His cheating [artichoke] heart

My husband, Mr. Wankershanks, and I frequent the local produce stand. It's a small place, only about 4 employees, you see. So they know our faces more or less, and we know theirs. Recently, I went produce shopping by myself. It really isn't a two-person job, and Mr. W was tired. So off I went.
 
As soon as I walked in the door, I could tell something was amiss. askew. catawampus, even. Instead of the friendly, heavily accented, "hello!" I usually receive, I was given a mere sideways glance and a friendly, if uncomfortable, nod.  Okay, okay, someone's having a rough day.  Perhaps that days eggplant shipment wasn't up to snuff. Who wouldn't be thrown off?
 
But it only got weirder.
 
"How is your boyfriend?" the owner asked me.
"Oh, uh, he's fine. He was a bit tired so he didn't want to come shopping today." I replied, thinking this to be a perfectly reasonable answer.
"aaaaaa..." he said, looking grim. "aaaaa haaaaaaaaa. I seeeeeeeeee."
 
Yeah. Okay Mr. Produce Man. The eggplant doesn't look that bad. Let it go.
 
But still, it got weirder.
 
When I finally reached the counter with my colorful array of bell peppers, tomatoes and citrus in tow, I was treated to a similar expression of concern by the cashier. What sort of strict produce-buying ettiquette could I have possibly sullied? Did I smell? More than usual? No, no I didn't. Then what could it be?
 
"Sooooooooooo" she began with a bang. "How is your, erm, brooooother?"

"Brother? I don't have a brother. You must mean my husband."
 
"Oh noooooooo!" she exclaimed with a look of pure horror. "He said he was your brother!"
 
"No, no. That's not possible. You must have mistaken him for someone else." I reassured her.
 
"Oh nooooooooo!" she repeated with a look that can only be descibed as tremendous pity overrun by morbid curiosity and a thirst. for. blood.
"He said he was your brother! He was in here with..." she dropped to a low, tantalizing whisper... "ANOTHER WOMAN!"
 
"Oh. Well. Um. I really don't think that's possible," I said. But it was too late. She was hot on the trail of that adulterous, produce-loving husband of mine.
 
"Oh dear. Oh dear. Now I've gotten him in... TROUBLE! Oh dear. I am sooooo sorry!"
 
Well, I appreciate the apologetic attempt to cover up the fact that you're a gossip hungry green pepper pusher. But really, I'll be okay.
 
So, I went home unsure what to do with this new knowledge. Clearly my loving husband, who would rather die than give up his video game time for another human being, was the worst 'player' in the world. Obviously, he had swept some poor woman off her feet by dazzling her with his knowledge of mangoes,  and taken her to the one place in orlando where he would be instantly recognized by the staff. But, then again, what saucy mistress could resist a hot date filled with animalistic papaya-lust?
 
Touche, produce lady. Touche.
 
 

Oh, Arnie

Believe it or not, folks, California's macho man governor made a sexist remark... and isn't sorry for it either, you snivelling, weak-willed feminists!

It's a good thing I'm not a woman, or I might be offended.

Wait a minute...

Oh, Arnie. You got me there!

For anyone who's given up following the astounding displays of assholery and general contempt for women that Governor Testosterone is remarkably proficient in, please see the following:

Behold the greatest insult a 5-year old has ever created!

That's right. He done called union supporters "girlie men." Now, I've come to expect from him the kind of stupidity that would allow him to view the words "girl" and "weak" as being synonymous. That's really not news to me. But using those terms towards UNION folk? That's a can of whoop-ass that even the terminator shouldn't be opening.

But the real tragedy in this sordid affair- the overlooked minutiae of this story-

is that

this speech

was delivered

IN A FOOD COURT!
Oh, snap! Even I wouldn't deign to deliver a speech in a flipping food court!
But sadly, that tidbit seems to have been passed over by all but me. I guess that's what you pay me for, right? To see through the glitz and glamour of glaring homophobia and sexism and dig in to the meat of the matter.

Literally.

Perhaps he confused the mall's Chik-fi-la with something a bit more raunchy.  Really, how's an overly hormonal republi-thug to know that some people use "chick" in it's original, non-derogatory manner? (spelling issues, aside.) Next thing you know, someone will be using the term "bitch" to refer to, oh... I dunno, a dog?
I know, I know. I've really gone off the deep end here.

The glories of the internet

Who said the internet never did nothin for you?

An alert reader named Flavian recently sent me this link, where you can send someone a personalized phone message from the one-and-only Hilary Duff. Get to it, people!



edited because blogspot is being screwy and the link won't work. It's www.acinderellastory.com. You'll just have to copy and paste it for now. I promise it won't kill you, you lazy buggers.

Brian: Hate filled crap spewer

Another PSA from Brian:

Regarding the last post:

YOU SON OF A BITCH, THAT WAS ME NOT RYAN

-Brian

Okay, so my memory isn't perfect, people! I just combine you all into one big "friend." Today I call you Ryan, maybe tomorrow I'll call you Flavian. Just roll with it.

Back by popular demand!

Okay, not really "popular demand," per say. But at the request of a faithful, anonymous reader (aka, Ryan Kent) I will continue the series of strange but true stories involving my dear friend, 'Ryan.'

This time, our phantasmagoric (yes, it is a word) journey begins at a small suburban/rural high school on the north side of Tampa, Florida. There were birds chirping and children laughing... all unaware of the struggle that was about to unfold.

"Run, Phil! RUUUUUUUUUN!" We screamed at the portly, taco-weilding teenager as he darted amongst the enveloping foliage. Before long, the trees completely shielded him from our sights. Ryan and I would soon know what had become of him- no matter how grisly his fate. Would he emerge triumphant? Tacos in hand and running towards the saftey of the physics class room? Or would he be caught by the ever-watchful guards and made to suffer a horrible fate? Only time would tell.

Before I continue, perhaps I ought to explain a few minor details. Just a little insight on the "artistic license" I've taken with this story, you see. First of all, by "enveloping foliage" I am, of course, referring to the sparse landscaping around the school. A few spindly trees and some shrubbery, mostly. When I say he was "completely shielded from our sights" you must understand that, well, he was taking A LONG time to run and see, Ryan's attention span isn't all that great. Nor is mine. So we probably just stopped watching in favor of, I don't know, punching each other. Or something.
The "ever watchful guards" clearly refers to the two pimple faced freshman who were sitting at the kiosk to make sure no students left the school for lunch. And the "horrible fate" that Phil may have suffered? Well, being forced to bribe the afforementioned freshman really did suck. I mean, who wants to hand over a taco to some glorified hall monitor? Not I.

But back to the drama.

"Please, Phil. You... can... DO... this!" I whispered to myself, or perhaps to god. This was clearly out of my hands.
As the midday sun beat down upon the land, he emerged from the trees! Could it be? Was it really Taco Phil? Or was this just a cruel mirage?

It was him. As he darted and wove towards the physics classroom, I could physically feel the pride emanating off his glistening body. The pride... and the stink. I'm not kidding, it was like a wall of funk, people. And you better know it was all over the tacos.

God damn it, Taco Phil.

Save your soul! And leave the booty for me!

This was brought to my attention at a message board that I frequent:
 
Left Behind
A Novel of the Earth's Last Days
Passengers aboard a Boeing 747 en route to Europe disappear. Instantly. Nothing remains except their rumpled piles of clothes, jewelry, fillings, surgical pins, and the like. All over the world, in a flash, cars are left unmanned.Terror and chaos continues worldwide as the cataclysm unfolds. For those left behind, the apocalypse has just begun. Synopsis: In one cataclysmic moment, millions around the world disappear. Airline captain Rayford Steele must search for his family, for answers, for truth.
 
From leftbehind.com
 
Okay- so let me get this straight. The "rapture" (heavy emphasis on the quotations, indicating my subtle mockery)  involves the immediate disappearance of right wing christians. They leave their jewelry, cars and other worldly posessions behind.
 
Does anyone see a downside to this plan?!?!
 
Sounds to me like God is playing one killer joke on these extremist followers. Really, I'm in awe of his sense of humor. It would take me a whole lotta weed to come up with this one. Way to hit that bong, Mr. Almighty.
 
I can't wait to melt down those fillings and create a nice golden idol out of... oh, say... http://www.grandstandsports.com/pages/8600.htm 

The mindboggling excitement of school

I'm going to fill you all in on a few little secrets about exactly how fun school is not.

I'm an aerospace engineering major. What does this mean, you ask?

First of all, let me explain what it most certainly doesn't mean.

It doesn't mean that I want to hear about how you think "planes are sooooo neat."
It doesn't mean that I care that your father's sister's bestfriend's mom was a janitor for NASA and could, like, totally get me a great job there.
It doesn't mean that I want to hear you blather on about the one related theory you read a book on 10 years ago.

But most importantly, it doesn't mean that I find school exciting, people. I want to get the hell out of there just like everyone else. So don't ask me about my classes. Really. Don't ask me what aerodynamics is about. I'm not a pompous ass, I swear. But if you haven't had 3 years of differential equations, fluid mechanics and dynamics, what can I really tell you that you don't already know? It's about... aerodynamics. Would you ask someone taking English what their class was about? No. No you wouldn't. Because they call it English for a reason, don't they? Believe it or not, aerodynamics isn't a made up word. It too, has a definition.

Now, how about what being an aero major does mean. Let's see. It means I'm tired. Really tired.

And I think up a lot of fart jokes while I'm in class. Must be the 'flow of gases' thing.

I like the Spite in you

Is it possible to be so coldhearted and so hateful that you would create a blog solely out of spite?

Yes, it is. And it has been done. Thanks, brian.

Public Service Announcement

From my good friend, Brian Pflueger:

If you're invited to a party with cake and ponies, make sure it's not poison cake. And make sure they aren't just sharks dressed as ponies.

You never can be too careful, people.

My friend Ryan wants to be referenced in my blog

Hear that? My friend Ryan Kent wants to be referenced in my blog. Specifically, he wants a "cryptic reference." So, here goes, Ryan Kent of Tampa, Florida:

Not long ago, a 'friend' (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and I were on a road trip to Washington, DC. I'll call this friend 'Ryan.' On the way from Florida to DC, you have to drive through a little state called South Carolina. Now most people would have no problem with this.

Most people aren't 'Ryan.'

"Nooooooooooo!" he squealed like a newborn piglet as we passed over the state line.
"Haven't they constructed a bridge over this state yet?!?"

No, 'Ryan.' Not yet.

So, we entered South Carolina despite 'Ryan's' passionate assurance that nothing good could come from a state that kept reelecting Strom. He agreed to sit in the car and be good, rather than flinging himself onto the passing pavement, as long as I promised not to stop in South Carolina. I promised. Apparently his bladder didn't sign the contract though.

We decided to stop at a Subway for some sandwiches and a bathroom break. Surely nothing could happen at a nationwide franchise like Subway that would confirm 'Ryan's' prejudices! South Carolina was no cesspool! It was misunderstood! It needed a friend!

That's what I thought.
Until a spider descended upon my pristine veggie sub whilst the Sandwich Artist pretended not to notice.
That's what I thought.
Until a crowd of barefooted hooligans spent five minutes trying to wrassle some free cookies out of the cashier whilst I patiently waited to pay for my 'arachnid special.'
That's what I thought.
Until I saw the bathrooms. And that, my friends! That was the last straw!

The moral of the story, is:
"Ryan" may be an asshole, and he may be a pompous wanker. But he was right about South Carolina. And that wasn't really a moral at all, was it?

Fine.

I've got your moral. I just left it in South Carolina. Really I did. Go get it.

Purely hypothetical situation:

A coworker comes up to you and casually mentions, for no apparent reason, that his bio dad is incarcerated for armed robbery and his bio mom is a prostitute who lives in the woods.

What IS the proper response? Apparently a blank stare just doesn't cut the mustard.

Where's Ms Manners when it really counts? Some superhero she is.

Something that might interest you

Yes, we have security cameras where I work. And yes, the monitors are situated on my desk.

Why do you people feel the need to stare directly into security cameras? What goes through your heads as you're looking at one? Have you ever found a freakin' cupcake in one? Might there be a happy leprochaun living inside, just waiting to be found so that it can share it's pot of gold with you? Is that what you think?

Well, I'll tell you what really happens when you stare at a security camera. I stare back. AND I LAUGH.

Like I said, just something I thought you all might like to know. Now don't say I never did anything for you.

My worst fears have come to fruition

Check out the ads above this blog. Seriously. Look at them. Right now.

Vacuum cleaner ads! Fucking vacuum cleaner ads! Is this what it's come to? Am I the girl who does the Vacuum Blog? Sure, I've had two posts about vacuums, but that was purely coincidental. Now I've been branded the Vacuum Blogger by the almighty ad box. Who wants to read The Vacuum Blog?

This isn't me. I'm not some vacuum obsessed psycho. I don't need to be judged, man. And I know full well that I'm only digging myself deeper. Everytime I say it- V-A-C-U-U-M - I'm just adding to the longevity of the (vacuum) ads. This post alone could add another few months onto my sentance.

Perhaps I should accept my fate. I could have a "Vacuum Revuu" column where I discuss the latest and greatest breakthroughs in room cleansing technology. I could have an online tutorial wherein I discuss the finer points of vacuum care and maintenance. I could offer helpful housekeeping tips... like... "vacuum, people." Or, just as likely, I could buy a snowcone...
In Hell!

Ha! You actually thought I was considering it, didn't you? No, sorry people. You'll have to get your vacuum info elsewhere from now on.

I don't suck that much.

Just when you thought republicans couldn't get any dumber...

They found a way!!

I mean, really. I thought I had seen it all after that silly attempt to boycott wine because France didn't want to go off playing cowboys in the middle east.
But this... this is really something.

Who knew that jingoistic tomato paste was even possible? I'll bet these are the same shmucks who started frantically replacing their French's mustard with Heinz' mustard thanks to the urban legendthat the former was anti-american. That one really bit ya in the ass, didn't it, right wing freakos?

Eh... who am I kidding? I'm only outraged because I didn't think of it first. There's nothing more all-american than capitalizing on fear.

Empower this, assholes

So, I've been watching for several years now as the word "empower" rapidly loses credibility. First women were empowering themselves to buy uncomfortable shoes, to get breast implants and go to tanning beds, etc.

But it's reached a new low and damnit, and I can't stay quiet any longer.

Enter the newest model from the Hoover line of vacuum cleaners:

The EMPOWER!!!

That's right ladies! You are officially EMPOWERED to vacuum where, when and how YOU want! According to the commercial, you can even put it into "hush" mode so as not to wake your napping hubby as you vacuum around him! Then, you can run to join your hubby on the beach because you were EMPOWERED enough to finish your housework early! Good wifey! Good wifey!

Also according to the commercial, "Hoover gets it."

Okay, CLEARLY Hoover does not get it. They are so far from "getting it" that I think they should be charged with false advertising for using the words "gets" and "it" anywhere in the same sentance. Much less right 'effin next to each other.

Let me explain, Mr. Hoover Man:
1. Co-opting feminist terminology to hock housecleaning products is really not cool.
2. If my hubby is napping while I'm doing the housecleaning, I WANT to wake his ass up. I'd rather invest in a vacuum that plays Iron Maiden's Greatest Hits on full volume than one that has a pansy-ass "hush" button.
3. If it really allowed me to control "how, when and where I want to clean" it wouldn't be called a vacuum, now would it? It would be called the Super Clean Bot 4000Z. In other words, women, in general, don't ENJOY cleaning.
4. My husband and I just spent a fat wad of cash on a new Dyson Animal so nyah nyah.

Okay, that last one wasn't really a marketing tip. But it felt good to say nonetheless.

I sent all of this information, via a curse-filled email, to the good people of Hoover. The last time I complained to a company based on feminist ideals, the low level email receptor signed me up for a whole bunch of bestiality spam mail. I can't wait to see how this one turns out.

uuhhhhhh

Calzone... arrived...

so... full...

must... nap...

Waiting for my calzone...

So, I'm a vegan. And I'm sitting here at my desk patiently awaiting the delivery of my cheesy, crusty calzone.

I never said I was a good vegan.

See, the thing about being vegan is that, well, you can't eat cheese. I've tried to find loopholes in the definition of vegan-ation, but there just aren't any. Who knew it was even in the dictionary? I was hoping I would be able to co-opt it for my own evil cheese-loving purposes.

Nope.

And cheese-consumption obviously isn't reserved for rare occasions. I tried that, and failed. Suddenly, every day was a made up holiday where cheese was the traditional main course. So, I've given up the fight. And I'm tempted to write a stirring, Pochahontas-style tribute song about the journey. Something to the tune of Paint With All the Colors of the Wind..." but, you know, about cheese.

So now, fraught with guilt, I wait. Can you drown guilt with cheese and drool? I'm certainly going to try.

Wankershanks' political play of the week!

So, I know you are all hungry for some serious political analysis. Well, I won't keep you waiting any longer.

Welcome to the Wankershanks Political Play of the Week!!

This week's play focuses on our much beloved veep, Dick. Apparently, Mr. Cheney was

quite the potty mouth this week.

That's right, folks. He used "the eff word!"

This would clearly be a major problem for the republicans... if it weren't for the CIA leak to the Weekly World News that produced

THIS news sensation.

So, obviously, this ends up being a win-win situation for Dick. He gets to prove his humanity AND mouth off to a senator he hates. He just may have screwed himself out of the maple syrup christmas basket though...

Bring it on, pizza purists!

I love the California Pizza Kitchen.

There. I said it.

I know it's an evil chain bent on destoying the 'art' of making a traditional pizza (NY, Chicago, Sicilian, what have you.)
I know that I'm a lost soul in the world of pizza and if I just try this great little place down on 5th and what-the-hell-ever street, I would abandon this mockery of pizza.
I know that the people at CPK probably dine on newborn children and laugh when people get herpes. Or something. (just kidding, CPK! Don't sue me! wanna talk about it over a pear and gorgonzola pie?)

But boy howdy, do I love that pizza anyway.

New York pizza sucks and you all know it. I don't want people to look at me like I have a third head when I order artichoke hearts, eggplant and portobellos on my freakin' pizza. And Chicago style pizza, while adequate in the toppings department... well, I don't eat that as a matter of pride, you see. One slice is a meal! If I can't kill a good 1/2 pizza in one sitting, I will hang my head in shame the rest of the week. No, sorry Chicago. You're out. As far as traditional Italian pizza goes: I'll admit I've never been to Italy. But I'm sure there's something wrong with their pizza by the way Mario Batali makes it on the Food Network. Seriously, that man needs to be stopped. I can just see the freakshow now: "We put extra pig fat on it for you! You know, the good kind that's right above the hoof!"
Great...

But the California Pizza Kitchen- THAT'S a pizza I can dream about. Japanese eggplant on a pizza? BRING IT ON! Broccoli, goat cheese and roasted corn? I'll take one, with a side of another! And don't even get me started on the appetizers, folks. I'll be here all day.

So, hate me if you must. I've spoken the unspeakable. Life's too short to avoid yuppy pizza on some ill-conceived notion of "authenticity."

Now, proceed to tear me a new one.