Friday, August 29, 2008
Hello world! Your hair looks fabulous today and you smell wonderful. I know you look wonderful because my stat-counter told me so. Truly! Technological advances have made it possible for me to look outside the window of Mojopost and gaze upon the sophisticated workmanship of you hair-do, while appreciating the scent of your body lotions, perfumes and deodorants.
Please do not worry about your appearance for Mojopost if you haven’t had a chance to hone your grooming skills today. My stat-counter only registers the pleasing sights and scents, for my benefit as well as your dignity. I recommend my stat-counter highly – it’s smart and considerate! It cares about me, and it cares about you.
According to my stat-counter, I am grateful to readers in the following locations:
The Pacific Islands
Thank you for visiting! I am so serious.
The weather in Chicago is currently 75 degrees, humidity is at 82% and the barometer is holding steady at 29.82. Look for sunny skies through Sunday, with temperatures in the low 80’s. What are you doing this weekend?
Happy Birthday to those celebrating birthdays, especially those who enjoyed my crab bisque and sirloin steak during Barack Obama’s speech on Thursday evening. It was a brilliant night for everyone!
Earth, Wind and Fire - September
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A new, on-going feature at Mojopost is How To Break Things. As I mentioned last week, I’m attempting to put away convenient, handy tools and using whatever else I find handy for a job. More likely than not, things might be broken along the way. The reason I’m doing this is obscure and hard to explain, but I can honestly assure you that this is a considerate attempt to understand human creativity at a more organic level. Also, I’m uniquely attuned to destruction because I have been divorced twice.
Earlier this week, I decided to take a proactive approach at keeping my cat, Bebe, from climbing into my clothes closet and destroying my nice shirts. What happens is that she pulls open the louvre doors with her claws and climbs up my shirts to get to the sweater shelf. Once there, she can sleep in peace and leave behind copious amounts of fur. She has shredded some clothes I like to wear in public – clothes that made me feel cool and “with it”. I don’t know about you, but chic is hard to come by for me and that is why it is important to stop Bebe.
Technophiles might think about using electric shock collars on their cats. I considered this, and there was an invisible electric fence on Google I could have installed around my closet, but it carried more risk than I was willing to bear. I’m no PETA hippy, but tasering kitty is simply not on my agenda and it never will be. That is why I decided to go low budget and low-tech.
Bungee cords are kind of amazing. What I did is wrap a bungee cord around the closet door handles. Bebe can no longer open the doors because the primitive power of Bungee (behold!) is greater than her paw torque. Bebe spent three days clawing the doors to try and make them open and I’m going to need to sand and paint, but at least she can no longer use my seductive disco shirts as a ladder.
My wardrobe closets and their corded doors have given the condo a college dorm feel. I’ve had an urge to buy fawties and thought about shopping at Goodwill for pillbox hats and used shoes. On a whim, I ate Ramen Noodles (spicy chicken, fifty cents).
Low tech wins this week’s installment of How To Break Things.
A nod to college rock:
The Pixies – Here Comes Your Man
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
At a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in Tucson, Arizona, Cindy McCain (wife of presidential nominee Captain Queeg) has just arrived for a meeting. Her blonde beehive is bent and partially damp, as if she just spent the day passed out on Amy Winehouse’s bathroom floor. Long ago her waterproof mascara gave way, and has drizzled down her cheeks in long, desperate stains. In her left hand,Cindy is holding a can of Red Bull. Her wrist is overwhelmed with holding things upright, and so the can occasionally tilts and spills onto the floor. In Cindy’s right hand is one cigarette after another.
After listening to a droning Emo girl talk about Oxycontin and cutting herself, it is Cindy’s turn to speak. Let’s listen in:
My name is Cindy M., and I’m an addict. It had a little bit trouble last night and fell off the wagon... like a dumb bitch! Tha’s right. I’m a stupid bitch. My husband would tell you I’m a cunt. Go ahead – ask the bastard! He’s on the record with that one... New York Goddamned Times! I’ll show you cunt, you fucker!
Back in the day, you could bounce nickels off my ass. Now you can bounce them off my eyebrows! Do you have any idea how much Restylane I’ve had inject myself with since Senator McCunt Face decided to run for president?
I should never have screwed him. He was married. I thought, “Oh, he’s a handsome war hero and he looks like Daddy!” I was so young… The sex was mind-blowing – I won’t lie. He’d prop himself up on his mangled arm and fuck all night. He’d even eat me out afterwards. I fucking married him, okay? Right after he tipped over his wife’s wheel chair and filed for divorce.
I’m rich, too. I mean – like – totally rich. I can buy Egyptian cotton to wipe my ass with and pay Swedish body-builders to burn the sheets when I’m done. And guess who I gave 50/50 access to my bank accounts? Yup. I’m a stupid, stupid cunt. My family bankrolls his campaigns so he can live in DEE CEE, and fuck any piece of white trash, rode-hard BITCH lobbyist that he can get his creepy pink hands on. I’ve had seventeen STD’s in the last decade, at least. One of them was herpes. Thanks so much for the gift that keeps on giving, JOHN. I sure needed that, JOHN. What a MAN that JOHN is! I hate him.
I started taking pills from my children’s charity to numb myself. Before I knew it, I ate a whole warehouse full of baby painkillers that were supposed to go to children who lost their legs. They had ‘em blown off by landmines, I guess. Something really fucked up like that. I was selfish, but I never felt a thing.
Eventually I got caught – BLAH BLAH BLAH – rehab, rehab, rehab and what.ev.er. Then my piece of lobbyist-fucking, narcissistic, paranoid bastard whore of a husband decided to run for president. He got CREAMED. He never even made it out of the gate. I should have left him then and really twisted the knife in his heart. But NO. I hung in there and raised my kids. I was seeing a shrink. I was being a do-gooder. I was just glad John was in DEE CEE and not at home. As long as he wasn’t in my bed, begging for sex because he had a bad Vietcong dream again, no probs! He’s old. I was hoping he might die in Washington, and that’s the truth. I don’t care who knows it.
John is running for president again. Eight motherfucking years later. Yeah, this should go over like a wet fart in a Jacuzzi. Not only is he a dried up prick, but also he’s a lying asshole and he’s trying to win this thing against Jesus H. Christ Come Again as a tall, dark, handsome, brilliant black man. Like I said – wet fart, Jacuzzi - meet my husband John. He is screwed. I’m sick of this. I need a bath.
On top of all this pressure, now I have to compete with Obama’s wife. Michelle. She has a law degree, a loving hubbie and two sweet kids. And’s she HOT. I’d tap that! You know what I’ve got? A purse full of Lorazepam and decades of resentment. Michelle knows Oprah! I know Dr. Drew. I can’t compete with this. So here I am - off the wagon, and I don’t know if I want back on. That’s why I came here today. I need to be sober before I file for divorce.
Cindy finishes speaking and throws her empty cigarette pack to the floor. A guy named Duane P. is speaking now about his prescription forgeries, but Cindy isn’t listening. Two Secret Service Agents appear from nowhere and escort Cindy to a car waiting outside. "Where are you taking me?" she asks one of the men. "Your flight to Georgia leaves in an hour," he says.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Weeds is one of my favorite programs and now that the Olympics are winding down, I’ve had time to catch up on past episodes. I won’t spoil anything, but I have to say that Weeds recently produced one of the best descriptive phrases I’ve heard in ages. I won’t spoil the show, but you have to read these two words:
Say it with me – say Thunder Cunt! THUNNNDERRRR CUNNNNT!
How did that feel for you? It was good for me – a revelation from the Good Book, even. Thunder Cunt is Biblical in proportion – it’s one of those descriptions of a person that never goes away. Thunder Cunt is the John 3:16 of curses, and it’s just waiting to be printed on t-shirts and banners.
Thunder Cunt is not a word that makes a stain. Thunder Cunt makes atomic craters.
Thunder Cunt punches holes through civilizations. Pompeii? It was Thunder-Cunted. The Spanish Inquisition, at the time, was regarded as El Thunder Cuntiquistion.
Do you know Thunder Cunt? Me too. Have you ever lived with her? Maybe she was your gym teacher, a sister, or someone you met. Thunder Cunt is a fucking bitch with the volume knob set to Please Kill Me. With bulging eyes, Thunder Cunt is going to ultrasonically project menstrual lava all over your sun-shiny day.
What is left, Thunder Cunt? What will it take to kill you?
Thank you, Weeds. Thank you calling out Thunder Cunt, on the record. I knew there was something there, but I never had a name for it until today