(no subject)
Well, happy Turkey Day where applicable.
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I'm still trying to get over the fact that I missed the bulk of the Madonna concert that was on TV earlier tonight and though I'm pretty sure that there will be a DVD of at some point (with all the stuff that NBC censored put back into the show), I'd like to have seen it all the same rather than be at boring work with the tagteam of El Douchebag and the Boiled Potato from Outer Space. The Vickster was there, so it wasn't that bad though. Actually, I don't mind working with the BPFOS too much anymore because the Weird Kid I Don't Wanna Talk To freaks me out and I'd rather work with ten BPFOS's than one WKIDWTT's. Sewiously.
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I've gotten a barrage of Friend Requests on Myspace from folky, guitar playing chicks...whom I immediately deny because I hate that shit. Whenever bands or artists friend me I'll at least visit their profile page just to check them out and I have made a couple of interesting discoveries this way, but in these situations it always serves to remind me that I'm definitely partial to dudes rockin' out than ladies singing about sassafras and nectar and their blossoming womanhood and/or poetic lesbionicness. Now when chicks rock out, well, I'm all for that. Anyway, Myspace is entirely overrun with guitar playing navelgougers. No, that's not a typo.
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Brother Adam is home and we're all going down to Auntie J's for dinnah later today. My cousin Josh from Israel called me yesterday afternoon because he was afraid that I wouldn't be coming down for dinner because he had a dream that I decided to go to the Felon's house for dinner instead. I assured him that this would never happen. Momma D would never stand for that and I would never want to go anywhere else so long as I had my own peeps with whom to dine. Word.
The group will definitely be smaller this time around. My great aunt is still up at the broken hip depository and Uncool Granddad had wrested control of the wagon and is currently driving it eratically down the dirt road whilst swigging from a brown bottle marked "XXX" (for at least the past two months, thank you very much) and I'm not sure if he'll be joining us this year. Certainly he has better things to do, like nod off in his car like he's freckin' George Michael or something. Oh, no, wait...his car is in the body shop because he drove it into something recently on one of his expeditions. Pfffft.
The Felon and I, we have these little competitions as to who has the worst grandfather. I'm of the opinion that we're both pretty evenly matched, but everything's a competition with the Felon and "it's not in her nature to lose"...unless the name of the game is Trivial Pursuit and then, well, heh heh.
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Momma D made pumpkin bread with semi-sweet chocolate morsels mixed into the batter. Until she told me about it, I'd never heard of such a thing, but now that I think of it, that had to be one of the best ideas that was ever idea'd and I can't wait to taste a piece.
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Okay, let me get this straight, Michael Richards (TV's beloved Cosmo Kramer) gets heckled at a comedy club by two black guys and he proceeds to hurls racial epithets at them. Then he's on Letterman apologizing for it, but in doing that says that the original incident was crazy because he's not a racist. Frankly, I'm sure that being heckled, when you're not really used to that sort of thing, is unnerving and bothersome, but when your initial response is to go off on a tirade that includes multiple uses of the n-word, then you might need to do a little self-searching because, in my book, you're pretty much a racist...or at least an asshole*.
I actually haven't been able to bring myself to watch the video for fear that it'll ruin me for Seinfeld forever. As it is, I got a little twinge of disappointment while I was watching it last night.
Awrighty, I gots to gets to bed now or I'll either be a zombie or fall asleep in my mashed potatoes later today.
*Part of me wants to think that asshole is implied in being a racist, but I imagine that some people just don't know any better. Some people are just ig'nant, but Michael Richards didn't just fall off the turnip truck from West Podunk, Nowhere yesterday. Look to the cookie, people!
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I'm still trying to get over the fact that I missed the bulk of the Madonna concert that was on TV earlier tonight and though I'm pretty sure that there will be a DVD of at some point (with all the stuff that NBC censored put back into the show), I'd like to have seen it all the same rather than be at boring work with the tagteam of El Douchebag and the Boiled Potato from Outer Space. The Vickster was there, so it wasn't that bad though. Actually, I don't mind working with the BPFOS too much anymore because the Weird Kid I Don't Wanna Talk To freaks me out and I'd rather work with ten BPFOS's than one WKIDWTT's. Sewiously.
---
I've gotten a barrage of Friend Requests on Myspace from folky, guitar playing chicks...whom I immediately deny because I hate that shit. Whenever bands or artists friend me I'll at least visit their profile page just to check them out and I have made a couple of interesting discoveries this way, but in these situations it always serves to remind me that I'm definitely partial to dudes rockin' out than ladies singing about sassafras and nectar and their blossoming womanhood and/or poetic lesbionicness. Now when chicks rock out, well, I'm all for that. Anyway, Myspace is entirely overrun with guitar playing navelgougers. No, that's not a typo.
---
Brother Adam is home and we're all going down to Auntie J's for dinnah later today. My cousin Josh from Israel called me yesterday afternoon because he was afraid that I wouldn't be coming down for dinner because he had a dream that I decided to go to the Felon's house for dinner instead. I assured him that this would never happen. Momma D would never stand for that and I would never want to go anywhere else so long as I had my own peeps with whom to dine. Word.
The group will definitely be smaller this time around. My great aunt is still up at the broken hip depository and Uncool Granddad had wrested control of the wagon and is currently driving it eratically down the dirt road whilst swigging from a brown bottle marked "XXX" (for at least the past two months, thank you very much) and I'm not sure if he'll be joining us this year. Certainly he has better things to do, like nod off in his car like he's freckin' George Michael or something. Oh, no, wait...his car is in the body shop because he drove it into something recently on one of his expeditions. Pfffft.
The Felon and I, we have these little competitions as to who has the worst grandfather. I'm of the opinion that we're both pretty evenly matched, but everything's a competition with the Felon and "it's not in her nature to lose"...unless the name of the game is Trivial Pursuit and then, well, heh heh.
---
Momma D made pumpkin bread with semi-sweet chocolate morsels mixed into the batter. Until she told me about it, I'd never heard of such a thing, but now that I think of it, that had to be one of the best ideas that was ever idea'd and I can't wait to taste a piece.
---
Okay, let me get this straight, Michael Richards (TV's beloved Cosmo Kramer) gets heckled at a comedy club by two black guys and he proceeds to hurls racial epithets at them. Then he's on Letterman apologizing for it, but in doing that says that the original incident was crazy because he's not a racist. Frankly, I'm sure that being heckled, when you're not really used to that sort of thing, is unnerving and bothersome, but when your initial response is to go off on a tirade that includes multiple uses of the n-word, then you might need to do a little self-searching because, in my book, you're pretty much a racist...or at least an asshole*.
I actually haven't been able to bring myself to watch the video for fear that it'll ruin me for Seinfeld forever. As it is, I got a little twinge of disappointment while I was watching it last night.
Awrighty, I gots to gets to bed now or I'll either be a zombie or fall asleep in my mashed potatoes later today.
*Part of me wants to think that asshole is implied in being a racist, but I imagine that some people just don't know any better. Some people are just ig'nant, but Michael Richards didn't just fall off the turnip truck from West Podunk, Nowhere yesterday. Look to the cookie, people!