There are certain undeniable facts in life: mosquito bites will itch like hell, and despite the fact that you know better, you will indeed pick them; the Atkins diet will impress in the short-run and fail miserably in the long-run but people will still cling to it because they love red meat and band-aid solutions; George W. Bush is an effing idiot.
And yet, none of this bothers me today, because it's a glorious spring Wednesday, and what more could I ask for? With the weather so beautiful, we drive around in the old Ford Pinto with the windows rolled down, rocking out to the questionable lyrics of Usher...okay, I'll concede that he's a sharp dresser (although a little too "Michael Jackson" for my taste, what with all the glitter and the single glove thing), and even a keen dancer (in a "I have a suspicious rash in my genital region" kind of way), but the dude cannot write a song. U wanna get wit me? Really? Then try acquiring 3rd grade English and try again soon.
Seriously, though, it is a nice day. It's the kind of day that makes me want to get out my teeny weeny itsy bitsy yellow polka dot bikini and start up an all-female t-ball team. Not that I've ever played t-ball. Or worn a bikini out in public past the age of 3 (although I have been to nude beaches, so what's up with that?). There's just something about spring and feeling the need to see ample bosoms bouncing around as we women round the bases. Are there even bases in t-ball? I don't know. At any rate, I can guarantee the steroid level will be almost non-existent, but no such guarantees will be made for silicone or botox. We do have room for 2 towel boys, but we'll be holding American Idol type auditions for those. I'll be the bitter judge who always wears a scowl and a black t-shirt, and conveniently, I have two washed up clowns to back me up. We'd rather a Johnny Depp sort than a Napoleon Dynamite, sweet bow staff skills notwithstanding. We're looking to put together a team with some real synergy, so only serious applicants need apply.
Spring is an exciting time: the grass is greening, gay rugby matches are cropping up (and what cute uniforms they have!), and harried mothers take their bratty teenage daughters shopping for prom dresses, vetoing anything that simpers sexuality, vying for 'covered shoulders', and balking at the matching thongs. It's a great time to be in an over-crowded mall, I tell you. Just super. Especially because you have to brave the throngs of people, because my least-favourite time of the year is here: ah, yes, mother's day. Already I'm sweating about what to get Jason's mom, and Jason's pseudo-mom. It's hard to find the perfect gift that will say 'thank you for giving me your wonderful son' when what you really mean is 'the fact that Jason can even swallow his own drool is a miracle, and if he turned out even remotely okay, it's despite you, not because of you' but they rarely have greeting cards that put my sentiments into words. I tried to sign up to do those mother's day crafts at the Home Depot but the lady told me it was for kids 12 and under only. Bitch. She thinks she's so haughty in her little orange apron with her granny glasses hanging around her neck on a chain. I rattled a loogie in the back of my throat and let it fly in her face. I think there was phlegm in it and everything, god damned hay fever allergies.
Where was I? Oh yes, I was enjoying a warm hump-day, basking in the glow of the sun, thinking about washing the car or barbecuing, or doing anything really to tear Jason away from the gay chat rooms....uh, I mean, from NASCAR. Yeah, NASCAR. You know, it's funny, but he always ends up rooting for the team sponsored by Hello Kitty. He says it's just easier to follow the races that way because it's the only pink car out there.
I did manage to get him out of the house for a little while, anyway. We sat and had drinks on the patio of our favourite pub with some good friends. These get-togethers always progress remarkably similarly: first, the boys try to outdo each other with Family Guy quotes:
"Excuse me, is your refrigerator running? Because if it is, it probably runs like you - very homosexually."
"I got an idea, an idea so smart my head would explode if I even began to know what I was talking about."
It takes about 10 minutes of this junk before I blow a gasket and declare that the next man to say "Giggity" will go home castrated. That shuts them up in a hurry. Then the great debate is unleashed: PSP vs blowjobs. I stay out of it, because obviously I'm quite biased. I just don't get what the big deal with these gaming systems is. I bought Jason a PS2 when it first game out, and I swear his happiness was at least equal to having 10 cheerleaders of loose morals put out in the back of his Dad's Jaguar. And he's touchy about it too. Do you know how often he yells at me about it?
"Jamie, for the last time, it's not a paddle, it's a controller! This is not 1982!" Jeez. So anyway, the banter goes back and forth:
"PSP is better, because you can walk around with it. With blow jobs you have to be either lying down, sitting up, or standing in the shower with you back braced against the wall."
"Oh shut up Don, it's not like you would even know. You've never even been with a girl before."
"Shut up. I have too. I just prefer my console to sex is all I'm saying."
Personally, I could not care less. I mean, isn't the PSP just a glorified, overpriced Gameboy? What am I missing here? Ah well, it doesn't much matter. Please do not try to educate me. I get really hostile towards unsolicited information. I have filed PSP away with other terms such as "podcasting", which I define as 'word which I have no idea what it means, the end.' Into the vault they go, podcasting, PSP, most of the crap Jason talks about, etc, etc. It's all about as appealing to me as the Vatican City web cam. I mean, are you kidding me? That is some seriously messed up shit. I've been miffed at the Pope all week for having the audacity to die at the worst possible time, thus pre-empting my airing of 101 Dalmatians on the Disney channel with boring-as-hell coverage of his death. I used to just think the Pope had never really done anything for me, but now I can honestly say he hurt me. You cut me deep, JP2, real deep. And I can say for certainty that I am not the only one who's smarting: poor Prince Charles will have to postpone his wedding to Camilla for that selfish son-of-a-gun. Tsk, tsk, shame on you, Pope, shame on you.
Anyhow, nothing cheers me up from morbid Pope talk like some Angelina Jolie fantasy action. Last spring, I blew up a bunch of sexy, naked Angelina Jolie pictures and wallpapered the inside of our car with them. Jason and I spent many nights out in that car, with our seats reclined, steaming up the windows, each thinking about making out with her. Woo-eee. Actually, I think Jason prefers Beyonce these days. He's fickle like that: one day he's all about downloading free anti-virus programs, and the next he's busying switching the clocks after nasty daylight savings time. Me, I'm much more faithful. For example, I accidentally caught the premiere episode of that new show Gray's Anatomy, and even though I found it unoriginal, formulaic, and all in all quite a bore with only nominally good looking actors, I'll probably continue to watch it. That's just a little something I like to call a 'rut', and since I can never remember what night those damned Desperate Housewives are on, this new medical drama will have to do. Woe is me.
So anyway, no Wednesday night would be complete without a trip to the local movie theatre. Hmm, Miss Congeniality vs Sin City, which shall I choose? "The most violent and cool movie I've ever seen" or "The biggest waste of celluloid since Battlefield Earth"? This brings up a sore spot with me called "Hello people, that Sandra Bullock is past her prime!" Speed was a good movie, now let it go. There are some hard truths in life, and the sooner you learn them, the better. The hardest truth I know right now is that another of her movies has been green-lighted! Inexplicably. She accidentally made one "good" movie 10 years ago, and she’s been chugging along on the steam of it ever since. It’s time to put her out to pasture.
We're sitting in the movie theatre, and we are privy to at least a dozen annoying ring tones before the previews are even over, and in my opinion, the previews are the best part. Unless we're talking about that god damned Star Wars trailer, in which case: NERD ALERT! Man, what is wrong with people? I was telling my friend the other day that I have this strong compulsion to go to one of those month-long lineups they have to get into the movie, and just annihilate all of them, for the good of the earth, because obviously we don't want these geeks messing with our gene pool. Then she pointed out that it was unlikely that these guys would ever 'mate' successfully anyway, and I had to concede the point. Anyway, previews are one thing, but what's with these commercials before movies? Oooh, the new Honda Odyssey! Sleek! Sexy! Exciting! Handles ess curves with elegance and panache! And then, coincidentally I'm sure, it popped up 87 times in the movie as well. I think Honda is trying to brainwash me. Anyone else have that feeling? Maybe I've just been cursed. It's probably the Pope. That dude has it in for me, and yet, I still won't feel sorry for him.
Actually, the person I feel sorry for is Johnnie Cochran. Poor Johnnie Cochran. First, he comes into this life with a name like "Johnnie". Didn’t his mother realize that when he turned 7, his buddies would make fun of him mercilessly for it? He tried going by John for respectability’s sake, but it just never took. And then Johnnie spent his life building an honourable career and "doing charitable work" according to his publicist, and all he’ll ever be remembered for is the O.J. Simpson case. And now, even in his death, he is probably rolling over in his grave, his body not even cold, groaning about how the Pope stole all his limelight by dying too. Sorry Johnnie, but life just isn’t fair. Hey, doesn’t this sound like some truly inspired country music lyrics? No? Just me? Well fine then, be that way.
In conclusion: yay for spring.
1 comment:
Reading this post five years later, with Sandra Bullock up for an Oscar, is amazing.
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