discoloration or unidentified floating objects.

Thankfully, the unusual smell was masked by the cereal’s frosty goodness.

** I define “cooking” as the mixing of two or more ingredients.

Weird Picture:

It isn’t often you see a picture of me massaging someone’s blue balls. 

Cold, Harsh Reality TV

LeslieMarie confessed that she watches the Anna Nicole Smith show and asked other Xangans to admit to their guilty TV pleasures.  Ok, I’ll fess up.  I love reality shows.  Any reality show. Survivor, Big Brother, The Real World, Tough Enough, The Bachelor, etc.  You name it, I probably watch it.  I am a connoisseur of trash TV.  Not only do I watch these shows, but I’m actually entertained by them.  Even the most creative comedic writers in show biz couldn’t make up material this good.

Let’s take Tuesday night’s episode of MTV’s FM Nation as an example:

Meet Scott.  He’s from Salt Lake. He’s a Mormon.  He’s also a 24-year old virgin.  He’s going to ask his crush if she will go to a Cher concert with him.  And he’s going to do it on MTV!

We all know what is going to happen.  It is like a bad horror movie when the busty blonde walks into a dark, creepy basement looking for her friends that have been missing for hours:  you know she’s about to get whacked by the serial killer lurking in the shadows.  We resist the urge to scream at the screen, “NO! Don’t do it!”  Instead, we sit back and watch as the inevitable unfolds before our eyes. 

Tip #1: If your crush doesn’t seem to know who you are, don’t ask her out on national TV.

Scott calls his special lady friend, but it is obvious that she doesn’t recognize his voice. It is only after he tells her his first AND last name AND from where they know each other that she realizes who he is.  And even then, I’m not sure I believe her.  She agrees to meet him for ice cream, but she sounds unenthused.  Perhaps a little bit frightened as well.  This is a bad sign. 

Tip #2:  Avoid suggesting that your crush is a slut. For most women, this is a turn-off.

After getting ice cream, Scott takes his crush to “Make-out Point” (ooooh!).  On the way, Scott’s crush talks about a guy (NOT Scott) that she went out on a date with earlier that week.  Note to all oblivious men:  when a woman talks about another guy she’s interested in, she’s trying to let you down easy.  Loosely translated, she was telling Scott, “Please don’t ask me out.”  Sadly, Scott missed her signal.  Instead, he asked her if she kissed the guy.  When she said yes, Scott replied, “Oh? So you like kissing guys, huh?”

*record screeches to a halt*

Tip #3: When asking a woman out, never use plastic bath toys.

Once the star-crossed “lovers” arrive at Make-out Point, Scott reveals his true reason for taking her out that night.  And no, it isn’t because of their mutual love of ice cream.  By way of illustration, Scott pulls out a plastic toy boat.  “See this boat?” he says. “This is a friendSHIP.”  The woman stares at Scott incredulously, like she is mentally willing him to stop talking. It doesn’t work. “And this boat?” Scott says as he pulls out the second plastic toy, “This is a relationSHIP.”

*crickets chirping*

Tip #4:  Save the bad puns for the second date.  If there is one.

I don’t think the woman uttered a single word in about thirty minutes, but that didn’t deter good ol’ Scotty, the 24-year old Mormon virgin.  Oh no.  “And the way a friendSHIP gets to a relationSHIP,” Scott says as he gestures with the two boats and the Cher concert tickets, “is by CHER-ing something.  CHER-ing. Get it? Share? Cher?”

*even the crickets stop chirping*

After Scott gets the “we’re just friends” speech, he drops off his crush back at her house.  Still in good spirits, he declares, “At least I’m still the best looking guy in the car!” Of course, there is no one else in the car.  Hey, at least he knows how to laugh at himself.  I start to feel bad for the guy until he wonders out loud if this means she doesn’t want to go to the Cher concert.

Tip #5: No Scott, she is not going to the Cher concert with you (sometimes you just have to be blunt).

Now that’s entertainment.

Random Xanga Quotation:

“My cheek and gums are still big and poofy and pus… (whoops how do spell pus-sy without all my readers with dirty minds taking it and running with it).. pus filled . . .” - Lona May

The Comment of the Week: “Should you really post such disgusting things on your weblog?” Response: Yes, I really should.  In fact, I really should post it again:

I regret to inform you that this will be the final installment of the Stone Cold Kidnapping Saga.  *sobs*

THE PLAN: Extort money from Bryan.  I thought it was only fair because Bryan and his henchman (a.k.a. Owen) made me think, albeit momentarily, that I lost the doll.   As I posted in my last entry, I sent an email to my co-workers informing them that the only replacement doll I could find was $75 on eBay.  Bryan wasn’t sure if he should believe me, but I showed him the eBay site with “previously visited” links, and that increased my credibility.  He was THIS close *gestures with two fingers* to coughing up some cash to assuage his guilt.  My intent was to use the money to pay for a happy hour for my co-workers, revealing the scam to Bryan only after the bill was paid. 

Later that day, I received this email, purportedly from the Stone Cold doll himself:  

TO:        Danielle

FROM:   Stone Cold Steve Austin

RE:        Stone Cold Fund

 

Listen here, little missy! What?  You got some nerve trying to extort money from these folks after what you did to me.  What?  First you kidnap me.  What?  And then you dress me up like a little princess.  What?  And then you let your little Ken doll have his way with me.  What?  Not to mention the things you did with me that you didn’t post on the internet.  I mean, c’mon Danielle, I’m sure you could find a real person to have sex with.  You don’t need to molest some poor little defenseless action figure.  What? 

Anyhoo, your little charade has cost me my dignity and humanity.  I mean, how am I gonna explain all this to my wife beater buddies?  Although I am pleased to know that I am a collectors’ item, the action figure napping has assuredly diminished my value.  What kind of self-respecting Stone Cold junkie would buy me, now that a picture of me getting raped by Ken is all over the internet.  Look at what happened to Ned Beatty’s career after Deliverance. 

Quit hittin’ these poor folks up for money.  You’re lucky I don’t whip your hide like I did my wife.

Soon after, the Ken Doll replied to Stone Cold:  

I assure you that no animals (fictional or otherwise) were hurt in the making of my blog. 

Which brings me to an important point: nothing in my blog ought to be taken seriously.  It is difficult to convey sarcasm through this medium, but I hoped that using CAPITALS, italics, emoticons and action descriptions (like, *eye roll*) would help. Apparently, that doesn’t work for everyone.  So let me make it clear:  I didn’t really go to Disney World last week just to seek revenge on the Duck, my dream isn’t really to become a wrestling ho, and I haven’t really accidentally flashed strangers on the Metro.  Oh wait . . . that last one is true.  

I tried to find the Duck. Really.  But I wasn’t really going to kick his pantless, kiddie porn lovin’ arse – that would have been too traumatic for the little kids to see.  Instead, I was hoping to get a picture of the Duck on his knees (no dirty remarks, please), begging me for forgiveness.  I had pictures of me posing with every other Disney character except for the Duck.  He was nowhere to be found.  On the last day, I asked Guest Services where I could find him. They told me his last appearance would be after the 4:40 show at Cinderella’s Castle.  When I asked one Disney employee about Donald’s whereabouts, she gave me a confused look and asked, “Donald?” I guess it was presumptuous of me to think the Duck and I were on a first-name basis.  Well, the Duck was in the show, but unlike all the other characters that gave autographs afterwards, I guess the Duck had better things to do than pose for pictures.  Oh well, maybe in another twenty-three years . . .

Of course, no vacation is complete without an unintentional flashing episode.  

I wore pants to the park one day, but after less than an hour in the 90-degree heat, I realized that was a huge mistake. Oddly, while the Disney stores were bursting with t-shirts, they didn’t have any shorts.  I managed to find a pair of men’s cotton boxers that didn’t look too much like underwear (no bubble butt).  I was much cooler in the boxers, but more self-conscious.  The “peephole” of the boxers had one tiny button that did little to keep them closed. While I walked around the park, I tried to use my hand to keep the flap closed until my sister accused me of playing with myself in public.  

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the cab driver that picked me up at the airport on Monday.  He was rather chatty.  Initially, the conversation consisted of typical stuff – the weather, my vacation, blah, blah, blah.  Then he handed me two sheets of paper.  “Read my poems, yes?”  he asked.  There were two typewritten poems — one about love, the other about death.  The first line of the love poem was, “My eyes was only love you.”  I remember this because he asked me to read his poems OUTLOUD.  Heck, I did Forensics in high school, so I did the best dramatic reading of Mr. Weirdo Cab Driver’s poetry that I could.  He seemed pleased.  “What do you think of my poems?” he asked. I never know how to evaluate poetry.  There are so many different styles, how can one judge whether a poem is good or not?  “They’re great!” I said.  I hated to point out the grammatical errors because he seemed so proud of his work. 

“Ah!” he replied excitedly, “So now I say I have a fan of my poems in DC!” I asked him how many other people he’s let read his poems and he said I was the only one so far.  “To what do I owe this honor?” I asked.  He said that he didn’t know really, but that he just felt the need to share them with me.  Ohhhhhkaaay.  That was the weirdest cab ride I’ve ever had.  Thankfully, I only live a few minutes from the airport. 

I suppose you are wondering what happened with the Stone Cold doll.  Following the suggestions of many of you, I attached – er, I mean, the Dollnapperz attached – the following picture to their third demand letter:  

I’m off to Disney World!

Dad decided to kick it old school for this family vacation, insisting we cram six people and their week’s worth of luggage into his mini-van and hit the road (jack) for the fifteen-hour drive to the world of Disney. After thoughtful consideration (about .003 seconds), I decided I’d fly and meet them there. I’d rather get an intrusive body cavity search by overzealous airport security guards than take a fifteen-hour road trip with my family. No offense to my family – I doubt I could travel in a confined space with anyone for that long. I’m predicting that by the time they get to Orlando, my parents will have filed for divorce, my brother will have “mysteriously disappeared” somewhere on I-95, and my sister will have eaten my six-year old niece.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. The family vacation is just my cover. I have a greater mission: to seek revenge on the Duck. For what, you ask? Picture this: Orlando, Florida — November 1979. I was a wide-eyed, innocent five-year old girl skipping through the magical pathways of Disney . . . when I spotted Donald Duck.

At that tender age, I believed he really WAS Donald Duck, and not some bitter, pimple-faced teenager being paid minimum wage to wear a duck costume in the stifling 80-degree heat. I ran up to hug my favorite Disney character. Donald pulled me in close and then . . .

He flashed my white cotton panties to the entire world!

Admittedly, he probably just exposed me to my family and a few onlookers, but to a five-year old, that IS the entire world. This traumatic event scarred me for life! And I think it is reasonable for me to blame the Duck for the lifelong battle I’ve had with unintentional flashings in public places. Now, twenty-three years later, it is payback time! I’ll be back on Monday. 

Donald Duck: adorable Disney icon or kiddie porn ringleader?

You decide, but keep this in mind: he likes to surround himself with little kids and he never wears any pants!

I’M BEING FRAMED!

WARNING: This is tangentially related to pro-wrestling.  However, Rikishi’s thong-clad arse shows up nowhere in this blog. 

I have this coworker.  Let’s call him “Bryan”. Oh wait, that’s actually his real name.  Oops!  Well, here’s a picture of Bryan, but to protect his identity, I’ve covered his eyes just like they do in those “Fashion Don’t” pictures in Cosmo:

[Please note, that despite being a hard core pro-wrestling fan, Bryan does not have a mullet.  That extra hair belongs to his wife who is sitting next to him in the picture.]

Bryan happens to have an unnatural fixation on the wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin (yeah, that’s right, the wife beater). Bryan even keeps a Steve Austin doll in his office.  Well, he calls it an “action figure”, but come on . . . who’s he trying to kid? Sadly, this weekend, someone abducted the Steve Austin doll from Bryan’s office, leaving only this ransom note behind:

On Monday, Bryan received an email, purportedly from the evil masterminds behind the abduction, with a picture attachment serving as proof of life [We briefly interrupt this blog in order to fantasize about Russell Crowe . . . . . . . .  Thank you. We will now return to the regularly scheduled blog].  The email detailed the abductors’ first demand:  

FROM:   Dollnapperz@yahoo.com

RE:        STONE COLD

We have abducted Stone Cold.  If you ever want to see him again, you must comply with our demands!

Demand One: 

You must wear the royal blue Mickey Mouse sweatshirt for a total of six (6) hours tomorrow.  That time may be reduced by ONE HOUR for each of the following tasks you accomplish between the hours of 9:30 a.m. – 6:00 p.m. on Tuesday:  

(1) Ask [NAME DELETED] if you can borrow his suspenders because they go well with your sweatshirt.

(2) Serenade [NAME DELETED] with “Blue” by Eiffel 65. Your voice must be at least two octaves higher than usual. 

(3) Approach [NAME DELETED], point to your sweatshirt and chant, “Oh Mickey, he’s so fine, he’s so fine he blows my mind. Hey Mickey!” Subtract an extra hour if you perform the chant using pom-poms.  You probably have some stashed away in your closet, you sicko.

(4) Ask [NAME DELETED] if the sweatshirt makes you look like you have “man breasts”. 

Another associate must be present to verify that you performed the task satisfactorily.  If you reveal to the partner your reason for your behavior then you will not receive credit for the task. 

We will contact you soon with further demands.

THE DOLLNAPPERZ

Bryan — mimicking Reagan-style foreign policy — refused to negotiate with the “Dollnapperz”. Instead, he sent me (and our coworkers) this email:  

Besides, I already know who the culprit is.  There is only one person at [this firm] (and perhaps the entire world) who:  (1) is sufficiently anti-social that she has nothing better to do on a weekend than cut and paste from magazines the “ransom note” that appeared in my office this morning; and (2) has the technical prowess (and a digital camera) to author that e-mail.  Danielle, kindly return Stone Cold Steve Austin or we will both open a can of whoopass on you.  As you know, Stone Cold don’t take kindly to uppity women. 

*feigned look of horror* He accused me of theft (er, I mean, “dollnapping”), mocked my Perpetual State of Datelessness (HEY! I’m just picky, ok?!), and then threatened me with violence (I’m assuming that is what “open[ing] up a can of whoopass” means, but I haven’t heard that phrase since junior high). That’s not nice.  Oh, but it gets worse.  Bryan served an additional low blow . . . one that could be rivaled only by Stone Cold himself . . . he made fun of my television viewing habits:

By the way, one more reason that I know the culprit is Danielle:  Danielle’s “demand” is a thinly-veiled take-off on the hit NBC reality show “Meet My Folks,” wherein the producers force the contestants to perform embarrasing tasks by threatening to reveal more embarrasing secrets about the contestants to the “Folks.”  Hilarity ensues.  Danielle (and me, of course) is the only person I know who actually watches that show.  Indeed her goal in life is to be a contestant.  Danielle, you have now been confronted with incontrovertible evidence of your guilt.  Give up Stone Cold now or suffer the consequences. 

That hurt. Really. Perhaps if Bryan watched a little less wrestling and focused a little more on book learnin’, he would have known how to spell “embarrassing” correctly. But I digress.  My other co-workers pointed out that Bryan’s ”damning evidence” made several of them possible suspects. Would he listen? Noooo!  Moreover, Bryan’s cavalier attitude toward the abductors only strengthened their resolve.  This morning, they sent another demand email, along with a new picture:  

Once again, Bryan was quick to point the finger at me, stating that the purple dress was a dead giveaway.  He also noted how convenient it was that I was scheduled to interview the same candidate right after him.  Admittedly, I understand why Bryan suspects me . . . but don’t you think these clues are a bit too obvious?! The only logical conclusion is that someone is trying to frame me. 

Of course, I did ask the candidate if Bryan asked her any “unusual interview questions.”  She said he asked her if she passed gas, but after subjecting her to a rigorous cross-examination, she soon confessed that Bryan told her to tell me that.  I bet he threatened to “open a can of whoopass” on her, too. Clearly, Bryan violated the abductors’ rules.  I can only wonder what the abductors will do to the poor Steve Austin doll now . . . *shudders at the thought*

If YOU were the one behind the abduction of Bryan’s dolly, what would you do next?  What would you require Bryan to do?  And what would Steve Austin be doing in the next picture you send to Bryan? 

It’s not like I’m asking for ideas because I’m somehow involved in this. Not at all. Oh no.  *bats eyelashes innocently*

Oxford Accepts Homer Simpson; ‘Doh!’ Added to Dictionary

By Oliver Libaw, ABCNEWS.com

FULL STORY 

__________________________________________________________________

I’m a huge Simpsons fan, so I was happy to hear this news. Moreover, the OED’s definition of “doh” — “expressing frustration at the realization that things have turned out badly or not as planned, or that one has just said or done something foolish,” describes about 95% of my waking moments on any given day.  Like on Thursday, when I flashed everyone on the Metro.

I assure you I’m not one of those Metro weirdos.  If you use the Metro frequently, chances are you know what I’m talking about.  For example, a crazy lady once approached me on the Metro and asked if I had any water. When I said no, she walked away.  It was only then that I noticed she wasn’t wearing any pants.  Or underwear.  It was the middle of December.  *shivers*  

Unlike the Crazy Metro Lady, my flashing is always unintentional. For some reason, my clothes betray me – buttons pop off, zippers fall down, and seams unravel.  I keep safety pins, double-sided sticky tape, and a small sewing kit in my desk in case of such clothing catastrophes (with other essential items such as Tylenol, Midol, and chocolate), but I haven’t managed to escape the unintentional flashings entirely.

Not too long ago, I wore a long black skirt that had been hidden in the back of my closet for quite some time.  That day, I took the Metro to work, I climbed the seemingly never-ending escalator, I walked around the office, I went out to lunch, I grabbed an ice cream cone in the afternoon with friends, and then I took the Metro back home at the end of the day.  It wasn’t until I got home that night that I realized moths had made a huge hole in my skirt, conveniently located at the center of my arse.  Even worse, in sharp contrast to the black skirt, I had worn white underwear that day.  I was horrified.  My parents happened to be visiting me from out of town and when I showed my mother the handy, moth-made air vent in my skirt, she commented, “Well, at least you were wearing underwear.”  Nothing like comforting words from Mom to turn my frown upside down.   

Thursday’s flashing had the potential to be even more embarrassing, however.  I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon, but I’ll spare you the details as my coworkers sometimes read this blog to find new material with which to tease me mercilessly. *waves to nosy coworkers*  I wore clothes that were more doctor-friendly, if you will — black dress pants that were too big and too long (in serious need of a tailor, but I had no other pants to wear that day) and a button-down shirt. I hate wearing those kinds of shirts because they wrinkle so easily. By the end of the day, I always look like a slob.
 
After my appointment, I took the Metro back to work. I found an empty seat and began reading my book, taking little notice of the people around me. A rattle of a newspaper caught my attention and I looked up to see my former law professor sitting across from me. He was sitting in one of the handicapped seats (naughty!) that face the opposite direction of all the other seats, so he was turned toward me. 

I pretended not to see him. He was my favorite professor, but I didn’t want him to see me because I looked like a loser wearing a wrinkled shirt and stupid-looking oversized pants while riding the Metro in the middle of the afternoon when I should have been at work.  Silly, I know.  But for once, my neuroses worked in my favor!  When I got back to my office, I discovered that the two middle buttons of my shirt were open (for how long, god only knows) and I was exposed to the world.  

Doh! 

If only it had been the TOP two buttons, it could’ve looked like I was intentionally trying to be sexy. But the middle two buttons? I looked like some crazy slut on the Metro who wears oversized pants!! Sure, I probably exposed myself to hundreds of folks on my way back to the office and that is terribly embarrassing, but on the bright side, at least my favorite law professor doesn’t know what color bra I wore on Thursday!!!

Now that I’ve had some time to mull over my recent flashing incident, I’m mad that not a single person told me that my buttons were undone.  Are we all so wrapped up in our own little worlds that we don’t even notice something slightly askew with the people around us? I’m curious, so I pose the follow question to you:  

If you saw a woman who (due to some unfortunate and unintentional clothing mishap) was flashing the world, would you: 

(a) Pretend not to notice.

(b) Stare for three seconds and then turn away, a la Mind of a Married Man (It’s not TV. It’s HBO.)

(c) Discreetly inform her of the problem.

(d) Enjoy the view until she figures it out and slaps you.

Please discuss. 

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