Every time there's an outbreak of any sort of disease it seems conspiracy theories run rampant about where the disease came from, whether it's even dangerous, and, most importantly, how much the drug companies are benefiting from it. The recent H1N1 pandemic has gotten completely out of hand in this regard, to the point where I've actually been accused of lacking intelligence because I got vaccinated. Women in the locker room at the gym are saying ridiculous things like "If you ate properly your immune system would be strong enough to fight the flu and you wouldn't need a vaccine." People I bump into seem to shudder at the notion that I'd allow anyone to inject such an onerous "chemical cocktail" into my arm.
Now before I get ranting, let me throw down a few facts. First of all, I eat very well. The last time I had nutritional analysis done every single vitamin and mineral was present in exactly the quantity it should be. Iron was the one exception, and two weeks after discovering that, I made small adjustments to my diet and bloodwork revealed that the problem was corrected. Secondly, I am asthmatic and I work in a university. The asthma means I am vulnerable to respiratory illnesses and the university setting means I'm being bombarded by coughing sneezing students on an hourly basis. Thirdly, I don't get sick often, but when I do it usually comes in the form of bronchitis or pneumonia and with H1N1 that can be very serious indeed. With all those facts supporting me I say this to those of you who mock my decision to get the vaccine: "Consider the fact that if I get swine flu, I have serious potential to get very ill and end up on a ventilator. That poses a much larger risk to me right now than the imagined effects down the road of a vaccine that has been produced by the same methods as any other flu vaccine."
Okay, now, you really want a conspiracy theory? Let's have some fun.
Hands up. Who's heard of a little company called Pfizer? Oh, you have? Well, you probably also know that they're a producer of pharmaceuticals, right?
Well, back in 1880, Pfizer also began producing citric acid. In no time flat, citric acid actually became the company's number 1 product, they sold tonnes of the stuff. The main buyers for citric acid were the producers of soft drinks such as Coca Cola, Dr. Pepper and Pepsi.
Do you enjoy an ice cold Coke? Well you're not alone. According to statistics released by Coke, in 2008 they sold the equivilant of 395 cans of Coke per every person in North America during that one year. Now, consider that 12 ounces of Coke has the equivalent of 11 tsp. of sugar in it. Already you can see one big reason why our rates of obesity, heart disease, and diabetes are skyrocketing.
Now, consider this! Within 5 minutes of drinking one can of Coke (or consuming an equivalent amount of sugar), there are studies that show your white blood cells become 50% less active and for the next 4-5 hours your immune system is functioning at half strength. During that time you're much more vulnerable to all sorts of baddies including *GASP* swine flu! If you actually DO get sick, you're probably going to end up forking out hard earned cash for drugs to make you feel better and SOME of that cash might just find it's way back into the pockets of the company that made the citric acid to support the soft drink industry in the first place. Delicious!
So if the drug companies are making ingredients for delicious unhealthy products and their antidotes, all of which you'll happily buy, why oh why would they feel the need to invent a horrible thing like H1N1 and then go through the trouble of convincing people to stand in 5 hour lineups to get stuck with a needle? In fact, why wouldn't they just come up with something easier to sell like a pill and call it a day? Seems a little complicated to me!
What was that theory about Survival of the Fittest again? You people who are so terrified of the H1N1 vaccination might want to review that little conspiracy theory - I hear it holds a lot of merit!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Responsibilities
I love dogs. I have two and they're as close to kids as I'll ever have. My dogs are far from perfect, but I'd like to believe that I've done a pretty good job at training them and giving them the skills and respect to be decent companions. I can predict their moves most times, and I care enough about them to make sure that I can control them pretty much always.
Tonight I had a terrifying experience, not because of my dogs, but because of someone else's. I am still shaking as I type, and if I ever get the knotted muscles in my calves to untie it might be a miracle.
I rushed home from work today eager to get some time in on the road bike. I haven't ridden for a couple of days due to annoying schedules and a sore back. Tonight I was feeling pretty decent and I was pretty sure I could get in a couple of hours on the road, cook supper, and maybe even shower before Troy got home.
I debated which route to take - hills, hills, or hills? I hadn't gone down the Ashdale Road yet this year, so I thought those hills, although brutal, would make for a good workout. I shoved a piece of toast in my mouth to tide over my grumbly tummy, threw on some spandex and hit the pavement.
I was feeling pretty good tonight, attacking the hills without dying, no asthma wheezing whatsoever, and despite a pretty solid headwind, I felt like I actually had some speed. I turned onto the Ashdale Road, tucked in, and hammered, dodging pavement patches and potholes on the way. Then, about 1/2 way up the road, I heard every roadie's worst nightmare... a big dog barking furiously and getting closer fast.
Right about the time I heard the dog, I was started up another hill. Not a big hill, but big enough to prevent me from outrunning a large and determined dog. Normally I'd put some muscle into the pedals and get the hell out of there, but I knew this time the monster that was tearing up the pavement behind me would catch me. I looked back and noted the breed.
Chocolate labs are goofy, energetic, rambunctious, but I have yet to meet one that's vicious. Thinking it would be smart to thwart the prey drive, I unclicked my right pedal and stopped. The dog brushed past my leg, spun around, and then ran back in the other direction to the pre-pubescent boy who was screaming at the top of his lungs. I waited until the dog was back at his young master's side, shook my head condescendingly, and clicked back into my pedals to continue my ride. Damn people letting their dogs run loose!
No sooner had I gotten back up to speed than I heard the kid yelling bloody murder. I barely had time to look behind me before a massive pile of brown fur leapt from the pavement and knocked me to the ground. The dog tore off ahead, and once again spun around and ran back to his frantic owner.
Stunned, I unclipped from the bike and picked myself up from the hard asphalt, noting the bruises and welts immediately rising from my legs. Quick survey, no blood save a little road rash. I stood in a daze in the middle of the road while ten feet away the geeky looking kid screamed at the dog by his side, kicking him in the ribs and pummeling his head with clenched fists. I knew I should say something but the shock of the situation made me unable to move or speak. I stared in horror at the little dervish flailing at the cringing dog.
Suddenly I snapped out of my delirium. "Stop!", I yelled, "It's not his fault! That's no way to treat your dog, stop!" The kid stopped punching and looked at me with an expression that made me wonder if he even knew what he had done. "I'm sorry," he moaned and as his lower lip quivered he started crying.
I don't know what overtook me next. I lectured the kid on controlling his dog, keeping his dog away from the road, but most of all earning his dog's respect by training him and working with him to reward him for good behaviour instead of beating him when he was bad. The whole time the poor kid continued to cry and blurt out "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do, I'm sorry." The dog cowered on the road and the kid collapsed to his knees, bawling his eyes out with his face buried in the now docile dog's fur.
My brain went blank and I just wanted to go home. The kid was crying but it was obvious he was subdued. The dog looked totally unmotivated to chase me any further.
"Get some help training your dog", I told the kid. "He needs it. And don't let him run into the road anymore. I'm ok, I'm not seriously hurt, but he might really hurt the next person."
Then I swung a leg over my bike and continued up the road - for 2 whole minutes until the cramping started. The muscles knotted in my calves so intensely that I had to stop riding 5 times to walk out the cramps. One of those times I fell off the bike again, unable to unclip on a hill when the muscles spasmed intensely.
I was 5 km or so from home when I started to feel sick to my stomach. traumatized by the actions of the dog, the actions of the child and even worse, questioning my own actions. Did I do the right thing? Maybe I should have talked to his parents. Maybe they'd have put the dog down and beaten the kid. Maybe I should have offered to help the kid train the dog. Maybe I should have just kept riding, Maybe... so many maybes.
All I wanted tonight was some exercise, a peaceful ride in the country with some sweat and self-induced pain. Now I hurt physically in ways I hadn't imagined, but it's nothing compared to the mental agony of not knowing whether or not anything will change for the better.
What if that kid thinks he should beat a bad dog because his parents beat him when he's bad? What if they shoot the dog because he's dangerous and out of control?
I am disturbed tonight, and it's not because of the bruising on my legs and arms or the cramping in my muscles. I am disturbed by the what-ifs. That, I suppose, is the curse of being a responsible adult. I want to make everything better, for the kid, for the dog, and for me. And instead I can only wonder...
"What if..."?
It's going to be a restless night.
Tonight I had a terrifying experience, not because of my dogs, but because of someone else's. I am still shaking as I type, and if I ever get the knotted muscles in my calves to untie it might be a miracle.
I rushed home from work today eager to get some time in on the road bike. I haven't ridden for a couple of days due to annoying schedules and a sore back. Tonight I was feeling pretty decent and I was pretty sure I could get in a couple of hours on the road, cook supper, and maybe even shower before Troy got home.
I debated which route to take - hills, hills, or hills? I hadn't gone down the Ashdale Road yet this year, so I thought those hills, although brutal, would make for a good workout. I shoved a piece of toast in my mouth to tide over my grumbly tummy, threw on some spandex and hit the pavement.
I was feeling pretty good tonight, attacking the hills without dying, no asthma wheezing whatsoever, and despite a pretty solid headwind, I felt like I actually had some speed. I turned onto the Ashdale Road, tucked in, and hammered, dodging pavement patches and potholes on the way. Then, about 1/2 way up the road, I heard every roadie's worst nightmare... a big dog barking furiously and getting closer fast.
Right about the time I heard the dog, I was started up another hill. Not a big hill, but big enough to prevent me from outrunning a large and determined dog. Normally I'd put some muscle into the pedals and get the hell out of there, but I knew this time the monster that was tearing up the pavement behind me would catch me. I looked back and noted the breed.
Chocolate labs are goofy, energetic, rambunctious, but I have yet to meet one that's vicious. Thinking it would be smart to thwart the prey drive, I unclicked my right pedal and stopped. The dog brushed past my leg, spun around, and then ran back in the other direction to the pre-pubescent boy who was screaming at the top of his lungs. I waited until the dog was back at his young master's side, shook my head condescendingly, and clicked back into my pedals to continue my ride. Damn people letting their dogs run loose!
No sooner had I gotten back up to speed than I heard the kid yelling bloody murder. I barely had time to look behind me before a massive pile of brown fur leapt from the pavement and knocked me to the ground. The dog tore off ahead, and once again spun around and ran back to his frantic owner.
Stunned, I unclipped from the bike and picked myself up from the hard asphalt, noting the bruises and welts immediately rising from my legs. Quick survey, no blood save a little road rash. I stood in a daze in the middle of the road while ten feet away the geeky looking kid screamed at the dog by his side, kicking him in the ribs and pummeling his head with clenched fists. I knew I should say something but the shock of the situation made me unable to move or speak. I stared in horror at the little dervish flailing at the cringing dog.
Suddenly I snapped out of my delirium. "Stop!", I yelled, "It's not his fault! That's no way to treat your dog, stop!" The kid stopped punching and looked at me with an expression that made me wonder if he even knew what he had done. "I'm sorry," he moaned and as his lower lip quivered he started crying.
I don't know what overtook me next. I lectured the kid on controlling his dog, keeping his dog away from the road, but most of all earning his dog's respect by training him and working with him to reward him for good behaviour instead of beating him when he was bad. The whole time the poor kid continued to cry and blurt out "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do, I'm sorry." The dog cowered on the road and the kid collapsed to his knees, bawling his eyes out with his face buried in the now docile dog's fur.
My brain went blank and I just wanted to go home. The kid was crying but it was obvious he was subdued. The dog looked totally unmotivated to chase me any further.
"Get some help training your dog", I told the kid. "He needs it. And don't let him run into the road anymore. I'm ok, I'm not seriously hurt, but he might really hurt the next person."
Then I swung a leg over my bike and continued up the road - for 2 whole minutes until the cramping started. The muscles knotted in my calves so intensely that I had to stop riding 5 times to walk out the cramps. One of those times I fell off the bike again, unable to unclip on a hill when the muscles spasmed intensely.
I was 5 km or so from home when I started to feel sick to my stomach. traumatized by the actions of the dog, the actions of the child and even worse, questioning my own actions. Did I do the right thing? Maybe I should have talked to his parents. Maybe they'd have put the dog down and beaten the kid. Maybe I should have offered to help the kid train the dog. Maybe I should have just kept riding, Maybe... so many maybes.
All I wanted tonight was some exercise, a peaceful ride in the country with some sweat and self-induced pain. Now I hurt physically in ways I hadn't imagined, but it's nothing compared to the mental agony of not knowing whether or not anything will change for the better.
What if that kid thinks he should beat a bad dog because his parents beat him when he's bad? What if they shoot the dog because he's dangerous and out of control?
I am disturbed tonight, and it's not because of the bruising on my legs and arms or the cramping in my muscles. I am disturbed by the what-ifs. That, I suppose, is the curse of being a responsible adult. I want to make everything better, for the kid, for the dog, and for me. And instead I can only wonder...
"What if..."?
It's going to be a restless night.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Dear Randy Bachman
Dear Randy Bachman,
You don't know me, so please don't tell anyone that you do. I am just a CBC fan who never really loved your music, but now, I'll be honest Randy, now you just plain annoy me.
I know that lots of Canadians love you. You read their letters all the time. Perhaps they smoked too much weed in the 60's , or perhaps they're acknowledging the fact that compared to commercial radio, anything sounds good.
I didn't want to have to tell you this Randy, but it seems I'm the only one who will. So here it is. Randy, we as a country are embarrassed for you. There, I said it, no take backsies. No matter how much maple sugar you spread on it, it's not getting any sweeter. You, Randy Bachman, are a name dropper.
I'm not as old as you yet, Randy, but I can tell you a thing or two about aging.
One. If you're going to relive your glory days, do it at the counter of the town drunk watering hole where everyone else is so obliterated they actually think your stories are good. National radio is not the place for such behaviour.
And two, nobody except you gets off on who you know.
We might be impressed if Neil Young rambles on about the song he learned from Randy Bachman while Randy graciously gave up his Sunday afternoon to help Neil catch up on laundry. I might respect you if I heard such a tale coming from someone else. But Randy, when you ramble on about how you just happened to play that same chord 1 split second before Neil and then it ended up on one of his hits, well, that doesn't make you cool, it just makes you annoying. Take it from me, Randy - Canada doesn't care if you've met the Beatles or Elvis. Canada is impartial to who wrote the songs you've played and who claimed the riffs you've slayed. Canada just wants to hear good 'ole Canadian content. Name dropping is not a national pasttime.
We don't need to hear you demonstrate a Stratocaster on the radio Randy. Plenty of the artists you play do that just fine. We don't need to hear you tell us about "back in the day when I had to walk 10 miles each way just to buy a guitar pick". We certainly don't need to hear you talk about the time John Lennon wore the exact same brand of socks that you'd worn just the day before. Believe it or not, that doesn't make you the co-writer of "Give Peace a Chance". It doesn't even earn you credit on Yoko Ono's performance art.
Do us a favour, Randy. Tell us about the great restaurant down the street from where you live, let us know who you think is going to win the hockey game, play us a song without telling us how it has something to do with you. Your show is called "Vinyl Tap", not "Everything You Need to Know About Why Randy Bachman Considers Himself to be a Canadian Legend". Yes, you were popular. Yes, you were part of a scene. Yes, your accomplishments are noteworthy in some version of the Canadian music history timeline. But Randy, let it go! Kids in their 20's still know who Buddy Holly and Ringo Starr and the Beach Boys are, but Randy Bachman? Not a chance in hell. You can't live in the past, and if you want to try, you can't expect Canada to go with you. Get a grip, man, we don't care who you've met, known, slept with, played for or ripped off. All we want is a few hours of solid radio time that doesn't make us grind our teeth. Even Steven Harper could do a better job of giving this country what it wants without being self-indulgent!
Randy, next time you feel the need to say "back when so-and-so and I went to blah blah blah", stop. Just stop and think for a second. Will you make my life any better by telling me that? Will I gain further insight into the human condition and the trials and tribulations of life as a rock star? If the answer is "no" then for the love of all things holy and not, just stop! Stop, and play a song. Not on your guitar, but from whatever CD you have on deck. Canada will be grateful, Randy. Canada will breathe a sigh of relief. And you may even look a little bit cooler because you'll be a part of that inside joke about the name you didn't drop. We'll all know that for once, it wasn't all about you.
Randy, to steal a phrase from Carly Simon, (who I don't know, and with whom I have no connection whatsoever), you're so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you. Well, for once, you're right. But nobody else has a clue who I am, so thankfully there's no fear that you'll ever talk about me.
Keep on keeping it real, Randy, just like John Lennon and Janis Joplin and John Denver. Oh wait. They're dead. Well, never mind, I'm sure in heaven they're all playing your tunes and talking about you like there's no tomorrow. I know because they told me so when I had burgers with them at the Pearly Gate Café. Oh, God was there too, Randy. He says "Hi".
Give my regards to Denise, who I don't know at all.
Sue
You don't know me, so please don't tell anyone that you do. I am just a CBC fan who never really loved your music, but now, I'll be honest Randy, now you just plain annoy me.
I know that lots of Canadians love you. You read their letters all the time. Perhaps they smoked too much weed in the 60's , or perhaps they're acknowledging the fact that compared to commercial radio, anything sounds good.
I didn't want to have to tell you this Randy, but it seems I'm the only one who will. So here it is. Randy, we as a country are embarrassed for you. There, I said it, no take backsies. No matter how much maple sugar you spread on it, it's not getting any sweeter. You, Randy Bachman, are a name dropper.
I'm not as old as you yet, Randy, but I can tell you a thing or two about aging.
One. If you're going to relive your glory days, do it at the counter of the town drunk watering hole where everyone else is so obliterated they actually think your stories are good. National radio is not the place for such behaviour.
And two, nobody except you gets off on who you know.
We might be impressed if Neil Young rambles on about the song he learned from Randy Bachman while Randy graciously gave up his Sunday afternoon to help Neil catch up on laundry. I might respect you if I heard such a tale coming from someone else. But Randy, when you ramble on about how you just happened to play that same chord 1 split second before Neil and then it ended up on one of his hits, well, that doesn't make you cool, it just makes you annoying. Take it from me, Randy - Canada doesn't care if you've met the Beatles or Elvis. Canada is impartial to who wrote the songs you've played and who claimed the riffs you've slayed. Canada just wants to hear good 'ole Canadian content. Name dropping is not a national pasttime.
We don't need to hear you demonstrate a Stratocaster on the radio Randy. Plenty of the artists you play do that just fine. We don't need to hear you tell us about "back in the day when I had to walk 10 miles each way just to buy a guitar pick". We certainly don't need to hear you talk about the time John Lennon wore the exact same brand of socks that you'd worn just the day before. Believe it or not, that doesn't make you the co-writer of "Give Peace a Chance". It doesn't even earn you credit on Yoko Ono's performance art.
Do us a favour, Randy. Tell us about the great restaurant down the street from where you live, let us know who you think is going to win the hockey game, play us a song without telling us how it has something to do with you. Your show is called "Vinyl Tap", not "Everything You Need to Know About Why Randy Bachman Considers Himself to be a Canadian Legend". Yes, you were popular. Yes, you were part of a scene. Yes, your accomplishments are noteworthy in some version of the Canadian music history timeline. But Randy, let it go! Kids in their 20's still know who Buddy Holly and Ringo Starr and the Beach Boys are, but Randy Bachman? Not a chance in hell. You can't live in the past, and if you want to try, you can't expect Canada to go with you. Get a grip, man, we don't care who you've met, known, slept with, played for or ripped off. All we want is a few hours of solid radio time that doesn't make us grind our teeth. Even Steven Harper could do a better job of giving this country what it wants without being self-indulgent!
Randy, next time you feel the need to say "back when so-and-so and I went to blah blah blah", stop. Just stop and think for a second. Will you make my life any better by telling me that? Will I gain further insight into the human condition and the trials and tribulations of life as a rock star? If the answer is "no" then for the love of all things holy and not, just stop! Stop, and play a song. Not on your guitar, but from whatever CD you have on deck. Canada will be grateful, Randy. Canada will breathe a sigh of relief. And you may even look a little bit cooler because you'll be a part of that inside joke about the name you didn't drop. We'll all know that for once, it wasn't all about you.
Randy, to steal a phrase from Carly Simon, (who I don't know, and with whom I have no connection whatsoever), you're so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you. Well, for once, you're right. But nobody else has a clue who I am, so thankfully there's no fear that you'll ever talk about me.
Keep on keeping it real, Randy, just like John Lennon and Janis Joplin and John Denver. Oh wait. They're dead. Well, never mind, I'm sure in heaven they're all playing your tunes and talking about you like there's no tomorrow. I know because they told me so when I had burgers with them at the Pearly Gate Café. Oh, God was there too, Randy. He says "Hi".
Give my regards to Denise, who I don't know at all.
Sue
Monday, April 6, 2009
Facebook Doesn't Know Me At All!
Facebook has been tempting me lately with those stupid little quizzes designed to show me who I really am. Well Facebook, I have to say, you've let me down.
I suppose we'd all like to think that the secret to our inner selves is as easily determined as pushing a radio button and submitting to the data gods. It is, after all, much cheaper than therapy. But don't be so easily led down the garden path. I'm here to tell you that in the world of psyche insight, Facebook is an imposter, plain and simple.
The first quiz I took was called "What Muppet are You". Harmless enough, I thought, and with the variety of muppets there's a good chance that it will be at least a little accurate.
That is until I discovered that I am Kermit the Frog.
Now don't get me wrong, I like Kermit a lot. He's got a decent singing voice for an amphibian and he can ride a bike, to boot. But a male frog? Well, I have one less foam filled appendage, Facebook. The quiz cites Kermit as a leader. While I don't mind seeing myself in that role, Kermit's a bit of a pushover if you ask me. Thanks a lot, quiz.
So to hell with the Muppets, let's try something a little more relevant to modern life, like, oh, I dunno, Greek Gods! Well, I come up with another male. This time I'm Poisiedon, widely worshipped by seamen. That just sounds wrong no matter how you spell it! Difficult, quarrelsome personality? Greedy?!? Facebook, I'd shake you within an inch of your life if I didn't think I could milk this for some compensation first. Stupid quiz!
OK, enough with comparing myself to puppets and deities... let's just see what other people think about me. So I take the What Do People Think of You at First Sight quiz.
The answer? "You are Cute!" WTF? I go from being a frog with great leadership skills to a greedy, difficult, quarrelsome son of a bitch to CUTE?!? Apparently people feel like they need to protect me. Awww. Who's idea of a bad joke is this? The kitten in the picture inspires rage, not sappy feelings. What the hell is wrong with you, Facebook? You're a moron!
Pressing onwards I take the "How Many Kids Will You Have" quiz. If there's any hope of Facebook redeeming itself the answer should be obvious here. There's not a maternal bone in my body - everyone knows I love kids as long as I can give them back when I'm done.
"3 girls" is NOT the answer I was expecting. That's 3 girls too many. I've gone from ridiculous to impossible in just a few stupid quizzes. Didn't Facebook see my ad just a few blogs ago putting my ovaries on the market?
I finally realized Facebook quizzes are a complete and unquestionable waste of time when I came across the "What Breakfast Cereal Are You?" quiz. In most cases there were no answers to questions that even remotely applied to me and the stupid quiz wouldn't let me leave any answers blank. So fudging the answers, I determined that I'm Rice Krispies because I like the sound. Actually, noise of that nature irritates me beyond belief. And how the hell can I be a breakfast cereal anyway?
I give Facebook one last chance and take the "Which type of woman are you? " quiz. Success! The quiz tells me I'm an "Action (Wo)man". Why "Wo" is in brackets, I don't know, but Action Woman sounds like it could be close! I read on. I have an athletic body, I am tough, I reflect inner and emotional strength. Now that's more like it! But wait, further down I learn that this is not my destiny, that if I try to be as strong as men I will fail, that I am unreachable and no guy could ever catch my heart because my "heart got too hard". So although I may not be a miserable mariner, a grain of rice or a frog, I'm destined to spend my life alone because bad grammar tells me so! Oh, well, alone except for my 3 daughters who I'll have to name Snap, Krackle and Pop.
Screw this, I'm throwing away my inner strength and ignoring Facebook so I can go learn to knit myself a pair of flipper mitts. Facebook quizzes suck.
I suppose we'd all like to think that the secret to our inner selves is as easily determined as pushing a radio button and submitting to the data gods. It is, after all, much cheaper than therapy. But don't be so easily led down the garden path. I'm here to tell you that in the world of psyche insight, Facebook is an imposter, plain and simple.
The first quiz I took was called "What Muppet are You". Harmless enough, I thought, and with the variety of muppets there's a good chance that it will be at least a little accurate.
That is until I discovered that I am Kermit the Frog.
Now don't get me wrong, I like Kermit a lot. He's got a decent singing voice for an amphibian and he can ride a bike, to boot. But a male frog? Well, I have one less foam filled appendage, Facebook. The quiz cites Kermit as a leader. While I don't mind seeing myself in that role, Kermit's a bit of a pushover if you ask me. Thanks a lot, quiz.
So to hell with the Muppets, let's try something a little more relevant to modern life, like, oh, I dunno, Greek Gods! Well, I come up with another male. This time I'm Poisiedon, widely worshipped by seamen. That just sounds wrong no matter how you spell it! Difficult, quarrelsome personality? Greedy?!? Facebook, I'd shake you within an inch of your life if I didn't think I could milk this for some compensation first. Stupid quiz!
OK, enough with comparing myself to puppets and deities... let's just see what other people think about me. So I take the What Do People Think of You at First Sight quiz.
The answer? "You are Cute!" WTF? I go from being a frog with great leadership skills to a greedy, difficult, quarrelsome son of a bitch to CUTE?!? Apparently people feel like they need to protect me. Awww. Who's idea of a bad joke is this? The kitten in the picture inspires rage, not sappy feelings. What the hell is wrong with you, Facebook? You're a moron!
Pressing onwards I take the "How Many Kids Will You Have" quiz. If there's any hope of Facebook redeeming itself the answer should be obvious here. There's not a maternal bone in my body - everyone knows I love kids as long as I can give them back when I'm done.
"3 girls" is NOT the answer I was expecting. That's 3 girls too many. I've gone from ridiculous to impossible in just a few stupid quizzes. Didn't Facebook see my ad just a few blogs ago putting my ovaries on the market?
I finally realized Facebook quizzes are a complete and unquestionable waste of time when I came across the "What Breakfast Cereal Are You?" quiz. In most cases there were no answers to questions that even remotely applied to me and the stupid quiz wouldn't let me leave any answers blank. So fudging the answers, I determined that I'm Rice Krispies because I like the sound. Actually, noise of that nature irritates me beyond belief. And how the hell can I be a breakfast cereal anyway?
I give Facebook one last chance and take the "Which type of woman are you? " quiz. Success! The quiz tells me I'm an "Action (Wo)man". Why "Wo" is in brackets, I don't know, but Action Woman sounds like it could be close! I read on. I have an athletic body, I am tough, I reflect inner and emotional strength. Now that's more like it! But wait, further down I learn that this is not my destiny, that if I try to be as strong as men I will fail, that I am unreachable and no guy could ever catch my heart because my "heart got too hard". So although I may not be a miserable mariner, a grain of rice or a frog, I'm destined to spend my life alone because bad grammar tells me so! Oh, well, alone except for my 3 daughters who I'll have to name Snap, Krackle and Pop.
Screw this, I'm throwing away my inner strength and ignoring Facebook so I can go learn to knit myself a pair of flipper mitts. Facebook quizzes suck.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Trouble With Easter
Although I was raised in a decidedly Christian family, Christianity and the practices associated with it have disturbed me since I was old enough to think for myself. Although most of the popular Christian holidays have questionable attributes (flying reindeer and Christmas, Lent and self-deprivation), Easter is by far the strangest holiday of them all.
So what is Easter all about? Well, on the surface, it's really pretty morbid. Take one popular dude, turn his friends against him, nail him to a cross and stick him in a tomb. Three days later he rolls the big ole rock away from the entrance and crawls out, unscathed but for a few little wounds on his hands and feet. Bandaid might make it better, but according to the tale of Jesus, if you're down with God even the Grim Reaper can't touch that.
So Easter is about the Son of God dying (to save us from sin, as legend has it) and then rising from the dead, not as a zombie, but as a normal dude, just like before. Makes for a good story, I'll give them that.
But is that really what Easter is about? Well, a visit to Walmart tells me otherwise. After all, a stroll through the candy aisle is a visual assault of chocolate rabbits, foil-covered eggs and marshmallow peeps. I don't see a single Cocoa Crispy Christ on the shelves, not even a package of Cross Ribs. So what gives? We celebrate the death and undeath of the Son of God by eating really waxy chocolate hares? Something just doesn't seem right.
Turns out that Easter wasn't always Easter. The predecessor of Easter was Eastre, a pagan celebration of the goddess of springtime and reproduction, and Eastre was, appropriately enough, manifested in an earthly form as a rabbit. So all you good Christian folks out there buying up the Easter Bunnies are really paying homage to a Pagan goddess. Did you know that?
Somewhere along the line the Christians realized they'd probably be in big trouble if they tried to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ while the pagans were celebrating the bigger picture. Instead of celebrating a distinctive festival, they decided to "appropriate" Eastre and change the festivities a tad. In other words, Easter is a rip-off because the Christians were afraid that, unlike Jesus, they probably wouldn't be rising from the dead, as zombies or anything else.
So we celebrate the fact that God's son died and came back from the dead (and not as a zombie) by stuffing our kids with chocolate Easter bunnies, the symbol of reproduction. Could this be the real cause behind promiscuity and pregnancy in teens? Probably not - after all, Easter bunnies are losing ground to chocolate Homer Simpsons, chocolate High School Musical, chocolate Spiderman and chocolate Disney Princesses. There goes that theory. I guess modernity is now appropriating Easter.
Somehow the idea of celebrating the end of winter and arrival of spring, the rebirth of the natural world, and getting busy like bunnies is appealing. Much more appealing than celebrating a dude who died but came back to life, not as a zombie. I'm going to the drugstore to hunt down some chocolate, and you can bet your little winter-white tail it's going to be chocolate in the shape of a rabbit. Those people celebrating Easter can have the chocolate motorcycles and the marshmallow Mickey Mice. Until they smarten up and start gnoshing on Jelly Bean Jesus, I'm sticking to the real deal.
Happy Eastre, friends.
So what is Easter all about? Well, on the surface, it's really pretty morbid. Take one popular dude, turn his friends against him, nail him to a cross and stick him in a tomb. Three days later he rolls the big ole rock away from the entrance and crawls out, unscathed but for a few little wounds on his hands and feet. Bandaid might make it better, but according to the tale of Jesus, if you're down with God even the Grim Reaper can't touch that.
So Easter is about the Son of God dying (to save us from sin, as legend has it) and then rising from the dead, not as a zombie, but as a normal dude, just like before. Makes for a good story, I'll give them that.
But is that really what Easter is about? Well, a visit to Walmart tells me otherwise. After all, a stroll through the candy aisle is a visual assault of chocolate rabbits, foil-covered eggs and marshmallow peeps. I don't see a single Cocoa Crispy Christ on the shelves, not even a package of Cross Ribs. So what gives? We celebrate the death and undeath of the Son of God by eating really waxy chocolate hares? Something just doesn't seem right.
Turns out that Easter wasn't always Easter. The predecessor of Easter was Eastre, a pagan celebration of the goddess of springtime and reproduction, and Eastre was, appropriately enough, manifested in an earthly form as a rabbit. So all you good Christian folks out there buying up the Easter Bunnies are really paying homage to a Pagan goddess. Did you know that?
Somewhere along the line the Christians realized they'd probably be in big trouble if they tried to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ while the pagans were celebrating the bigger picture. Instead of celebrating a distinctive festival, they decided to "appropriate" Eastre and change the festivities a tad. In other words, Easter is a rip-off because the Christians were afraid that, unlike Jesus, they probably wouldn't be rising from the dead, as zombies or anything else.
So we celebrate the fact that God's son died and came back from the dead (and not as a zombie) by stuffing our kids with chocolate Easter bunnies, the symbol of reproduction. Could this be the real cause behind promiscuity and pregnancy in teens? Probably not - after all, Easter bunnies are losing ground to chocolate Homer Simpsons, chocolate High School Musical, chocolate Spiderman and chocolate Disney Princesses. There goes that theory. I guess modernity is now appropriating Easter.
Somehow the idea of celebrating the end of winter and arrival of spring, the rebirth of the natural world, and getting busy like bunnies is appealing. Much more appealing than celebrating a dude who died but came back to life, not as a zombie. I'm going to the drugstore to hunt down some chocolate, and you can bet your little winter-white tail it's going to be chocolate in the shape of a rabbit. Those people celebrating Easter can have the chocolate motorcycles and the marshmallow Mickey Mice. Until they smarten up and start gnoshing on Jelly Bean Jesus, I'm sticking to the real deal.
Happy Eastre, friends.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
For Sale: Several Fresh Organs and a Couple of Hairy Moles
Spring is here, and in the interest of making some extra space and simplifying life I've decided to liquidate the body parts I have no use for. Best offers accepted, purchaser must arrange for pickup or transportation at his or her own cost. I accept cash or Paypal, sorry, no layaways. Here's what I have to offer:
1. One appendix, lightly used. So far it has operated smoothly without requiring any maintenance whatsoever. This appendix runs very quietly, once installed you'll hardly know that it's there. Location certificate will follow removal as I currently have no idea which side it occupies.
2. One set of tonsils, as is. This pair of tonsils has seen better days, it has been prone to swelling and in the start up years, frequent applications of antibiotics were required to keep these tonsils from breaking down. Tonsils have been running without a problem for over a decade now, and I suspect the bugs have been worked out of them. Probably not suitable as a primary set of tonsils, but if you're looking for parts, these are just dandy.
3. Ovaries, as a set or will part out. Excellent condition, but I have no use for these and I don't really have the time to give them the upkeep they deserve. I have every reason to believe that these ovaries have years of functional life remaining. Why just buy an egg or two when you can have the whole production facility at your disposal? Act quickly, these are guaranteed to go fast.
4. Fatty deposits, 5-10 pounds. I know, I know, you can't give this stuff away, but someone out there must need a little insulation. I'd prefer to get rid of it all at once but if you only need a pound or two I'm open to negotiation. Will include a bag of clothing, size large, and a month's worth of chocolate bars and cookies to help maintain the new you.
5. Hairy moles, 2 or 3 only. These cute little critters can't wait to find their forever home. Are you the right match? Must go to a caring person who can give them lots of attention and make sure they don't get too large. Good price to the right home.
6. Gray hair, very long. Not for sale but will trade for something interesting... perhaps natural auburn or red? 6 inches or longer, please, short hair owners need not apply.
Interested parties should email or contact the number below. No tire kickers, serious inquiries only. Parts not listed above are not for sale, please don't ask.
1. One appendix, lightly used. So far it has operated smoothly without requiring any maintenance whatsoever. This appendix runs very quietly, once installed you'll hardly know that it's there. Location certificate will follow removal as I currently have no idea which side it occupies.
2. One set of tonsils, as is. This pair of tonsils has seen better days, it has been prone to swelling and in the start up years, frequent applications of antibiotics were required to keep these tonsils from breaking down. Tonsils have been running without a problem for over a decade now, and I suspect the bugs have been worked out of them. Probably not suitable as a primary set of tonsils, but if you're looking for parts, these are just dandy.
3. Ovaries, as a set or will part out. Excellent condition, but I have no use for these and I don't really have the time to give them the upkeep they deserve. I have every reason to believe that these ovaries have years of functional life remaining. Why just buy an egg or two when you can have the whole production facility at your disposal? Act quickly, these are guaranteed to go fast.
4. Fatty deposits, 5-10 pounds. I know, I know, you can't give this stuff away, but someone out there must need a little insulation. I'd prefer to get rid of it all at once but if you only need a pound or two I'm open to negotiation. Will include a bag of clothing, size large, and a month's worth of chocolate bars and cookies to help maintain the new you.
5. Hairy moles, 2 or 3 only. These cute little critters can't wait to find their forever home. Are you the right match? Must go to a caring person who can give them lots of attention and make sure they don't get too large. Good price to the right home.
6. Gray hair, very long. Not for sale but will trade for something interesting... perhaps natural auburn or red? 6 inches or longer, please, short hair owners need not apply.
Interested parties should email or contact the number below. No tire kickers, serious inquiries only. Parts not listed above are not for sale, please don't ask.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Volkswagen Drivers (and rednecks in pickup trucks with tool chests) Take Heed
Dear Volkswagen Drivers (and rednecks in pickup trucks with tool chests),
I don't think you've noticed yet, but when white fluffy stuff falls from the sky, and especially when it's less fluffy and mixed with freezing rain, the roads get a tad slick. I am under the impression that this tidbit of information has escaped you because when I drive to work in such conditions, I usually find one of you planted firmly up my rectum.
Most of the time you drive so close that I can count the knuckles buried in your nostril by looking in my rear view mirror. Fortunately for you, I'm far too busy paying attention to the road to care. You may be capable of swigging your Starbucks, starting a cartoon for your backseat poop machine, chatting with your boss on the Bluetooth and adjusting your eyeliner, all while drafting me like you think you're in the Tour de France. I, on the other hand, find the challenges of stopping at red lights, yielding at crosswalks, and avoiding the wide swath of beligerent plow drivers during a storm just a little more important. Do you think your aggressive bumper rape will make me drive faster? I'll warn you now, I've left early enough that I can slow down to 30 for the entire 60 km drive and I'll STILL make it to work in time to grab a coffee on my way.
I pray, Mr. Volkswagen Driver (or redneck pickup truck owner), for your vehicle to end up sideways in a snowbank. I don't wish you bodily harm, but a little bent axle and a few 360s in the middle of a four lane highway would do you a world of good. You may be a rebel right now, impervious to snowy roads and wallowing in the delicious righteous feeling you get from blasting your high beams through the back of my car, but somewhere, sooner or later, you are going off the road.When that happens, I want to be right there to drive on past at my slightly-less-than-the-speed-limit when you do. I might even stop, pretend to offer you some assistance and then drive away with an 80's worthy "NOT!".
Back off, Volkswagen Driver (or redneck pickup truck guy). I may be slow, but surely your kids deserve a better view than my ass while you drive. Of course, with an ass like you in the seat beside them, I guess they're screwed either way.
Never mind.
I don't think you've noticed yet, but when white fluffy stuff falls from the sky, and especially when it's less fluffy and mixed with freezing rain, the roads get a tad slick. I am under the impression that this tidbit of information has escaped you because when I drive to work in such conditions, I usually find one of you planted firmly up my rectum.
Most of the time you drive so close that I can count the knuckles buried in your nostril by looking in my rear view mirror. Fortunately for you, I'm far too busy paying attention to the road to care. You may be capable of swigging your Starbucks, starting a cartoon for your backseat poop machine, chatting with your boss on the Bluetooth and adjusting your eyeliner, all while drafting me like you think you're in the Tour de France. I, on the other hand, find the challenges of stopping at red lights, yielding at crosswalks, and avoiding the wide swath of beligerent plow drivers during a storm just a little more important. Do you think your aggressive bumper rape will make me drive faster? I'll warn you now, I've left early enough that I can slow down to 30 for the entire 60 km drive and I'll STILL make it to work in time to grab a coffee on my way.
I pray, Mr. Volkswagen Driver (or redneck pickup truck owner), for your vehicle to end up sideways in a snowbank. I don't wish you bodily harm, but a little bent axle and a few 360s in the middle of a four lane highway would do you a world of good. You may be a rebel right now, impervious to snowy roads and wallowing in the delicious righteous feeling you get from blasting your high beams through the back of my car, but somewhere, sooner or later, you are going off the road.When that happens, I want to be right there to drive on past at my slightly-less-than-the-speed-limit when you do. I might even stop, pretend to offer you some assistance and then drive away with an 80's worthy "NOT!".
Back off, Volkswagen Driver (or redneck pickup truck guy). I may be slow, but surely your kids deserve a better view than my ass while you drive. Of course, with an ass like you in the seat beside them, I guess they're screwed either way.
Never mind.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Battery Operated Pants
I think I've finally figured out why more and more people are having trouble existing without a cell phone on their person. I'd like to tell you people that it's ok, I understand. Sex addiction, like typhoid fever, black lung and psychosis is a disease. It's time to swallow the bitterest pill and take back your life without phone.
Cell phones have never made me happy. The thought that I am obligated to answer the phone no matter where I am or what I'm doing seems counterproductive and sinister, but nowhere near as evil as the little electronic bleat my first cell made when someone demanded my attention. Like jamming a Q-tip in just a little too far to dig out that elusive ball of wax, my cell phone ring annoyed me to the point of anguish. So I turned it off.
Unfortunately not everyone has mastered that button with the circle-encompassed line. Realizing the soul-wrenching tone of those rings, cell companies installed what the addicted refer to as "options", also known as downloads. If Muzak didn't kill Iron Maiden surely Rogers will. The annoyance increased exponentially, and so the vibrating phone was born.
At first it seemed a godsend. No longer did phones blurt out in movie theaters, the world seemed at peace once again. But as pockets across the continent started to silently stimulate, the reluctance to leave home without a fully charged phone grew. Soon asses were shifting in classroom chairs and under boardroom tables as a society with a sickness danced to the vibe. Addicted to the pleasant stroke of the ring, people young and old mastered the glance and dash, racing for a private spot where they could act on the sensations in their pants. The world became ill, unable to function without the caress of the vibration mode.
The cell phone companies would have you believe that you can't live without it, you need that buzz in your pants. You may believe it too, already addicted to getting off at the fingers of your lover, your parents, and strangers who hit the wrong key and wait to see who answers. But realize that you have the power to turn it off, take the phone out of your pants. There's a whole sensual world that has nothing to do with the vibration mode. Try it, leave your phone at home, make plans in advance, savour the anticipation of catching up over coffee instead of spilling your guts to a plastic battery-operated device. The longer you can last without that buzzer in your boxers, the easier it will be to get off on real people and real things.
Is that a Virgin in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Seriously, figure that one out and then we'll talk. I've got your number.
Cell phones have never made me happy. The thought that I am obligated to answer the phone no matter where I am or what I'm doing seems counterproductive and sinister, but nowhere near as evil as the little electronic bleat my first cell made when someone demanded my attention. Like jamming a Q-tip in just a little too far to dig out that elusive ball of wax, my cell phone ring annoyed me to the point of anguish. So I turned it off.
Unfortunately not everyone has mastered that button with the circle-encompassed line. Realizing the soul-wrenching tone of those rings, cell companies installed what the addicted refer to as "options", also known as downloads. If Muzak didn't kill Iron Maiden surely Rogers will. The annoyance increased exponentially, and so the vibrating phone was born.
At first it seemed a godsend. No longer did phones blurt out in movie theaters, the world seemed at peace once again. But as pockets across the continent started to silently stimulate, the reluctance to leave home without a fully charged phone grew. Soon asses were shifting in classroom chairs and under boardroom tables as a society with a sickness danced to the vibe. Addicted to the pleasant stroke of the ring, people young and old mastered the glance and dash, racing for a private spot where they could act on the sensations in their pants. The world became ill, unable to function without the caress of the vibration mode.
The cell phone companies would have you believe that you can't live without it, you need that buzz in your pants. You may believe it too, already addicted to getting off at the fingers of your lover, your parents, and strangers who hit the wrong key and wait to see who answers. But realize that you have the power to turn it off, take the phone out of your pants. There's a whole sensual world that has nothing to do with the vibration mode. Try it, leave your phone at home, make plans in advance, savour the anticipation of catching up over coffee instead of spilling your guts to a plastic battery-operated device. The longer you can last without that buzzer in your boxers, the easier it will be to get off on real people and real things.
Is that a Virgin in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Seriously, figure that one out and then we'll talk. I've got your number.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dear Britney Spears
Dear Britney Spears (and I use the term "dear" with great hesitation),
Surely you must realize by this point that you are pure and utter skank. I would say "udder skank", but I mean no offence to the bovine creatures with whom you are lucky to share this planet.
Ms. Spears, did you realize that you have no talent whatsoever? I mean, really, none! It's actually a little shocking. I'm not a big fan of Justin Timberlake, but the dude can dance, and he actually knows how to put a beat or two together. I'm not crazy about Madonna's tunes either, but she's one smart cookie and I respect her ability to combine sex and sass to turn herself into a viable business venture. But you, Ms. Spears, I have yet to figure out your contribution to art, culture, life on the planet, or even amusement as a concept. You are Jerry Springer in fishnet stockings - completely scary but impossible to stop looking at. You completely boggle my mind.
Sure, Britney (if I may call you that), you have tits and ass covered - or uncovered - as the case may be. But really, don't you find that's getting old? I mean any 8 year old worth his Bic lighter can find all the porn he needs for free on the internet without even Googling you. Where's the "value added" in your product? Most 80 year old grandmas would look hot if they hid behind as much makeup as you do. Remember Tammy Faye? You're only a few years and a televangelist husband off, Brit.
As for the "entertainment" end of your schtick... c'mon! If you looked like Roseanne your sales would be right up there with salt and vinegar soaked Bandaids. All these 12 year old girls buying your "music" see your image on the cover, but shouldn't they be searching Limewire for the guy who programs your beats, the dude who writes your songs, the producer who knows how to work a miracle and make it sound like you actually can hold a tune? Where are the credits for the person who duct tapes your boobs together so when you pretend that you can dance your cleavage goes along for the ride? You should be marketed as "Britney Spears and Friends". I'll bet you have a lot of them, too.
I keep trying to understand the appeal, Britney, I really do. But if I wanted half the drama involved in being you I'd just watch daytime TV. If I wanted something as braindead as your lyrics I'd buy a 40 of rum and a straw. If I wanted a beat that everyone and their dog was using I'd just rip you off. Oops... I think I did it again. Sorry.
Someday, Britney, maybe you'll learn that self-respect doesn't have to involve stripping, shaking and turning pre-teen girls into the next whore wannabes. Maybe you'll understand the fact that with 3 chords the Ramones made far more complex music than you could pull off with an entire studio of professionals. Maybe, Britney, just maybe, you'll aspire to be a role model, not a pole model. Or maybe I'm asking too much.
I apologize, Ms. Spears, for being so forthcoming (or to use a word you might understand, bitchy). Thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns. I know that you must be busy trying to figure out which pile of lingerie you left your brain cell under. I hope I haven't offended you in any way, but truth is, your existence offends the hell out of me. Leave the lowest common denominator alone and pick on someone your own size. What is that anyway, 32D? Oh sorry, didn't mean to confuse you with numbers.
Kindest Regards,
Sue
Surely you must realize by this point that you are pure and utter skank. I would say "udder skank", but I mean no offence to the bovine creatures with whom you are lucky to share this planet.
Ms. Spears, did you realize that you have no talent whatsoever? I mean, really, none! It's actually a little shocking. I'm not a big fan of Justin Timberlake, but the dude can dance, and he actually knows how to put a beat or two together. I'm not crazy about Madonna's tunes either, but she's one smart cookie and I respect her ability to combine sex and sass to turn herself into a viable business venture. But you, Ms. Spears, I have yet to figure out your contribution to art, culture, life on the planet, or even amusement as a concept. You are Jerry Springer in fishnet stockings - completely scary but impossible to stop looking at. You completely boggle my mind.
Sure, Britney (if I may call you that), you have tits and ass covered - or uncovered - as the case may be. But really, don't you find that's getting old? I mean any 8 year old worth his Bic lighter can find all the porn he needs for free on the internet without even Googling you. Where's the "value added" in your product? Most 80 year old grandmas would look hot if they hid behind as much makeup as you do. Remember Tammy Faye? You're only a few years and a televangelist husband off, Brit.
As for the "entertainment" end of your schtick... c'mon! If you looked like Roseanne your sales would be right up there with salt and vinegar soaked Bandaids. All these 12 year old girls buying your "music" see your image on the cover, but shouldn't they be searching Limewire for the guy who programs your beats, the dude who writes your songs, the producer who knows how to work a miracle and make it sound like you actually can hold a tune? Where are the credits for the person who duct tapes your boobs together so when you pretend that you can dance your cleavage goes along for the ride? You should be marketed as "Britney Spears and Friends". I'll bet you have a lot of them, too.
I keep trying to understand the appeal, Britney, I really do. But if I wanted half the drama involved in being you I'd just watch daytime TV. If I wanted something as braindead as your lyrics I'd buy a 40 of rum and a straw. If I wanted a beat that everyone and their dog was using I'd just rip you off. Oops... I think I did it again. Sorry.
Someday, Britney, maybe you'll learn that self-respect doesn't have to involve stripping, shaking and turning pre-teen girls into the next whore wannabes. Maybe you'll understand the fact that with 3 chords the Ramones made far more complex music than you could pull off with an entire studio of professionals. Maybe, Britney, just maybe, you'll aspire to be a role model, not a pole model. Or maybe I'm asking too much.
I apologize, Ms. Spears, for being so forthcoming (or to use a word you might understand, bitchy). Thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns. I know that you must be busy trying to figure out which pile of lingerie you left your brain cell under. I hope I haven't offended you in any way, but truth is, your existence offends the hell out of me. Leave the lowest common denominator alone and pick on someone your own size. What is that anyway, 32D? Oh sorry, didn't mean to confuse you with numbers.
Kindest Regards,
Sue
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Guy on the Bus Sings Again
This morning he was back. Singing large dude on the bus. Now, I'm not normally one to judge, but this guy, well, he's over the top, and you'd have to be traveling sealed in a beef bucket not to notice what he's got going on.
It began just like last time. Mp3 player clamped to his ears and the occasional outburst of a line or two, totally out of tune but without any self-conciousness at all. I'm pretty sure it was Great Big Sea. But this time he also had a hand held video game, and sporadically he turned off the MP3 player and sang along with the video game instead. There were no lyrics, just typical video game music, but he made some singing noises anyway. Very curious.
The singing was ok. After the last incident I was somewhat prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for this time was the step dancing. He stayed in his seat but his legs were full on step dancing without any question whatsoever.
When the big yellow bottle of prescription pills comes out it's still shocking. Pour out a handful, work up some saliva in that big grinning mouth, and down the hatch.
I don't know what they do, but they don't help the singing and dancing. Maybe next time I'll ask.
It began just like last time. Mp3 player clamped to his ears and the occasional outburst of a line or two, totally out of tune but without any self-conciousness at all. I'm pretty sure it was Great Big Sea. But this time he also had a hand held video game, and sporadically he turned off the MP3 player and sang along with the video game instead. There were no lyrics, just typical video game music, but he made some singing noises anyway. Very curious.
The singing was ok. After the last incident I was somewhat prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for this time was the step dancing. He stayed in his seat but his legs were full on step dancing without any question whatsoever.
When the big yellow bottle of prescription pills comes out it's still shocking. Pour out a handful, work up some saliva in that big grinning mouth, and down the hatch.
I don't know what they do, but they don't help the singing and dancing. Maybe next time I'll ask.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Exercise Sucks When You're on a Diet
I'm trying to lose some weight and so far I've been doing everything right - 13 pounds already, in 2.5 months! Not bad.
Losing weight is easy - at least the theory behind it is easy. Burn more calories than you eat and your hips will slide right off.
So I've been hitting the gym in the mornings and I'm picking up the pace. It feels good, I always end up a little sore but nothing serious, and I'm sweating like a horny toad in a porn shop. This should totally contribute to the calories burned and weight lost formula.
But there's a problem.
Exercising makes me friggin' hungry. I'm not talking a little nibbly or even pot-smoker munchy. After a good workout all I can think about is a Costco-sized bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, a fat cinnamon bun smooshing under the weight of too much cream cheese icing, and steak - a big bloody barbecued Porterhouse, black on the outside and blue in the middle, laden with mushrooms and onions and a side of homemade fries.
Somehow I am managing to avoid these cravings. Somehow, I peel my half red grapefruit, nosh on a 90 calorie Special K bar, and pretend that Colonel Sanders is not the patron saint of all that is good with the world. Somehow, I ignore the fact that Boston Pizza and its fake garlic and olive oil perfume is brazenly located straight beneath my office window and air conditioner. Somehow the thought of size 5 shorts and ripped arms and abs is keeping temptation at bay. For now.
Frustrated, I ponder the tipping point - the place where exercise becomes counterproductive and spurs on bouts of junk food Bacchanalia and desire-driven excess. I'm not there yet, but every delicious picture on Epicurious, every exotic ingredient in the supermarket is driving me just a little closer to the edge.
Which comes first - ripped or ravenous? I'll take a bucket of biceps with 11 secret herbs and spices, thank you. I think it was Miss Piggy who said "Never eat more than you can lift." I guess I'd better start doubling up on my weight sessions.
Losing weight is easy - at least the theory behind it is easy. Burn more calories than you eat and your hips will slide right off.
So I've been hitting the gym in the mornings and I'm picking up the pace. It feels good, I always end up a little sore but nothing serious, and I'm sweating like a horny toad in a porn shop. This should totally contribute to the calories burned and weight lost formula.
But there's a problem.
Exercising makes me friggin' hungry. I'm not talking a little nibbly or even pot-smoker munchy. After a good workout all I can think about is a Costco-sized bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, a fat cinnamon bun smooshing under the weight of too much cream cheese icing, and steak - a big bloody barbecued Porterhouse, black on the outside and blue in the middle, laden with mushrooms and onions and a side of homemade fries.
Somehow I am managing to avoid these cravings. Somehow, I peel my half red grapefruit, nosh on a 90 calorie Special K bar, and pretend that Colonel Sanders is not the patron saint of all that is good with the world. Somehow, I ignore the fact that Boston Pizza and its fake garlic and olive oil perfume is brazenly located straight beneath my office window and air conditioner. Somehow the thought of size 5 shorts and ripped arms and abs is keeping temptation at bay. For now.
Frustrated, I ponder the tipping point - the place where exercise becomes counterproductive and spurs on bouts of junk food Bacchanalia and desire-driven excess. I'm not there yet, but every delicious picture on Epicurious, every exotic ingredient in the supermarket is driving me just a little closer to the edge.
Which comes first - ripped or ravenous? I'll take a bucket of biceps with 11 secret herbs and spices, thank you. I think it was Miss Piggy who said "Never eat more than you can lift." I guess I'd better start doubling up on my weight sessions.
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