Monday, August 31, 2009

this is america.

If you've ever happened upon this web log before now, you've probably read the phrase, "This is America. Bless it." That's because I recently started saying it to (1) express the greatness that is America (2) to showcase things that could only happen in America and (3) to remind everyone of the wrongs going on in America and more than anything our country desperately needs to be blanketed in prayer (I sound very much like a preacher's wife right now).

Anyway. I'm planning on doing my best of making, "This is America. Bless it." a weekly happening on this web log of mine.

We're going to start it off with a showcase of something that could only happen in America.

I'm driving down the road and I see a car's back window that reads, "$ Im crayz" Now, this could only happen in America for several reasons: first up, freedom of speech. The driver of this crayz vehicle was doing nothing more than expressing herself (I have to assume it was a her). I applaud her expression. Second up, capitalism. By placing the "$" in front of the phrase, "Im crayz" it's almost like she was saying, "I'm so glad I live in a country that promotes capitalist ventures AND free speech. I think I'll express myself with a dollar sign, so everyone knows how much I love money and earning it." Lastly, exploration. America has always been into exploring. I mean, our country was found on an exploration and not long after we went to space and the moon and now our citizens (Lord, I pray she was an actual citizen) are exploring creative ways to spell words. Where else in the world could take the normal spelling of crazy and turn it into crayz? I say, NOWHERE.

I had a lot of questions for the driver of the crayz mobile, most notably, "are you more or less crazy than others because you spell it differently?" But, she sped off the second the red light turned into green and I was left in her capitalistic/exploratory dust to ponder the vast reasons that I love living in America.

This is America. Bless it.

Friday, August 28, 2009


  • You may remember this post about Miley Cyrus and a certain Daughtry song: well, guess what? Driving down the road yesterday the Daughtry sang came on (not shocking, it plays about six times an hour) and wincing in pain and much enjoyment, I listened. To. the. whole. thing. The DJ came on and you know what he told me? You'll never guess. He told me that the Nickelback guy (Chad Trashsomethingorother) co-wrote the Daughtry song! Kick me twice and then call me Nancy. I will never listen to that song again.

  • Last month I wrote about the term normal and in that post I kind of went off on Ed Hardy. For good reason: horribly ugly, over-priced, usually bedazzled (which, in most cases is actually a plus) and of course, a good majority of the products feature a tiger's head. Anyway. Walgreen's is now selling Ed Hardy lighters. Super classy.

  • Someone in Dallas, not too far from my homestead, is going around and mutilating cats and then leaving the bodies in the yard where they can be spotted. I just want to get it out there that I do not condone this type of activity, nor will I ever. But, I did let out some gigglez when the news flashed a picture of one of the dead cats onto the screen and he was wearing a teeny-tiny little baseball hat, much like the cat below.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

oh, i see.

So, this morning, like most mornings, I woke up way before my alarm went off and being the morning person that I am, I decided to start the day a few minutes early. But, before I could even get out of bed my head was inundated with thoughts of chocolate donuts. Yes, donuts. I've never wanted a chocolate donut as bad as I wanted one at 6:50 this a.m.

Being the lover-of-self that I am, I couldn't deny myself this treat, so I swung by the place so eloquently titled, "Donuts" by my house and got myself two tasty little treats. The whole way to work I was bothered by the fact that I was almost woken up by these intense thoughts about morning-time pastries.

I took to google to solve my woes and could only come up with the meaning of dreams about donuts. Close enough. "To see a doughnut in your dream, represents the Self. It suggests that you may be feeling lost and still trying to find yourself and your purpose in life. Alternatively, it refers to growth, development and nurturance. You are not completely whole." Umm...oh, I see that.

And what a story it's going to be. When I'm finally elected Senator or cure cancer or win the lottery or have a child and get a reality television show or simply, just discover my purpose in life I can attribute it to today, the day I stopped searching and found a chocolate donut.

Monday, August 24, 2009

actually, don't.

Jamie Foxx's song, "Blame it on the Alcohol" is on the radio every other minute. I'll admit: it's catchy. It has a nice groove, but the message is disastrous.

I never thought about just how disastrous until I was listening to 97.9, The Beat, this morning. This station plays a lot of hip-hop and rap and every morning at 8am they have a praise break. Lately, they've been on a big Mary Mary kick. Anyway, last week they played a song by Mary Mary called, "It's the God in Me." It wasn't a bad little song, until this morning on The Beat's Chicken and Waffle Mix, they had mixed "Blame it on the Alcohol" and "It's the God in Me."

I'm sorry, what? Did you really just mix those two songs? T-Pain and Jamie Foxx's beats were somehow tied into two gUrls singing about the God in them? How did that even happen? Was it an accident? Did a listener request it? Does this listener have any amount of common sense?

I digress.

So, I'm still listening to "Blame it on the Alcohol" and I get to thinking about people who do things and blame it on alcohol. You know, drunk-driving, killings, fires, bad haircuts...I'm just tired of it. It's time we stop blaming things on the "goose" and start taking credit for our own stupidity.

Can you imagine someone saying, "Hey, remember that time you got married?" and the other person saying, "Blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol, blame it on the ah-ah ah-ah ah-al-co-hol."

Or, "Remember the time you wore white after Labor Day?" and it's met with, "Blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol."

I'm not trying to be on a soapbox here, I'll be the first to admit that it takes less than one drink of ah-ah-ah-alcohol to make me start sending text messages that shouldn't be sent, but I'll quit blaming it on the ah-ah ah-ah ah-al-co-hol if everyone else does. I promise. No, seriously. I will.

Friday, August 21, 2009

gender bender.

If you're a reader of this web log, you probably spend your free time perusing the internetS while you should be working (after you've been through every new photo album on Facebook, of course). So, the story of Caster Semenya, the South African teenage running sensation is probably old news to you. I mean, how could you miss this? At first, like many of you, I thought "she" is taking Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady" to a whole new level. But, then I started to really think about it and I just got a little bit sad for her.

You see, I, much like Caster (can I just say, that is quite an unfortunate name. If "her" name was Sally or Susan she might not be going through all of this) was quite the phenom of athletic prowess growing up. Once, in fourth grade my basketball coach pulled me out of the game and told me he'd only put me back in if I promised to quit shooting. I obviously promised to quit humiliating the other team with my superb lay-up skills on an eight-foot goal and went back onto the court. Seconds later I scored my 20th point and was taken back out. Afterwards the other team hung their head in shame and admired my obvious abilities, but they never questioned my gender! They never said, "Wow, only a boy would be able to dribble with their left hand at this age! She must be a he!" And I even had a bowl cut.

What I'm saying is, girls can be talented athletes. Girls can run fast. Girls can dribble with their left hand.

And then, I'm also saying, what the hell, people? If "she" is actually a he, what kind of tests does "she" need to take? I can only think of one. Even in this complex world of technology only one way comes to mind. Just one. It's fairly simple, too.

And to say a few more things, what if "she" is a she, then what? I'm afraid she may be scarred for life, world-class athlete or not, who wants to marry a "she" that had to undergo gender tests because of concerns she does not meet requirements to compete as a woman. Hello, hours of therapy.

This also raises the question of a transgender competing in an athletic event. What question I do not know, but I bet there are some.

I'll leave you with a quote from my junior high basketball coach, who had no impact on my life whatsoever, minus this gem of a quotable, "A little bit of effort goes a long way."

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

cats and society.

This was a letter written to a friend. You can pretend like it was to you personally, if you like...

Cats are disgusting. You should never own a cat. I know you may think you’re missing out on something, but if you never trust anything I say, trust me when I say this, “You aren’t missing out on anything. I swear.”

Have you ever heard the phrase, "you look like something the cat drug in?" Exactly. Cats are nasty and drag nasty things around.

Cats are extremely unfriendly and conceited and are also seriously lame and boring. They don't do anything worthwhile or even anything mildly exciting. They provide zero entertainment or comfort.

When you get older and you notice that a boy owns a cat and he doesn't live with his sister or mother, that should be seen as an immediate deal breaker and you should not date him. However, you can be friends with him and then your first act of friendship should be to tell him to get rid of the cat. Everyone wins.

Monday, August 17, 2009

hodge podge.

Continuing with the theme of my everyday life and the multitude of thoughts constantly flowing through my head, this web log will consist of a variety of topics. Consider it a variety pack, if you will.

First up: rap lyrics. Yes, rap lyrics. Almost constantly, when listening to a rap song, I find myself saying, often out loud, "Wait. What?" This morning I heard a rap song and over and over again they rapped, "I run this town. I run this town." I thought to myself, you run this town? You, a rapper, is running a town? The city government isn't running said town? Are you on the city council? I'm so intrigued by you, rapper extraordinaire/city council member and concerned citizen.

As intriguing as these lyrics were/are I was doubly excited because it made me feel like maybe this rapper was taking an active interest in their community instead of rapping about loose women and expensive cars and liquor. But, of course my mind was quickly changed when I heard the line about "next time I come to church don't take my picture." Don't even get me started.

Next up: Dancing with the Stars. Obviously, clearly and without a doubt they use the term "stars" very loosely. I mean, they could call it Dancing with Former Stars and I'd feel better about it, even though some of them aren't even former stars, they're just mildly and inexplainably recognizable. Notice I said recognizable over famous. I did that for a reason: THEY ARE NOT EVEN FAMOUS. Ok, Kathy Ireland is famous. She does have that clothing line at K-Mart. And Kelly Osbourne, her dad is famous, so I can see how she could be considered a star and all. Don't even get me started on former Republican Majority Leader Tom DeLay being chosen as a contestant. This is America. Bless it.

Moving on to: John Hughes. To be honest, I love (loved?) Michael Jackson. I felt a twinge of sadness when Billy Mays died. But, when John Hughes died I could have wept for days, but unfortunately I'm somewhat robot and all of my emotions are reserved for people I actually know and converse with regularly.

Where was the pomp and media exposure for this man? This man, who undoubtedly shaped my childhood and sense of humor almost as much as my parents did. I discovered what funny was by watching his Vacation movies. My parents still call me to tell me when they are on tv (even though I own them all). When making a list of my top 10 favorite movies of all-time, four of them are John Hughes films and another two are very close to being included. That's a lot.

I'm just saying, Christmas isn't Christmas until I've watched Home Alone and Christmas Vacation. And it's not a vacation if you aren't cruising along in the family truckster.

Lastly, since we're on the topic: Top 10 Favorite Movies of All-Time-Ever

1. Silence of the Lambs
2. National Lampoon's European Vacation
3. Mean Girls
4.To Kill a Mockingbird
5. Waiting for Guffman
6. Home Alone
7. Walk the Line
8. Uncle Buck
9. National Lampoon's Vacation
10. Baby Mama

Close Calls: The Great Outdoors, Best in Show, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, Spellbound, Parent Trap (original), Spellbound, Dirty Dancing

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

the shame of it all.

I've never been one to bare my soul to the internetS and I'm not really thinking about doing it now even, but something happened to me the other day that has filled me with much shame and embarrassment: I listened to a Daughtry song all the way through on the radio.

I don't know how it happened and I thought it was a one-time thing and no one would ever have to know, but the same song came on again this morning and I didn't change the channel. No, I actually turned it up. I didn't sing along or anything, but I'm still worried. What's next? Am I going to start listening to Nickelback? Go buy a Creed CD?

Or what happens if I see a guy walking on the street and he has on an Ed Hardy shirt, am I going to think to myself, "Now, there's a guy that knows how to work an outfit!" Is that what is in my future?

I also must confess that I heard the new Miley Cyrus song and tried to buy it on i-Tunes, but it wasn't available yet. I was really disappointed and tried again this morning. It's available and number one. And now, it's in my music library.

Dear Lord, HELP! Help me with these inconsistencies in my life. Lord, I don't want to be a Daughtry fan and I don't want to get upset when I can't find Miley on i-Tunes. Lord, help me to look at myself and see my indiscretions. Strip me bare, Lord, strip this love of bad pop music from my soul! Amen.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

an open letter to the 111th congress.

Hey Congress,

You had to know this was coming. I mean, if you know anything, you know that people don't like to sit idly by while their elected officials royally F-up this great nation. Hell, I don't like to sit idly by while people are doing something wrong on a television show that is years old and not relevant to my real, actual life. So, why would I let your poor decisions go by the wayside, too?

You might be relieved to find out this letter has nothing to do with HR3200 (America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009), which I think is about two days away from actually being titled "Shit Show 3200." No, this is about your recent decision to purchase three Gulf Stream jets to the sum of $200 million. I guess $200 million is nothing when the national debt is upwards of $11,666,833,530,882. I can see that, but...really? Was this the best thing for me? Was this the best thing for America? Or was this the best thing for the few Congressional members who travel overseas once a year and were tired of TSA screenings and paying extra for checking bags?

I mean, I see it like this...if I'm in credit card debt for say, $2,000 and then go spend $400 on something that's pretty cool, but not really necessary, most would view that as a poor decision. Especially, say, if someone gave me some money to pay off some of my debt and handed it over to me and said, "I trust you. Make good decisions." Which is essentially what I do when I vote for someone.

Oh, Congress, what are we going to do with you? I have no one to blame but myself. It's just that you suck and you make selfish decisions for individual gains. Well, get over it and throw my drowning country a life jacket. Shit, at least stand at the edge of the water and offer up one of those poles or something!

Just try harder. Please? That's all I'm asking.

an annoyed and frustrated American citizen who will never get to ride in the luxury jet I'm paying for

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

but, i need to know why.

No, seriously...I need to know why this photograph was taken. It's more than obvious that I was incredibly cute and well-dressed (hello, navy boat shoes and tall socks with hammy-down shorts from the brosef), but why did this need to be captured in time right there next to the family Oldsmobile? This might be the most random photo of me ever taken. And I might secretly hope that all of my children look like this someday, but act like their well-behaved, mature and mathematically smart father (that is of course based on the assumption that he actually exists).

Side note story #1**: In kindergarten, I turned five years old. I thought this birthday was especially awesome because my birthday falls on the fifth day of October. The theme for my birthday in my head was, "Turning 5 on October 5." Anyway, my teacher asked me what I was doing for my birthday and I told her my family was driving to Dierks, Arkansas to watch a football game in our new red Oldsmobile. I also told her I was scared that it was going to get hit by lightning and I wanted my family to be safe. I guess I was mistaking my brief time of sharing in my kindergarten class for prayer requests.

** I tell that story about the red Oldsmobile, because looking back we have more family (and obviously solo, too) pictures next to that car than any other car ever.

Side note story #2***: One Thanksgiving morning (I believe I was in first or second grade) my family was getting ready to load-up and head south to The Sprangs (Mineral Springs, for those of you who aren't familiar with the lingo). The Reg was in the garage tweaking with the engine on the red Oldsmobile when out of nowhere the door to the kitchen flew open and he came in yelling, "That damn Oldsmobile just blew up!" Being the young child that I was, I was confused and asked a lot of questions, you know questions like, "Why didn't I hear an explosion?" and "Can we still go to Grandmother's?"

Turns out, the car didn't actually explode. Just something like it. And not too long after that The Reg purchased a brand spankin' new (and by new, I mean, never owned, but had been on the lot for 9 months) Chevy Lumina APV mini-van. Two-tone, no less.

***I told that story because I think it's hilarious and I'm standing next to the car that "exploded" in the above picture. Oh, the memories...

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