spoiledbratzwear.mysupadupa.com

This morning on Animal Planet (the channel), they showed a water spaniel wearing a “snood,” so it could eat kibble without getting its ears dirty.  God forbid.  A stylish version is shown on the classy canine above.  This ain’t no thrift shop snood.

http://www.celebrana.com

Initially, I thought this might be a Hilton sister, due to the name, the lean Anglo features and fashion foward accessory.  But this (female dog) favors Paris more than Nicky.  It also begs the question: if poodles wear leopard print, would leopards wear poodle print?  As if.  They’d be laughed right out of the pride.

Imagine if they showed up in these jazzy little numbers.  The Grinch stole Christmas and then some.  Alrighty, let’s get our Jane Fonda Workout on!

spoiledbratzwear.mysupadupa.com

Let’s be honest: snoods look pretty gay on humans, much less pooches.  (And I use the word the way we did in fourth grade, so deal with it.  I’m not allowed to say it looks retarded, which it does, because that’s offensive.)

http://www.loulousboutique.com

I can understand why clothing on animals is Jay Leno’s pet peeve.  They have no choice in the matter; it serves solely to reflect the whims of its owners.  And I’m not talking Halloween, when dogs get dressed up as Superman, etc.  I mean everyday clothing.  And don’t tell me they need a cableknit sweater because it’s cold out.  Our dogs live outside.  Yes, even when it’s 25 degrees.  God gave them fur.  They’re still alive.

Is this cute?  Or would PETA people cry big salty tears over this?

http://www.lemondrop.com

I weep over this Labrador’s public humiliation.  

http://coolkidshavehikingboots.blogspot.com

Can you hear him singing?  I wear my owner’s clothes.  I look incredible.  I’m in this big-a$$ shirt from that Petco down the road.  

But I may just have found the Julia Roberts to his Richard Gere.

http://www.dawgsaloon.com

Or is it Ginger from Gilligan’s Island?

I must admit I found this next bear snood to be pretty fetching.  It makes any Doberman look less menacing.

http://www.dawgsaloon.com

He may look cute as a button, but now he’s burdened with your great-aunt Mildred’s partial hearing loss.

“Come here, boy.”

“What?”

“Come here, boy!”

“Eh?”

Oh, screw it.

In my stack of vintage greeting cards, I found this cute birthday card manufactured by Gibson.  Perfect for a parent who isn’t a perfectionist…

They don’t make ‘em like that any more.

What’s snazzier than this red retro television set?

Perhaps this dapper turtle riding down a slide in his OWN shell?  

If you pull the lever at the bottom right, he really does slide.  See?

And in keeping with the red theme, here’s a keen card for a grandson.

I don’t know Gramp and Gram from Adam, but I bet they were fine grandparents.  Who wouldn’t feel loved, receiving one of these, assuming kids actually READ them?

I HATE POLITICAL CORRECTNESS.  When I waited tables, I didn’t care if a customer called me “babycakes” and told me to “shake a tailfeather” as long as he ponied up a decent tip.  For that matter, PULEEZE open my car door for me, and the door to Olive Garden, and the door to the Salvation Army so I can search for old cds of The Judybats.

When groups go looking to be offended, seeking OUT a way to feel victimized, I want to shake them (and bake them) until it rattles their brains.  I mean, if Mary J. Blige can’t endorse Crispy Chicken Wraps, then isn’t that taking HER freedom away?  Only people who constantly equate African-Americans with fried chicken are going to have a cow about it.  If you don’t view things through those lenses, you’re just watching a commercial.  Making such a commotion about it only perpetuates the association.

And speaking of that, I really don’t like the term African-American.  I hope bolding that wasn’t offensive.  The people across the street who moved here from the Ivory Coast–THEY are African-American.  And they speak French.  The keyboardist at church with red hair and green eyes and pale skin who grew up in South Africa–SHE’S an African-American, although everyone assumes she is Irish.  She couldn’t understand why we call people who have never been to Africa “African-Americans.”  I mean, we can all trace our heritage back and back and back until we hit Noah’s ark or the Garden of Eden, or wherever you choose to stop.  We are all descendants of one, if you’ve got enough paper to draw that family tree.  (But only draw it on recycled paper please; you don’t want to increase your carbon footprint).

If you feel your panties getting in a wad at this point, just stop reading and go look at images of sunnyside up eggs in the “Food” section of WordPress.  Those always make me happy.

Now I do concede that many ads from the past really were ugly.  If you’ve ever seen Bull Durham Smoking Tobacco ads, you understand how the depiction of black people was crazy offensive.  Nauseatingly so.  So much that I don’t feel comfortable posting any on my blog.  And so in going through my stack of vintage greeting cards, I did discover a yes–Hallmark–card from 1936 with a sobbing picaninny.  I don’t want to share it, but I feel that I must, to be honest about racism in advertising.

Hallmark produced it, so they must have had a market for it.  Although, out of all the cards I have, this one is the only one left unsigned.  So perhaps whoever purchased it, eventually decided against sending it.

In the 80s, I watched a Sam Kinison special, and he was talking about world hunger.  It was not politically correct, and that was why it was funny.  PC kills humor.  It does.  Everyone needs to grow some thicker skin and realize we’re all imperfect, and consequently ripe for mocking.  (No, I don’t mean bullying.)

Anyway, his quote went along the lines of: “Hey, we been driving out here every day with your food, for, like, the last thirty or forty years, and we were driving out here today across the desert, and it occurred to us that there wouldn’t BE world hunger, if you people would LIVE WHERE THE FOOD IS! YOU LIVE IN A DESERT! YOU LIVE IN A F–ING DESERT! NOTHING GROWS OUT HERE! NOTHING’S GONNA GROW OUT HERE! YOU SEE THIS? HUH? THIS IS SAND. KNOW WHAT IT’S GONNA BE A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW? IT’S GONNA BE SAND! YOU LIVE IN A F–ING DESERT! GET YOUR STUFF, GET YOUR S#@T, WE’LL MAKE ONE TRIP, WE’LL TAKE YOU TO WHERE THE FOOD IS! WE HAVE DESERTS IN AMERICA — WE JUST DON’T LIVE IN THEM!”

Political correctness is the devil.  I shouldn’t have to tippytoe around people, trying to remember what the latest acceptable term is for whatever has been deemed unspeakable.  Remember, it’s “handi-capable” now, not handicapped.  And BTW, December 25th is Christmas Day.  It’s not a happy holiday, and it’s not a season’s greetings.  It’s Christmas.  You don’t have to be Christian to enjoy the holiday.  I don’t have to be Mexican to enjoy Cinco de Mayo.  Believe me.  But seriously, if you have the time on your hands to get upset about a tree being called a “Christmas tree,” then you have a pretty good life, eh?  If you were starving and unemployed and living in a cardboard box in an urban alley, you probably wouldn’t have the luxury of giving a damn about that Douglas Fir.

Toro! Toro! Toro! Let me count the ways I so love this ad.  Okay, so this ad was in the back of the 1963 Comet, which I posted about earlier today.  But I could not just drop this in to the post because it possesses clear and present superiority.  It is the bomb.  It requires its own post.

I love the black mantilla.  Oh, yes, that’s a word for that black veil, which Spanish women wear during Holy Week in Seville, Spain during the week leading up to Easter, which is NEXT week, which means you can catch them live and in person if you so choose!  Snap!

Also, I like how the skinny white girl is doing her version of an air guitar, except playing air castanets.  Who would have even thunk to play air castanets?  Glorious.  Her undeniable skill, in combination with the mantilla and sexy red rose, playing off her innocence, is nearly enough to seduce Tim, the newest waiter.

BTW, Tim–that belt that your Aunt Marge sewed from a cast-off curtain sample does NOT look Spanish.  But it would work quite well on your Ali Baba Halloween costume come October.  But who cares?  You get free chips and salsa, so life is good.

Now let’s talk about Janice!  Janice and her look of disdain.

She can hardly keep that Saltine down.  Yeah, Saltines are SOOO Mexican.  I can’t help but think of Sophia Loren’s contemptuous scowl at Jayne Mansfield’s 42DD overflowy cup size.

It’s not like you’re cup doesn’t runneth over, either, Sophia.  Just be glad you’re still alive.  Poor Jayne never lived to do mediocre films like “Grumpy Old Men,” God bless her.  Get over it.

Anyway, back to Janice. Her hair is teased to high heaven, and her blouse is buttoned high, but I think we all know the truth.  You can sit there primly, holding that napkin over your nether regions, but we heard the rumors, Janice.  You think your blonde friend, Cindy, knows how to keep her trap shut?  Loose lips sink ships, Janice.  Cindy can’t be trusted.  But you just wait til the Mariachi Band shows up.  You’ll get yours.

In honor of the upcoming holiday, here is a 1957 Easter card, filled with well-dressed bunnies on their way to church.

If nothing else, blogging makes you realize that you can appreciate (and even follow) blogs of those who don’t share your political or religious views.  I don’t want to shove my beliefs down anyone’s throat more than I want them shoving theirs down mine (I’m talking to you, Jehovah’s Witnesses, knocking at my door at dinnertime).  I’m pretty set in my convictions at this point, so I won’t lie and say that I try to stay open-minded.  I don’t.  Bobby Brown says that’s my prerogative.

However, when I walked into an office waiting room and sat down with this magazine as the only option, I tried to keep an open mind.

After all, I like natural things.  I buy the expensive eggs from happy chickens; I don’t eat whipped pig part hot dogs.  Like most of you, I dig hip-looking older black guys in curved brim hats.  The necklace, not so much, but you get my drift.  But what is inside this magazine, this bed of deceit, made me want to hoard every copy and set them ablaze in an Aggie bonfire.

Let’s not call this slander; let’s call this my opinion, which is the heart of most blogs.  Go ahead and close this post down if you in any way find life coaching a legitimate career.  You are certainly allowed to be a gullible schmuck, but you’re not gonna like the rest of this.  And remember, I’m not always going to agree with you, either.  A rainbow wouldn’t be as pretty with just one color, would it?  Diversity…

Now do I believe that therapy can benefit people?  Yes.  We’re all carrying around years of baggage, and sometimes we need help unloading it.  But you can bet your sweet bippy you can’t become a licensed therapist in two days.  Lifecoaching, however, you betcha!

Certification is only $595!  That’s waaaay less than the bother of actually going to college.  It’s like the TurboTax commercial, where the “tax professional” is also a “master plumber.”  Sure you are.  Let me get some advice on how to run my life by someone who couldn’t even get into the University of Phoenix.

Let me say first that I’ve spent YEARS YEARS YEARS with doctors who were unable to remedy my ailments.  Thousands on meds, doctors get paid to pimp new products, the American healthcare system is corrupt, etc, etc.  You all know the deal.  I was so desperate for help that I resorted to hoodoo guru new agey acupuncture.  And guess what?  The acupuncturist made a whole heck of a lot of sense.  In fact, he knew more about my body by looking at my EAR than most doctors did after seven vials of bloodwork taken fro me.  So, yes, I can accept this 5000 year-old art as a legit form of healing.  And I can see how people get soooo fed up with doctors, so desperate for relief that they resort to absolute craziness.  Like crystals.

Wow!  How did they DO that?  It’s like magic!  Like the incredible Burt Wonderstone waved his magician’s wand across her and boom!  Photoshop 101.  I’m sorry if I don’t believe that wearing a pendant will strengthen my energy fields.  In the words of Hall & Oates, “I can’t go for that.  No can do.”

Hey, while we’re at it, news flash: astrology is entertainment.  I know when you’re fifteen and you’re infatuated with the cute boy with the good hair, the first thing you do is find out his birthday and look up his sign and discover he’s a Leo, and no wonder he’s so arrogant and self-absorbed, and you giggle with your friends because you’ve unearthed a grand mystery and pried him open like an oyster, and soon he will be yours.  Yeah, guess what?  It’s pretend.

http://www.worldmarket.com

Haven’t you ever wondered when you’re sitting there, eating your egg drop soup and looking at the red Chinese Zodiac placemat, that maybe it’s just hogwash?  You ever think of all the kids in your class in school born in your same year and wonder how you could all share identical traits?  Well, you can’t.  It’s make believe.  Like fairies and centaurs.

Apparently, I was born under the sign of charm and aggressiveness.  Ya think?  Oh, and my sign “can be talkative sometimes.”  Yes, and sometimes we convert oxygen to carbon dioxide JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE DOES.

I don’t know what Pranic Healing is, and I haven’t studied the Reiki of the Fire Dragon, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that psychics are scam artists (or perhaps just evil).  Uh-oh.  Hit a nerve?  Do you recall the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Professor Marvel consults the crystal ball?  Note his words:

This is the same genuine, magic, authentic crystal used by the priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the pharaohs of Egypt in which Cleopatra first saw the approach of Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony and and so on and so on.  You’d better close your eyes, my child for a moment, in order to be better in tune with the infinite.

He ran a good game, though, didn’t he?  Cretins and twits and dolts, OH, MY!

Without giving out free advertising, I will say that there is a “Dear Abby” type forum, wherein simpletons write in to ask such deep questions as when they will win a lottery ticket.  And the gifted one then channels ascended masters and archangels to tell her to build an altar–BUILD AN ALTAR–to a deity to get the winning numbers. #$%^#(@!!!!!!

And this one–this one is the worst.  No, I don’t know what it is either.

I know what quickening is in terms of pregnancy, but I don’t think this is what Pat is peddling.  I say Pat because I am reminded of the old SNL skit.

http://www.marymeetsdolly.com

So, Pat–did you mean to put “Safty” or did you mean “Safety”?  And you also wrote “Less Then.”  Yeah, methinks it should be “Less THAN.”  So maybe you’ve got a great grasp of whatever the hell quickening is, but you really should brush up on your basic English.  Just saying.

And LASTLY, we’ve got a little Watsu.  What’s a watsu, you say?  Well, it’s aquatic bodywork.  And maybe it does help your joints, and God knows mine need it.  But I don’t particularly enjoy feeling fondled by the mammogram tech at the radiology dept when she yanks and heaves my breasts onto the glass.  So I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t cotton to cavorting about in the water with some stranger like a sea otter.  No lady’s face needs to get that close to mine.  Ever.

Wow.  I congratulate you on reading over 1000 words.  Long posts are the WORST, aren’t they?

painting by Edward Augustiny

Is Gramps exhausted from potting plants, feebleminded, or just overjoyed that the woman behind him poured just the right amount of head into his glass?  To me, it appears as thought the pretty colors and bubbles have him entranced.  Limit yourself to one glass, okay?  Remember what the doctor said about mixing Coumadin and alcohol?

Look how Rick holds that glass of Schlitz up, just of out reach for poor Joanne Woodward’s body double.  Is he wearing pajamas?  Why don’t her gloves match?  I don’t get it.  This is all very donkey and carrot to me.

painting by John Gannam

I believe this depiction represents the best of both worlds, Hannah Montana.  Gardening is getting done AND beer is being enjoyed.  He has his own glass; she has hers.  The weather is lovely.  He’s pensive; is that a mortgage bill in his hand?  Who cares?  With argyle socks and a butterfly apron, you can never go wrong.

http://www.retronaut.com/

You know you want this.  Toss this into your hatchback, head to the park, and bam–a picnic.  Flip it over and bam–a playpen.  Go back home, lob it on its side, and serve your friends up some Amaretto Sours in style.  Later, after the guests leave, strap your mod boots on and rock and rock and rock.  Now that’s what I call a Good Friday.

At one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, the bathroom soap leaves something to be desired.  Each time I wash my hands before eating, the smell emanating from my fingers makes me not want to reach for the chips and salsa.  It’s like I need another soap to wash the smell of that one off.   I have never understood this concept.  Why would any eatery offer a soap that smells to high heaven, that reeks of Texaco restroom (which is the scent of cherry poop), that does everything to quell one’s hunger at a restaurant?  Isn’t the point to increase one’s appetite?  To that end, I have discovered this today.  I think this would do well to increase the sales of not only appetizers, but buttered popcorn Jelly Bellies at the Walgreen’s down the road, once one departs said restaurant.

http://www.perpetualkid.com/

If I’d just scrubbed with that, I’d be sniffing my knuckles right and left.  While we’re on the topic, I’ll share this trivia tidbit: El Senor Redenbacher died in his condo jacuzzi, after suffering a heart attack and subsequently drowning.  Did you know that?

So maybe popcorn’s not your bag, baby.  Perhaps you don’t want to smell like a cinema lobby.  Well, sophisticated gentleman, this might be for you.

http://www.perpetualkid.com/

Mmmm.  Forget Axe For Men; let me smell some merlot on his palms.  And BTW, I hate the UB40 song Red Red Wine.  I just feel like I need to put that out there, so that you know this pic is in no way an endorsement for such a wretched song, but more an endorsement of alcoholism.

And remember, The Mayo Clinic advises you to rub your hands vigorously for at least 20 seconds while washing, no matter how long the line of impatient patrons standing behind you.  If we all work together, we can fight germs and bacteria.

Target should not have to apologize for stocking a plus-sized dress in “manatee grey.”  If you get offended by that, you need to toughen up.  Manatees ARE a greyish hue.   Target has every right to label it what they will.  People get pissy about the craziest things.  I’m sure their intention was not to make plus-sized ladies feel like manatees, but guess what?  If you’re in the “Women’s” section, and not “Misses,” then you ARE fat.  So am I.  Nobody has a cow when they call it “cow print” skirt.  Suck it up, fatties.  I do.

What Target should be apologizing for is not playing music in their stores, for making what was once a pleasurable shopping experience more like a visit to a ghost town or a cemetery.  That’s what Target should fix.  Turn the music on.  And here’s another bone of contention: stop selling Starbucks coffee next to the watches and scarves. Yeah, their coffee is okay, but it’s not $4 okay. It’s about $2 okay. So how they’ve got the country fooled into dropping its disposable income into their cash registers is beyond me. Especially in a recession. I don’t get it.  Trade it out for a Dunkin Donuts.  At least you won’t feel raped when you leave the big red dot.

I buy my own coffee beans at the grocery store for $8.99/pound, grind it fresh in the morning, and it lasts over a week. It smells good, it tastes good, and it’s worth the price. But in the name of discipline, I’m trying to cut back, drinking more Sleepytime hot tea with honey, and less coffee with peppermint mocha creamer.  I’ve got a nice big mug; small mugs don’t do it for me. The problem is it’s covered with snowmen. Cute, but not appropriate for springtime. So for Mother’s Day, I think I’d like this:

And so what if it looks like me in a jacuzzi?  Sometimes I do resemble a sea cow.  So does most of the country.  Get over it.

http://youdrivewhat.com

Yes, it’s ugly as sin, but it still beats the daylights out of those damn omnipresent swooshes.  I HATE swooshes!  Swooshes belong on Nikes, not recreational vehicles.  I had fully intended to prepare an entire dissertation on this scourge, but dangit–somebody already did.  To see examples of other hideous RVs such as this one decorated by drunk Zorro,

visit: http://2penniesworth.com/2010/08/30/the-good-the-bad-the-ugly-rv-graphics/.  Otherwise, just hop on the highway and absorb the hipness that they emanate live and in person.  Nothing says gas-guzzling cross-country road trip like some nelly-ass decals.  This is a travesty!  Why can’t Sarah McClachlan cry about this on cable at midnight?  Stray tabby cats be damned!

http://www.homeinspiration.info/\

This is all well and good if you don’t have to get up twice nightly to pee.  I would worry my child would fall out the opening at the top and tumble down the steps to a painful injury.  Even the bottom bunk looks painful.  I’d throw my hips out just trying to crawl up into it, and then there’s no doubt my ankles would graze those drawer knobs at the bottom and bruise me up.  And what about changing the sheets on laundry day?  That would certainly tax the lower back.  I bet it gets warm and humid in there as well, with no ventilation on the sides.  And what if she has a nightmare and bolts upright, only to bump her head on that ceiling light?  Really, this is more trouble than it’s worth.

This Lane Bryant model probably isn’t much bigger than the pin-up cowgirl, underneath that tent of a coat.

http://www.fark.com/

I wonder how big “chubby” was when that Lane Bryant ad was printed?  Who would qualify?  Maybe Ethel Mertz?  Fred Mertz constantly made fun of Ethel’s weight, and she never looked big to me.  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.  

http://www.tumblr.com

From Pam to Renee in their 1972 yearbook:

Actually, Renee, you may not have known it at the time, but it was gonna get a whole lot more messed-up.  Reference the 2013 gas prices.  What do you think Wayne Stevens would think about that?  He was pumping gas for a quarter a gallon.  A QUARTER PER GALLON!!!!!  Super duper indeed.

But I get it.  It was high school.  Life wasn’t peachy keen.  Clearly, you had it in for Miss Toni.

I have decades upon decades of yearbooks, but there is nary a HINT of profanity in any year until 1972, when the world went to hell.  Miss Toni must have liked one of the numerous boys whose name you underlined in red.  Was it Steve?  It was Steve, wasn’t it?  This is all so very Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.

Big deal.  Take a chance on Leslie.  His hair swoops majestically like an eagle over a canyon.  Plus, he has that Taylor Lautner hammerhead shark forehead that the tweens like so much.

And hey, if you’re still bitter, shove her in a fridge, like your peers did to poor Vickie.  I think we finally found a job for the Maytag repairman.

Gracious, Renee!  What was your problem?  I just found another girl whom you evidently perceived as the dark lord, horns and all.

Honestly, I’m more concerned with Sandy, who seems to be melting right off the paper.

You just need to chill out in a new Pinto, car of the future.

Or take some barbiturates–I know they sold them then.  Ask these two classmates.  They should know where to score some.

Or hang out with the annual staffers; they know how to have fun.  Buy the world a Coke and keep it company.  And rock that tie, girl.

And hey, if that doesn’t work, you can always pledge Zeta Phi.

I had never seen this ad before today, and I had to do a doubletake.  I saw the Paul Masson spokesman with a younger woman at his shoulder, and the words “generation gap,” and I cringed.  Are they getting drunk together?  Doesn’t he already get drunk off wine; is liquor even necessary at this point?  Oh, wait, he’s dead.  Did he die from drinking?  Was the point to show that old coots could pick up younger Janis Joplin wannabes by buying them a glass of smooth, light, mellow whiskey?  Ewwww.

So many thoughts ran through my head of this dirty old man and this disillusioned woman who was clearly too young to be sipping what old bankers drink in their dens, while wearing robes and smoking pipes.  But then I read the ad.  It’s his daughter.  His daughter with Rita Hayworth.  And she’s dead, too.  Technically, all three of them are dead.

MORE thoughts ran through my head.  Like the fact that Rita Hayworth, although Alzheimer’s-ravaged at the end, was once sane and gorgeous, so why ON EARTH would she ever consent to lie down beneath Orson Welles?  I had to investigate.

As it happened, he wooed her in his post-Citizen Kane, pre-morbidly obese era (he topped out just under 400 lbs or 180 kg).  Both had divorced prior spouses in 1942, and were ready to “walk the plank” again the following year.

Wasn’t baby Rebecca a cutie?

He does appear somewhat deranged in this pic:

The servant boy in the pic seems to rather enjoy these two Hollywood heavyweights simulating a cocktail-infused bullfight (she as bullfighter; he as bull) smack dab in the middle of the nursery.  Or is she simply folding a blanket, and he dancing a merry jig?  Either way, the union didn’t last long, due to alleged infidelities.  In 1948 Hayworth filed for divorce, saying, “I can’t take his genius any more.”  Apparently, alcohol + crazy + cheating + a touch of ego = recipe for disaster.

But don’t worry; they both married again.  And again.  And again.  However, five hours before his death, Welles paid Hayworth a compliment, telling Merv Griffin that he was “lucky enough to have been with her longer than any of the other men in her life.”   I guess they were pretty cute together, if only for a season.

http://www.aaanything.net

Just click to watch 30 years of music sales by media.  Feel old yet?

They look harmless, don’t they?

When I purchase a package of bacon, I expect slabs of dead piggy, all red and white marbled and ready to fry.  I do not anticipate random snouts and tails tossed in.  In civilized society, that would be unthinkable.  If I wanted that, I would simply buy hot dogs.  Likewise, when I buy a carton of orange juice, I have the power to decide how much pulp I would like, but I can be certain that strips of rind will not be thrown in for flavor.

So why is it okay for pickle and jalapeno companies to shove in pickle tops and jalapeno tops in my jars of otherwise usable food items?  The answer is: IT IS NOT.  If Tylenol can’t include razor blades in their bottles of acetaminophen any more, then this should not be permissible as well.

Evil on the left

It’s like people who went to I.T.T. who couldn’t find jobs and are now passing out flyers; they’re saying, “Here, throw this away for me.”  That’s what these manufacturers are essentially demanding of me, the consumer.  Throw your own crap away.  Don’t fill up my jar with your rubbish.  Why do I have to pay for that?

Evil on the left

No one wants to bite into a breakfast taco, filled with a salsa containing pointy jalapeno stems that slit the roof of her mouth. Joe Schmoe doesn’t want to spend his piddly lunch hour, wretching up the half-chewed bite of ham and cheese sandwich containing a hard, impenetrable pickle top.  Who can afford to spit out forty cent’s worth of lunch?  Not me.  Not in THIS recession.  Not in this lifetime.

If they can put a man on the moon before I was even birthed, if they can put a lifetime of entertainment on a teensy wittle phone that only requires one to merely wave his hand across in order to answer said overpriced, soon-outdated phone, then they can remedy this.  Chop chop!

mmmmm catfish

Over the weekend, we visited quaint little Marble Falls, Texas and dined at http://www.rivercitygrilletx.com/, a lovely restaurant overlooking Lake Marble Falls. Fortunately, we had a waitress who was a grown ass woman mature, whose priorities were more in line with service, rather than casual flirtation with various hosts, waiters, and managers, or texting her vacuous thoughts on a trendy phone she has no business owning.  Such are the proclivities of flighty teen girls.  And while we’re on the topic, girls with “Mc” in your name, do not wait on my table.  No McKennas or McKaelas or McKinleys.  Go work the icon register at McDonald’s and pretend you’re all Scottish.

Anyway–I’m not getting paid for this endorsement, so all I really wanted to do was to be one of those people who post pictures of her meals.  I’ve never done that on Facebook, but the crispety crunchety texture of the tortilla-fried catfish demanded it.  And if there hadn’t been such a cool lake breeze flowing over us on the deck, the bed of green chile queso may actually have stayed warm.

River City Grille, spelled the super gay way, with a pretentious “e” at the end

P.S. Someone Please Explain To The Manager Of The Mexican Market Down The Street What A Green Chile Is.  Seriously.  It’s Not A Serrano Nor A Jalapeno.  It’s A Green Chile.

Is it me–or does all WordPress spam read JUST like this sign?  Spammers have a terrible grasp of English.  It hurts my head to wade through the spam to make sure it’s not legit.   “Your site my heart happy such good to blog us!”  WTF?  It’s like going to www.engrish.com, but without ever having to leave blogland.

Come again?

I didn’t even realize male scholars WERE nursed….