Tuesday, September 30, 2003

Goddamn, my hands are frozen. Damn you bony, non-blubber insulated, piano-playing, fingers!

I just read, let's say, "Maura's" dead journal. I like it. She fills it with much-needed sound effects and profanity. It's like I'm watching an R-rated movie for the very first time. No, but seriously. Laura's great. Her latest entry talked about how she was so hungry, she was shaking (so that's how she keeps her fine figure ...)

I kept reading and she mentioned me. I was tres flattered. But I re-read it: "I know alot [sic] of people refuse to accept the fact that Lily is awesome but she really really is."

"A lot"? You mean, "a lot" people don't see me as their version of the holy grail? This made me think (while chowing down on pork-derived, artifically-coloured, child-laboured, fun snacks ). If I was so disliked then ... Westm***t rules! Wow. In the words of Shakespeare, "Courtesy would seem to cover sin." To dislike me and not have me know about it is, well ... -- let's just say their patience is extroardinary. I mean, I can name one person who hates me with the rage of ten thousand soccer-loving, Guinness-chugging, chanty-singing hooligans. But a lot? I now understand how people can live in ignorant bliss: by pretending everyone's a friend, so they may tactlessly glean what they need, guilt-free.

"May I borrow your $700US UX50 Sony CLIE to smash against my hammer for a game of ... Wreck-Luxury-Items-For-Fun EXTREME?"

"Um ... I ... uh ... n-nnnn."

"Thanks. I'll come by to pick it up tomorrow. And tell your mom I'd love to join your first family vacation in 12 years."

I guess I can see why I may be disliked. I mean, yes, I ruined some lives. Then kicked them while they were down. But just because no guy can pass you without spitting, or girl, without calling for a mob hit, doesn't mean we still can't be friends. Besides, from one hypocrite to another: resentment is just a way of letting someone else use your mind rent-free ... houer votz wichser!!!

Yes, I just swore in Luxembourgish. Take that, Liechtenstein!

Monday, September 29, 2003

Why do people feel the need to Pharrell-ify themselves and start wearing trucker hats (also known as the farmer hat in some circles)? I may not have the answers. But I will go and ask my other personalities what their thoughts are on this spreading-like-wildfire ϋber-trend.

I hate motherfuckers who wear those fuckin' trucker hats. Especially when they turn it to the side. So it's okay for the sun to burn your fookatron face off, but not your left ear.

But Angry, at least this trend isn't as crass as the boob trend ...

Black Mama:
... that never ended? You know girlfriend. You need to wake up and smell the Jemima. Everyone wants to look like they be at the Justin Timberlake shoot, robbin' the variety store he was sexually harrassing that poor girl at. Playing it off as, what kids now call, "flirtin'." Back when I was jammin' to James Brown, we would've called it "Mmmhmmm, fast girls gon' get raped" and you would've been shot in the head ... sans the redneck monkey lid.

What. Ev. Er. The only reason girls are wearing those god-awful things is because this patriarchal society wants us to assimilate deeper and deeper into this male-dominated culture.

I'd like to get deeper and deeper into your culture.

Okay. So maybe this isn't the best trend to come around. But hello! Men are now able to freely accessorize without feeling like they've been Queer-Eyed. Although mesh and polyester go together like sodomy and cactus, I'd do a guy who looks like he skates, but really attends Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship. Besides, I prefer this over plaid-mania and male-polish anyday.


Always-Refusing-To Accept-What-The-Group-Thinks-Because-She-Never-Gets-Enough-Attention-At-Home Girl:
But ... [*stab*]

*Inspirational John Williams-conducted music score crescendos as people slow-clap in a magical movie-inspired moment*

So there you have it. The Trucker Hat vs. As-many-stereotypes-Lily-can-think-of-while-drowsy discussion has indeed caused an uproar in the community ... in my head. But I personally find the trend sexy ... as long as the colours don't clash ... and worn by men ... who don't do weed. So trust me when I say John Deere-green and toucan-red don't go together. Christmas only comes once a year for a reason. And also orange and yellow. Unless you're auditioning for a Fruitopia commercial (you know the ones where the fruits have limbs and gather at a retirement center ... or like ... do rowdy things to each other ... such as slappin' ass, makin' out and putting themselves through hypothetical bending-over-for-the-soap-type scenerios? Oh bojangles, I gotta cut down on the Ho-Hos. They're making me halluci ... wheeeeee, I'm a washed-up movie star running for governor!)

Saturday, September 27, 2003

On Sage Words of Advice

My parents are first generation Indians.

They came to America to start a new life and to give their children a world of opportunities that they didn't have.

One of these opportunities is the great privilege of having sex with many different partners in an unsafe and hedonistic environment.

When I was 13, my Dad, my dear, sweet, father, decided that it was time he told me about this amazing opportunity.

Knock, knock, knock went the bedroom door, and a muffled voice asked, "Noo-poor, can I come in (imagine thick Indian accent)?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, Pops," I said as I hid my comic books under the bed. "Come on in."

"Noo-poor," my Dad began, "there is many things in America which is deeferent than India. People doing the things which we were never doing. They are doing the drugs, the cocaine, the Telewizion."

"Yeah, Dad, I know."

"I want to tell you one thing," he paused for a moment, then looked at the ceiling, and then back down again. "Use a condom." Then he lept out of the room and stormed down the stairs.

I'll never forget that moment, when my Dad opened his heart and said, "Use a condom." In his own way, I think that "Use a condom" really meant, "I love you."

I just can't wait to talk to my kids one day, and they'll forever remember the day when I'll say, "Don't eat after 10 p.m. or you'll get fat like you're old man."

How true, how very true.


*How very true, indeed.
Humpty Dumpty.

Yes, dear friend. He sat on a wall.

The wall that is life. The bastille of our souls. The stones that house the weave of life. Like grapes in Tuscany, it is the sweet elixir that is mortality


He had a great fall. Into the cesspool of natural expenditures. He must get up. Does he get up? Could he get up? But alas, hope is dead. Hope does not save him. Hope merely prolongs his suffering.

He lays flat. His degenerate body, previously rotund in gaeity, now lays shattered ... blowing into the wind. Death is everything. Everything is nothing. Nothing is empty. Empty is full. Full is strawberry jam ... and jam is good. I mean, god. And god is sticky ... just like that hell-for-the-thighs puddle of cholesterol.

All the king's horses. Galloping into salvation. Their bodies bridled by the king's men. Pawns. Lunatic lackeys. They believe it is in their power to put ... yes, put ... that dreary embryotic simmering mass, together again.

They fight their nature. They leave behind reason. They anticipate failure ... but their power, too green.

But they couldn't. They can't. It is not in them to do so.

Humpty Dumpty was fated to fall. Humpty Dumpty came in terms with the earth's murderous agenda.

They tried some more. But no enchilada. Not even the spicy kind.

He simply evaporated into the essence of Descartes. Thinking, therefore, being. He just is, not what his senses tell him.

Desperately, they cried. Onwards! More tape! More glue! More piss in his shoe (heh heh, just for kicks).

But they couldn't.

The salty sting of flowing tears migrated into the sky.

The funeral knell cracked a knowing sigh. This is what is. It cannot be otherwise.
He loved her so. From her psychedelic jumpsuits to her hemp-muffs.

It was the summer of 2046. And he was having a panic-attack. God ... why can't I call her? I'll end up alone, drinking vodka from a paper cup and sleeping with chickens for money. He periodically glanced at the phone from the corner of his eye while he stirred lumpy gravy over his aromatherapy candles. His heart was beating like an African fertility dance. His spray-on toupee was sliding off his head in excitement. The intensity was electrifying.

"Hello ... is this ...?"

"What the fu ...? Who be dis?"

"I don't know how to say this. Uh. I like you. Very much. Just as you are ... apart from the smoking, the drinking, and the pastry roll diet ..."

"Bloody hell ... Ma! It's one of yours. No, I can't handle it. You promised you'd do the balding-bachelors and amputatees if I did the meat-fetishists and fruit masochists. Which reminds me. [*scream*] We just ran out of pineapples."


Moral of the story: Don't eat gravy that ends up smelling like juniper berries and fresh roadkill from your head. It might accidently make you call 1-800-KINKY-4-U.

*Again, I heart Bridget Jones

Friday, September 26, 2003

I saw someone hang a dreamcatcher in their car where the evergreen car freshener usually is (if you were a trucker with a bad case of Practical-Joke-Gone-Horribly-Wrong-Involving-a-Whole-Box-of-Laxatives). I wonder why they put it there. Why would you be dreaming in a car? Or sleeping in one, for that matter. Oh, now I get it. But at least hang it in the backseat ...
The country is pronounced "Chil-AY", by the way.
I definitely won't have any inspired rants until late October.

Reason? My ma's out of town and called to tell me she couldn't drive me to the party. She actually tried to find alternatives, but I replied, "Thanks, but I don't want to be a bother."

So I sincerely apologize for not attending Mag's birthday party. It's really disrespectful, I know. But I've decided to flow against the booze tide ...

... to stay home and do extra homework before heading off to the city of love, next week.

While there, I hope to meet an European guy who isn't loco like the guys at my school. Maybe we'll share a few laughs. Maybe he'll whisper sweet nothings into my ear (literally, since he'll most likely be speaking German) as we knock back non-alcoholic beverages under the large cloud of factory waste. We'll mistake planes for twinkling stars as we share stories about how living in our parents' basement is a drag. And he'll ask me to stay with him and I'll happily agree. Then realise he's married, but decide to stay with him anyway if only for the weekly Dior shopping sprees. And we'll live happily ever after ... in our home in the Bahamas, unspoiled by the destructive species that is children.


*Ah, how fairy tales have changed ...

Wednesday, September 24, 2003


Why aren't there really great people nowadays? I mean blah blah blah, we have the studious Asians who go to medical school at 17. But there's one of those in every four families raised on either rice, curry or noodles. Big whoop. I'm talking about the Joan of Arcs. Yes, I'm talking about the schizos we seriously thought were of awesome calibre. Maybe the popularity of atheism is the source of this. Before, god would just tell people what to do and they'd listen.

"Abraham, do as I say or I will smite thee."

"Okey dokey."


"Joan, raise an army."

"But I'm a poor, virginal daughter who enjoys the occasional sponge bath by ye old maidens."

"You're crazy. I like you."

"Hehe. Oh, flattery will get you places."

But now, how many truly awe-inspiring people do you see walking among us? Maybe all those strangers muttering to themselves and screaming at pidgeons are actually the saviours of our race. Maybe the other side of "Leave me alone!" and "You don't even exist, stop pulling my ear" is actually "Cleetus, this is god. You have been chosen to lead the Americans into Iraq ... then maybe the Brazillians into Zimbabwe. Then get, hmm ... the Sri Lankans into MEH-hi-co (god is phonetically correct) for good measure." Obviously, Cleetus refused and handed the job over to Bush Junior (same guy, different hairpiece).

So the next time you see someone looking like they're trying to swat at bug-eyed birds while muttering, "Goddamn, why won't you leave me alone? I'm Portuguese!". Just remember, they might be the next messiahs of god (no, Tony Robbins doesn't count. Neither does David Lee Roth ... unless he cuts his hair. 'Cause god's sick of that look. Too Bon Jovi, '84).
It's now official. I have finally run out of things to say. I need inspiration. I need a muse (preferably, an aging cultist with a criminal past). But what I really need is people to laugh at. That's why I'm looking forward to this party on Friday. My plan is to arrive late, as to capture everyone in their drunken revelry. Because who doesn't like drunks professing their love for everyone. Or people high discussing why American money is green (George Washington was obviously a drug dealer and Martha, his bitch). When life imitates art, ah, that's when the fun begins. I think being absolutely sober is ironic at a drug-laced party. I mean, isn't watching moronic behaviour more surreal than actually partaking in the removal of your panties for cheese and strudels? It's like Salvadore Dali, with less depth. Andy Warhol, without the irony. And Pamela Anderson, before she posed for Playboy (man, there was a time before that?). Which leaves you with ... nothing. Teenagers are just naturally fond of shakin' it, not breakin' it, 'cause it took mama 9 months to make it.

I'm also travelling across Europe for 20 days, next month. So maybe, I'll return with a more diverse range of culturally offensive things to say.

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

I just finished watching (and re-watching) the summer finale of Sex and the City. I don't want to give anything away, but *sniffle* I loved it. Miranda's storyline was absolutely heartwarming even to a cold-hearted senora like myself. Sometimes, I dream of having a "Steve Brady" of my own (sincere, successful, a kindhearted stooge), but then ... I realise how much more I'd rather be single. No responsibilities, no expectations, no depending on anyone. To quote Mel Gibson from Braveheart: "FREEDOM!!!"

Besides, it just doesn't feel right to ask a man (or anyone, for that matter) to buy you your collection of Manolos, Jacobs and Choos.

I don't like how couples are grouped together as one person once they're together:

"Oh, George is also coming."

"Okay, so that's another table for two."

Also, you become a walking stereotype and public spotlight hog, usually ending your 15 minutes of fame with an embarrassing cry-fest:

"I love you so much. I can't keep my hands off your body ... or out of your skirt, in public. You're my sinfully sweet pleasure toy. Mmm, mmm, tangy."


"I can't believe you don't love me anymore! What went wrong? Tons of men wear their girlfriends underwear. I just so happen to wear them while in bed with another woman ... or two. You're not leaving me. You just try to step out of this 1995 Escalade. Come backkkk! Shee-it, whatever yo. She didn't dump me. I never even liked that crazy bitch."

Show a little class, stop groping the ass.

And you'll soon get the hint when 50 year-old, incest-bred, cow-dung sniffin', hotdog vendors start throwing their booze money at you and hollering, "That's disgusting. Go get some help."

Monday, September 22, 2003

I think there are a few pros to being morbidly obese. The most obvious is the furniture dilemma. Why pay for it if you can get your guests to sit on you, rather than that fouton you've had since the summer of '82? It's a more intimate way to get to know your friends ... or those hookers you picked up from Delaware.

Another pro is the absence of doors. I mean, fat people have to make like putt-putt and aim for a tiny hole in the wall just to get around their house. So I say, remove the doors then smash down the walls. That way, they can travel around their house in style on a Costco trolley. Thin people would get a kick out of not having to get up and use their legs, just like fat people (a bonding experience, if you will). And mothers will never have to call up the services of Mr. Crane ever again ... until the day they want to get their fatass out of the house (gas builds up over time ...).

This here may be a trick question. Would a fast food joint want a fat man representing their company? It makes sense at first, because it shows how good rubber boots and racoon pelvises can taste in a burger; enough to cheerfully fatten up this man here. But it also portrays fast food under a negative light. However, with my ideas above, is being morbidly obese still as unattractive to the general public as it is now? Whichever the case, if The Jimmy Dean Breakfast Sausage Company eventually decides to hire them as spokesmen, they'll have a lot more money than the average Skinny McScrawny. However, the money merely goes to buying more junk for their trunk. Just imagine, someone roughly resembling the shape of an average person, riding a donkey with a baby grand strapped to its back. I'd pay to see that!

And finally, I think being called "MO" is sort of sweet. It's better than having someone call you "AL the ALCOHOLIC" or "CHRIS the CRA'KHED". Yes, I think I'd rather be called "MO the MUTANT ORANGUTAN" (because in all honesty, who really wants to be called morbidly obese? I'd rather be named Kato Kailin.)

Sunday, September 21, 2003

Just saw that new Dido music video, White Flag. I didn't care too much for the song (cavity-inducing music for the ears), but I did notice the celebrity-product placement. David Boreanaz? THE David Boreanaz of Buffy-fame? The David Boreanaz who married, then knocked up an ex-Playboy bunny (not necessarily in that order)? Oh, THAT David Boreanaz. For those of you who haven't seen the video, here's a synopsis:

Neon lights and flashing bulbs appear to inform us that Dido is a successful performer. But upon my first viewing, I was confused as to why there are scenes taken straight out of Thailand's red light district. Then I saw the PG-rated English that wasn't even the kind that said, "All welcome. Sexy water frying pan, immediate love from fresh popcorn machine. Deformed supermarket is my lover." printed outside a Japanese hair salon.

Dido now appears ... to be a brunette? Cue the sentimental "Dido from the block" feelings as she lays in bed, wearing a tracksuit. She's out to J. Lo-nquer the world in shimmery, glossy makeup and hoop earrings. Amen, girlfriend!

The next couple of scenes are just of Dido (who now looks blonde) and Boreanaz barely missing each other while engaged in activities ranging from:

*signing autographs on the street. (Do C-list actors have fans to sign autographs for? Or maybe she was hired to hand over useless sheets of paper for him to sign. Just like his lawyer used to do ... in his glorious B-list prime.)


*stopping at the lights in their respectable bling-inspired rides. (How would you not recognize someone just because they're wearing a hairband? This is how Clark Kent also gets away with being Superman: by living in Idiotropolis. "Where 2+2 does not necessarily equal the obvious.")

But what ho! They do end up meeting, just like the sappy lyrics predicted. All the while, I couldn't help but stare at Mr. B's 'fro-in-waiting and rapist mustache. He's Jim Morrison, trying to sit at the cool kids' table. Janet Jackson, in her Rhythm Nation-years. The Reverend Al Sharpton, if he was born white ... and practiced pilates once in awhile.

But in the end, you realise both parties are One Hour Photo-inspired, creepy stalker-types who belong in jail ... or, at least, need a peephole through their shared wall.

Saturday, September 20, 2003

Wxde up an hrir aho. Sert of drjbsy feum lqsk of swggp. Wrucflng tjes is txcpkng luijwr tujn exqoftwd. Shxt.

Friday, September 19, 2003

I have compiled a list of people I can never be exposed to for long periods of time (might develop burning sensation and an appetite for murder). These include those who are:

1. Sheltered
2. Narrow-minded
3. Freeloading cheapskates
4. Emotional fuckwits*
5. Hippies

*I heart Bridget Jones

However, I do enjoy the company of those who are:

1. Not hippies
So our school dance ended two hours ago. It's so ironic that girls who are hos (okay, fine: 'dressed in whore costumes') are so reserved when it comes to dancing in public. They stand almost completely still, like choir babies for the Laurence Welk Show (I'm assuming no one is familiar with this guy. I didn't have cable for awhile, and that was the only show on Sunday, other than Hammer Time ... which I loathed, if only for the sole reason that his parachute pants were poorly animated: "More sparkle! More stripes! Goddamn it, why aren't they puffy enough?!")

However, it may also be because I danced like a drunken stripper in comparison. Wait, no. A drunken stripper who neglected to ask for tips. Darn.

Ah, and the public displays of affection. I doubt it was actually "affection" because people weren't exactly "sober":

"Girl, don't think 'cuz you makin' out with pretty boy there, you can hide your lack of dancing abilities."

Oh man, and the people who got drunk before the dance. Don't they know alcohol stinks up their breath? They honestly smelled as if homeless people hid in their mouths and threw a party that included drinking homemade moonshine from a paper bag.

Other than that, I enjoyed it. But I don't think I got my 8 dollars worth because I came back deaf and more swollen than Joan Rivers after her last tummy tuck. However, that may be my fault ... or the DJ who seemed to have a turned-up-to-11 bass fetish.

Thursday, September 18, 2003

His girlfriend happily defended him by saying he did not, in fact, call me trash (big whoop, he still ripped off my signature dumb racist joke). I, on the other hand, believe the damage has been done. That's why I had the cojones to verbally attack him ... behind the safety of my computer screen.
Should I be flattered when my own brand of self-deprecating humour is used against me? Or should I be flattered that someone who hates me with an infuriating passion is setting aside precious seconds of his life to make up insults I already use on myself? Referential Chinese railroad building? Been there, done that. Trash? Now that's a new one. I've been called "insane" "crazy" "bitch", but never "trash". And while it's not that offensive, I'm more irritated that it's as witless and unoriginal as the guy who said it (behind my back).

Reminds me of the verbal tussle between Rudy and Russell of Fat Albert fame:

"You're like school on Thanksgiving."

"School on Thanksgiving?"

"No class, turkey!"

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Santa Maria! I'm a fashion whore. Ooh, revealed too much of myself there.

So last night, while preparing to get into the shower, I had an epiphany. Mr. Cafeteria Eye Candy really is an assho ... I mean, normal average guy. I played it off as "everyone has a good side; it just has to be found." But from what I saw, there is absolutely nothing special about him (other than ... well, I don't want to give away his identity for those who don't already know). Some people say he's actually really smart. But a lazy genius is still a dumbass on paper. But the clincher happenend today, when he wore the most god-awful outfit.

Which brings me to today's thought. Why do guys, at this age, wear dress shirts 6 sizes too big and Weird Al-inspired ties? They look like walking wallpaper that's been shot mercilessly with paintballs. I don't know if they're being ironic or they actually think they're hot shit, but either way, they don't come close to being George Clooney or even Emilio Estevez, for that matter. Maybe it's their nonchalant way of organising a boys dress up day, without looking like they're trying too hard ... or homosexual.


Wear a shirt not currently in your dad's closet. And fine. Wear your damn khakis. But don't put on a damn tie you picked up at the ladies' section to go with it. Just unfasten the two or three top buttons. These tiny suggestions will put you in a position where you can tap anyone's ass.

So quit the fashion faux-pas. Go out there, tuck in your shirt, and be drool-worthy.
Nelly is now preparing for the launch of his new energy drink, Pimp Juice. Which doesn't concern me. I mean, he's merely endorsing a fruit cocktail with additional vitamins and minerals for the pimp in all of us. So what is it that's so attractive about this new-pimpin'-trend?


The last time I saw this much leather on a grown man was on FOX: When Animals Attack ... or in that cross-dressing movie, "To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything. Julie Newmar."

Watching men sparkle more than ghetto-licious club goers scare me. I mean, are they proud of the fact that they look like the remnants of Liberace, if he had been splattered generously with oil paints, then set on fire? Or maybe, it's the "walk" that scares me. I mean, strutting hen-peckin'-style is one thing. But imitating amputees from the Vietnam War? Now, that's going too damn far. It's that nobby walk, that can only be described as either missing a stiletto heel on one foot or ... missing one of your ankles.


So MTV's Kurt Loder has confirmed that those really impractical things pimps carry around in their hands (what? no slave bitches to carry it for them?) are indeed called "Pimp Chalices" rather than "Goblets." What's next? Pimps who think Tinkerbell is a fine pussy? Or Snow White be a good investment, since she already mackin' it with 7 undesirables (aka, the big spenders). I can see why they would wear those top hats though (made from used 70s porn rugs). It's practical, when you need to hide a family of midgets or guerilla hostages.


Now I'm not an out-to-take-over-the-whole-world feminist. But to me, personally, it is absolutely degrading to be led on a leash and be used as a human accessory (unless juice is served afterwards). I want to know when whoring underage girls while providing every level of abuse became the "hip" thing. An entire pimp culture is now bum rushing into the mainstream.

Haha, dressing up like a pimp is hilarious! Man, I love it when ebonics has become as indecipherable as pig-latin. Oh boy, I piss my pants laughing when Disco Santa Pimp says original stuff like, "Ho, ho, ho" every freakin' Christmas. I hope child molesters and drug dealers become the next inspirational celebrities ... especially when they get invited to your family's next turkey curry buffet as honoured guests: "A fun filled day of crack smoking and inappropriate child groping! See you there!"

Save grandma's polyester print couch. Just say no to PIMP.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

Duck Hunt. The best damn game in the world. Now everyone can be a redneck in the comfort of their own blood-stained home.

Okay, so I just booked four round trip plane tickets to Europe. Toronto to Paris, then back to Toronto from London. I did this over the phone because, as some of you might know, calling for reservations would usually get you a better quote than if you were to order online.

While talking to the guy on the other line, I became painfully aware that he might be a real, live jailbird. I heard from somewhere (maybe it was Michael Moore) that airlines hire prisoners for reservation work. So while you're happily booking a trip to Europe, Hawaii or maybe even war-torn *Insert Yet Another Middle Eastern Country*, the guy on the other line can't even get out of his holding cell without tackling some guards and killing a puppy.

"Hi, is this Air Fly-Hi?"

"This is. How may I help you?"

"Well, I'd like make a reservation on the .. um .. just a sec."

"Okay ... do you mind calling back?"

"I'll only be a sec."

"You're taking awfully long ..."

"Goddamn it, motherfucker! I'm just asking my mama what she want! Calm the fuck down!"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ... come and ass-rape your children, set your baby's mama on fire, strangle you with a phone cord, then leave your body in a vacant whorehouse. My escape tunnel is almost complete ..."

"[pause] I'll call back."

Monday, September 15, 2003

I just saw a commercial for EXTREME Jax, while watching Yu-Gi-Oh! with the kids. Which reminds me. Are children attracted to exclamation marks? Do they even know exclamation marks are supposed to represent excitement? I mean, intergalactic, space-time-a-looping, Dungeons & Dragons-inspired, card-playing isn't exciting enough? Kids actually need to be told, through strategically placed punctuation, that they have Attention Deficit Disorder?

Anyway, back to EXTREME Jax. Can the game of jacks get anymore extreme? I mean, their semi-pointy, Ridley Scott futuristic design is enough to make a trucker blush. They're pretty "extreme", if you ask me. And what's with "re-packaging" a tired game, that's more of an institution than ... a fun game: "Wippadeedoo, look at my fast hands!" So one day, some yuppie in daddy's Armani suit goes to a corporate meeting and says to everyone, "Why don't we ... re-make jacks?! I love that game!"


"No, no. Hear me out. Okay. Let's make those things multi-colours, so kids can aggressively compete with one another. 'I want to be fuschia.' 'No me! You were fuschia last time!'"

"Okay, listening ..."

"Then slap on 'EXTREME' in the title. Re-write the wimpy 'Jacks' to 'Jax', because the letter 'X' is hip and dangerous: 'I'm insane in the membrane. I'm too good for grammar'. And now, my friend, a game worthy of a month's paycheque."

"Great. Kids are suckers for colours. They'll want to collect them all. Pay for the same shit, 10 times. You, son, are going places."

"Thanks. I'm just doing my job. I'm here to represent all them crazy sons-of-bitches who be the Assistant to the Assistant Manager. Northside, what!"

Sunday, September 14, 2003

My friend broke into my account and added a "comments" feature. And when I say "broke into", I really mean, "Voluntarily gave her my account info., for I have no useful abilities, other than eating grapes and pressing buttons." I hope people make use of this little feature ... or what would be the meaning of my life?

I was supposed to go to the 2003 KiteFest today. Yes, you read right. KiteFest. Festivals are getting too complicated these days. Gone are "take your naked body, but bring a fanny pack for all that excessive pot you have lying around." Instead, it's now "take your tight, naked body, but bring a Gucci horn-rimmed clutch for all that excessive cocaine you just bought from your 'friend' Steve." Oh yeah, and don't forget the kite. Suicidal kids under 18 get in free. Now, now, no pushing.

Friday, September 12, 2003

Man juice. What's up with that? Why call it "juice", when it obviously has a consistency associated with common "liqueurs" seen in the foreign man-taps of France. So now, women can finally rejoice and proudly proclaim, "I swollow man liqueur! Yes, MAN LIQUEUR!" without popping barbituates like they're good for you.

Thursday, September 11, 2003

I sometimes wonder if, at my age, I'm one of the last few remaining people who still style shampoo mohawks in the shower. But in my case, my short hair ends up looking like a dripping Alfalfa-inspired ice cream swirl.
Oh yeah, Sept. 11. RIP victims of terrorism. Even the ones who worked for corporate giants, and ate the common man for breakfast. RIP them too.
Shmapenis Shmapenis Shmapenis. What's the big whoop about men and their overcompensatory-rottweilers that make the whole world stop and say, The bigger, the better? Well, not quite.

I guess today's post exists to unlock the secrets of the opposite sex (or same sex, if you're a young, sexually confused adolescent, trying to find your place in the world.) Have the ol' twig-and-two-cherries even gone as far as affect fashion? I think so, yes. I mean, at this age, pubescent boys need to give their young canines room to roam, hence the tent-sized pants with the crotch hanging just high enough to show that they are, indeed, not wearing a skirt (and wearing appropriately labelled underwear, such as "Tommy" or what I like to call, "The-Closest-A-Man-Has-Ever-Got-To-My-Manhood").

But apparently, there's a new trend coming full throttle from your friendly neighbourhood gang bangers. Is it true guys are picking up *gasp!* women's jeans? If this, indeed, is rooted from fact, than I must warn these young wippersnappers that they better control their urges to "procreate", because the public humiliation of setting off the alarm at the wrong object (fire hydrant, school mascot, your mother) will scar you for life. If it doesn't become the reason you take your own life first *slit, slit*.

That's about it. Have I unlocked any secrets? No. Was I planning to? No. But like Ms. "I Finally Got Sued" Cleo, I merely make it "seem" as if I made promises that I know I can't keep (such as, telling you your husband/boyfriend "is dirtying someone else's sheets" after you give her information like, his birthday and statements in the realm of: "My man doesn't call me his woman" or "He broke up with me 5 years ago ..."

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Another day, and yes, another blog.

I enjoy ranting ... so here's another. What is it about Americans that make me shake my head in .. well, I don't actually shake my head. But you know in sitcoms, where some old lady shakes her head, while rolling her eyes towards the heavens (or stage lights) and saying stereotypical catchphrases like, "Oy!", "Mama Mia!" and "Aye ya ... why you crazy?"? That's the feeling I get when I think about Puritan Americans (which, more or less, covers them all). I mean, it's "tolerated" for some Lolita-in-open-crotched-panties to strut infront of the Superbowl Half-Time Show, but it's absolutely forbidden to show a nipple on the small screen (unless it's being ironic). And in an act of PC overload, people can't even describe co-workers by the colour of their skin.

"Has anyone seen the new guy, Mo?"

"What's he like?"

"Well, he's funny as heck. A hard-worker. Likes to play solitaire and paint picket fences."

"Not ringin' any bells, Bobbo."

"He's, um, also brown."

"SHHHHHH, I am SO reporting you."

My best friend from Gr. 6 (who just so happens to be Indian) told me yesterday that, at school one day, her supervisor was scrambling to find her. She was finally found, but was perplexed as to why it took so long:

"The teacher didn't want to say 'brown' to describe you."

I mean, until the day IQ becomes a visible chart that moves across your chest as you walk, describing people with basic adjectives is just practical. Besides, she sure as hell isn't mauve with a tint of Irish green. So please, next time you feel the need to censor yourself, just remember, until your head gets blown off by the military (or your neighbour, whose wife left him with three mouths to feed, one being his overweight mistress who insists black is slimming, even when it's torn from rivet-enforced seams), your well-intentioned comments are probably not going to offend the average thinking-person. Unless you end it with, "... ooh, nice talking to you again. But I gots to do some can shooting: Mexi-cans, Afri-cans and a few Puerto Ri-cans, if I'm lucky." (<--this joke is in the public domain. Please don't attack me, for my young life is too precious ... to moochers and the materialist community.)

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

Quickie Thought:

How does Shakira do it? I mean, I don't think it's ever been done in the history of music production. How does she sing like a constipated goat and get away with it? "Bahhhhh Brooooo Mehhhhh Ewewewew". On second thought, how did I just phonetically spell out her goat voice? Man, next time you hear a song by Shakira, close your eyes and envision a herd of 4-legged animals and you'll probably come to the same basic conclusion.
The first thing I do when I get home is take my bra off. Goddamn those things. Why do they have to be so damn restrictive? I mean, with tits like mine, you would think the laws of physics would allow me to go bra-less. But no. I must wear these multi-coloured sno-cones for me blossoming beauties.

Enough of that (not that anyone would have wanted me to go on).

Have you ever had someone make you antsy and fidgety with their mere presence? Today, in the caffe, that morsel of eye candy became more than a 2-dimensional fantasy number. Gosh, you really have to watch your movements when you think someone's eyeing you, and in essence, judging you. "Must not ... pick scab from ... arm. Will pretend to not notice ... by flipping through the same 5-pages ... 28 times. So tempted to look back but then ... Gah! He's still looking!" To quote The Authority Song, covered by Jimmy Eat World: "I got no secret purpose/ I don't seem obvious, do I?" Well, I was obviously too obvious, for him to even acknowledge my existence. I got shit for brains. Must occupy my time with better things to do ... like conversing with inanimate objects ... such as ... gifted students.

Monday, September 08, 2003

Having two spares is a pain in the ass. If there ever was a time when having too much is a bitch, this is it. I've become those stereotypical students who spend most of their time in one area ... doing work. I mean, I have frequent company. Which does not include Mr. Overhead Light and Ms. Vending Machine (frankly, I think she gained weight). I mean, my life would be exponentially more exciting if I could just bring myself to stalking a few of the regulars. It works ... until they leave. That's when the fantasy bubble bursts; when I realise I'd have to follow them to be an actual bonafide stalker. There is a regular that I've had my eye on. He's a tasty morsel of eye candy who occupies my time while I write bad poetry and discuss pseudo-intellectual politics with Tylenol addicted wiggers ("It's the shizzo, manizzo."):

"Here Lily, listen to this," one of them says to me.

"Ooh ... that's gooood," I reply. "Yeah, oh yeah. That's right. Jigga what? 'I gots me a fetish for fat women.'"

Should I be listening to this? Probably not. But was I able to stop? Sadly, no. It was either having this against my ears, or be exposed to the repetitive buzzing of malnutritioned flies. So time is, again, wasted away, while strangers are given lives they don't know about.

"Just look at the way he's not looking at her. And look how he holds his plastic utensils. She just found out he's been sleeping with her sister. But she's still trying to maintain that casual feel between them, that's why she has her foot up on his head*."

*Drama at the "Mentally Challenged" table.

Sunday, September 07, 2003

You know what would be difficult? Living a sham marriage. Or relationship, for that matter. One minute, you're acting all chummy when people are around. But when your only audience becomes a stick of gum and some grass clippings, your "significant(ly intolerable) other" becomes just another street sign you ignore (like STOP or ONE WAY-->). Even organising each other's roles can get confusing:

"So honey bunch, are we going to act flirty and married or bitter and divorced today?"

"Do I even know you?"

"*wink* Gotcha."

But I wonder if there are true advantages to living a fraudulent love life. You get all the shallow representations without investing any of the effort. I mean, you'll get the month-i-versary red rose, date for family gatherings and *ahem* reliably rare sexual encounters, without the pressure of having to call 18 times a day. Or deciding whether to leave him due to his schizophrenic/Tourette's, but can't, because of your "history" together. Even small signs like finishing each other's sentences can be taught: "My name is ..." "... Steve." "Oh Miranda, we're like soulmates."

Maybe social interactions have become so predictable that we've trained ourselves to believe what we are trained to see, and not how we were born to feel.

Is there really a difference between being in love and being together if all the evidence that leads to one can be bought for the other?

Saturday, September 06, 2003

My mom wants to take acupuncture courses. Maybe even take the entire range of alternative Chinese medicine. It's not that I don't support her (hey, it's her money), but it's the sneaking suspicion that she might be going through a midlife crisis. Coupled with that new RV she just bought and spontaneous desires to re-take more Caribbean cruises, has suburbia really ... got to her? I mean, for once, we're on the same boat. Living in a neighbourhood that consists of "Crt."s and "Dr."s, while hunting for rare sightings of animate people, has probably strained her patience as much as my own. I'm glad she's still ambitious. At least she's not sitting in the ol' rocker, singing showtunes and greasin'-up the shotgun barrel. The irony is, this is what she had been working towards for the past decade. I mean, daily talks consisted of: "We'll have two cars. And a house that doesn't reek of rotting wood, roaches, and Juicy Fruit ..." I'm looking way too much into this. Maybe she just has too much time on her hands, daydreaming. "Quit yo' wall starin' and git back to them dishes!" "Yes'sum."
So the first week of school has officially ended. It has been, in retrospect, uneventful. Writer's Craft has inspired me to create phrases like, "Those eyes, glow green, like kryptonite." I hope this class doesn't become a venting spot for angst-ridden teens who are too scared to talk to their divorced parents, yet too proud to go to therapy. "Y'all don't know me. I'm just in a Valium-induced daze. *tear* And yet, I feel so alone ... *goes and puts on Simon & Garfunkel: The Hip Years*
I looked through some un-deleted emails today. Brought back old memories. Like my kitschy harlequin phase:

"Well Liz, you're right about the whole Venetian fisherman being appealing (somewhat. Although, he's definitely not me cup o' tea). However, I kept reading. He's actually a Venetian hotel owner who also lives the life of a vagabond, throwing cabbages onto bridges, for it better suits his manly lifestyle. See, the worst part of this character is that he speaks. Yes, he speaks little but blunt phrases like, 'I understand you. You are not angry with me. You are angry with your previous significant other, Senora. That slap in the face only meant you cannot contain your sexual desire for me. Oh contraire, it also means you wouldn't mind being slapped around ... in bed ... on a donkey ... while watching Caddyshack II.'"

Tired. Have realised I just lost my blog-ginity. Oh, quelle horreur!