Hear me out:
I had actual ideas of things to write here, things that would actually represent my life at ce moment-ci. But then reality interfered.
First of all, I have been fighting anger and depression about this Lancaster County shooting all day. I don't know what kind of sick bastard lines up little Amish schoolgirls and shoots them in his own twisted reenaction of that one shitty high school revenge movie, but I kind of want to castrate his dead body. Articles about child murder are horrible enough, articles about child murder with a bunch of distance pictures of people in buggies looking sad and confused are NOT ACCEPTABLE.
This desolation, however, unfortunately soon gave way to things far more trivial. I was at the gym, "running" on the ellipticals to the sounds of the Spice Girls and Luda, when I directed my attention to the TV directly overhead. It was at that time that I saw something I had somehow managed to avoid throughout 20 years of existence on planet earth: the WWE. Someone named Carlito was kicking the crap out of someone named RKO (I think?) and yelling "son of a BITCH," which I had to pick up through lip-reading of course. I thought it could not get any worse, but after the end of the commercial break, for some inexplicable reason, 10 huge men came out of the locker room in disgustingly skimpy cheerleader garb. Their name, apparently, was the "Spirit Squad." I'm not sure exactly why they decided to suddenly turn transvestite (with skidmarks, EWEWEWEWEW), but I was momentarily amused and overlooked such discrepancies. But THEN, an enormously huge man supposedly named "The Sergeant" came out, dressed all in camo and with bald head a-twirling. He proceeded to kick poor RKO's ass into even weaker putty, grabbing and squishing all kinds of vulnerable parts like the eyes and balls. This lovely exchange ended, for some reason, with a white lace thong being dangled in front of the ring.
Having been inundated in such a way to the land of men-who-no-one-should-ever-sleep-with, I moved to another elliptical. It was there that I got an of course much-needed update on the trials and tribulations of one Mark Foley. The CNN announcer spent a good two minutes trying to paint the pedophiliac tendencies of our elected officials as part of a historical trend: "it has happened," he said, "since the days of Cain and Abel." WTF? I decided to ignore irrelevant myths and instead focused on the very shady allegation that all misconduct can be chalked up to the boozing. I am sorry that Rep. Foley is apparently "completely devastated," because you know how my heart bleeds for all Republicans. When I was watching this program, I began to think of my high school MTV-obsessed days. Remember the Las Vegas Real World season, with a certain tramp from Louisiana? Well, I do. One of Le Scandals of said season was a certain steamy hookup between two cast members, supposedly fueled by alcohol. "Trishelle says that, like, when she drinks, she can't, like, control what she does," explained that chick from Oregon whose name I can't remember. "But, like, I said to her: Trishelle, if you're always doing this stuff when you're drunk...maybe it isn't, like, the alcohol. Maybe it's, like, you." Quelle coincidence. My best wishes to Mr. Foley, por supuesto, for a quick path to sobriety.
The point of this rambling, poorly written piece of nonsense is WHAT THE HELL KIND OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN?!?!?!?
First of all, I have been fighting anger and depression about this Lancaster County shooting all day. I don't know what kind of sick bastard lines up little Amish schoolgirls and shoots them in his own twisted reenaction of that one shitty high school revenge movie, but I kind of want to castrate his dead body. Articles about child murder are horrible enough, articles about child murder with a bunch of distance pictures of people in buggies looking sad and confused are NOT ACCEPTABLE.
This desolation, however, unfortunately soon gave way to things far more trivial. I was at the gym, "running" on the ellipticals to the sounds of the Spice Girls and Luda, when I directed my attention to the TV directly overhead. It was at that time that I saw something I had somehow managed to avoid throughout 20 years of existence on planet earth: the WWE. Someone named Carlito was kicking the crap out of someone named RKO (I think?) and yelling "son of a BITCH," which I had to pick up through lip-reading of course. I thought it could not get any worse, but after the end of the commercial break, for some inexplicable reason, 10 huge men came out of the locker room in disgustingly skimpy cheerleader garb. Their name, apparently, was the "Spirit Squad." I'm not sure exactly why they decided to suddenly turn transvestite (with skidmarks, EWEWEWEWEW), but I was momentarily amused and overlooked such discrepancies. But THEN, an enormously huge man supposedly named "The Sergeant" came out, dressed all in camo and with bald head a-twirling. He proceeded to kick poor RKO's ass into even weaker putty, grabbing and squishing all kinds of vulnerable parts like the eyes and balls. This lovely exchange ended, for some reason, with a white lace thong being dangled in front of the ring.
Having been inundated in such a way to the land of men-who-no-one-should-ever-sleep-with, I moved to another elliptical. It was there that I got an of course much-needed update on the trials and tribulations of one Mark Foley. The CNN announcer spent a good two minutes trying to paint the pedophiliac tendencies of our elected officials as part of a historical trend: "it has happened," he said, "since the days of Cain and Abel." WTF? I decided to ignore irrelevant myths and instead focused on the very shady allegation that all misconduct can be chalked up to the boozing. I am sorry that Rep. Foley is apparently "completely devastated," because you know how my heart bleeds for all Republicans. When I was watching this program, I began to think of my high school MTV-obsessed days. Remember the Las Vegas Real World season, with a certain tramp from Louisiana? Well, I do. One of Le Scandals of said season was a certain steamy hookup between two cast members, supposedly fueled by alcohol. "Trishelle says that, like, when she drinks, she can't, like, control what she does," explained that chick from Oregon whose name I can't remember. "But, like, I said to her: Trishelle, if you're always doing this stuff when you're drunk...maybe it isn't, like, the alcohol. Maybe it's, like, you." Quelle coincidence. My best wishes to Mr. Foley, por supuesto, for a quick path to sobriety.
The point of this rambling, poorly written piece of nonsense is WHAT THE HELL KIND OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN?!?!?!?