Remember when George W. Bush referred to the "Internets"?
Well, the prez has come a long way. He is using Google Maps to look at his ranch in Crawford, and to find WMDs in places where evil-doers dwell. Okay, I'm kidding about the last one. I think.
"Occasionally," W told MSNBC's Maria Bartiromo when she asked if he uses the Internet(s!). "One of the things I've used on the Google is to pull up maps. It's very interesting to see that. I forgot the name of the program, but you get the satellite and you can - like, I kind of like to look at the ranch on Google, reminds me of where I want to be sometimes."
That's funny. It reminds me of where I want you to be all the time, W!
Speaking of the Internet, W also told George Stephanaopoulous this week that "we've never been 'stay the course,' George!"
Um, Mr. President, Google this: Stay the Course. That's a lot of hits quoting you as saying, "We will stay the course in Iraq."
October 29, 2006
October 26, 2006
Complaining is my God Given Right
My boss told me this week that for the sake of my own career, I should stop complaining about people I work with. He simply cannot fire all the people I want fired because there would only be a half dozen people left. He missed the point: that half dozen are the fun ones in the bunch.
Okay, so I won't complain anymore at work. I'll complain here.
Office Hobags: Girls, I do not want to see your cleavage. You are so skanky even the MEN don't want to see your cleavage. Cover up and develop some real skills. Also, considering getting a new job.
Bats-in-the Belfry Overgrown Brat with the dyke haircut: you look like a drag queen. You demand as much attention as a drag queen -- an aging one. Please, take the hint that we are all ignoring you because we dislike you and for God's sake, get another job.
Wimp Ass Boy: yeah, you know who you are. You've got big ears, an annoying voice and why, why, why do you talk so much???? Please take the hint that we are all ignoring you because we dislike you and for God's sake, hook up with Bats-in-the-Belfry Overgrown Brat with the dyke haircut and get another job.
Guy who smokes too much and has the booming voice: no one likes you. Not even Bats-in-the-belfry Overgrown Brat or Wimp Ass boy. How horrible is that? Get another job.
Big Bones Grammarian. Sweetie, do something with that hair. Putting a bowl over you head and snipping is not anyway to get a haircut. Supercuts would even be ashamed of you. Get another job.
Hotjobs.com: Please get a hint that I need a well-paying marketing position where there are no lunatics and help me get another job.
Disclaimer: The above statements are not complaints but facts. Just ask my labor attorney.
Okay, so I won't complain anymore at work. I'll complain here.
Office Hobags: Girls, I do not want to see your cleavage. You are so skanky even the MEN don't want to see your cleavage. Cover up and develop some real skills. Also, considering getting a new job.
Bats-in-the Belfry Overgrown Brat with the dyke haircut: you look like a drag queen. You demand as much attention as a drag queen -- an aging one. Please, take the hint that we are all ignoring you because we dislike you and for God's sake, get another job.
Wimp Ass Boy: yeah, you know who you are. You've got big ears, an annoying voice and why, why, why do you talk so much???? Please take the hint that we are all ignoring you because we dislike you and for God's sake, hook up with Bats-in-the-Belfry Overgrown Brat with the dyke haircut and get another job.
Guy who smokes too much and has the booming voice: no one likes you. Not even Bats-in-the-belfry Overgrown Brat or Wimp Ass boy. How horrible is that? Get another job.
Big Bones Grammarian. Sweetie, do something with that hair. Putting a bowl over you head and snipping is not anyway to get a haircut. Supercuts would even be ashamed of you. Get another job.
Hotjobs.com: Please get a hint that I need a well-paying marketing position where there are no lunatics and help me get another job.
Disclaimer: The above statements are not complaints but facts. Just ask my labor attorney.
October 21, 2006
Fly Me to the Croon
Just in time for Halloween, it is the Ghost of Las Vegas Past.
Last night, Hubby and I went to see the fabu Tony Bennett at the Hilton -- that's right, the old stomping ground of Elvis. Lore has it that Elvis's old stomping ground is his current stomping ground, at least for his ghost.
Being a second-rate Sinatra has paid off for Tony. When I'm 80, I wanna look as good as he does. And sound as good as he does. My only complaint is that he didn't finish the show with "I left my Heart in San Francisco." He did it mid-show, and thinking it should be the finale, I clapped my heart out, then grabbed my purse to go. Imagine my surprise when he then started in with "Fly me to the Moon."
Tony was great, and it made me wonder what Vegas was like in the 70s or earlier, the Hey-Days. Hubby lived here from 1971-1976 and had stories to tell, mainly about the Trop, one of the last of the old great hotels. Along with Hilton, they make up the two best of the old ones that exist today.
So tonight, we went with our pal Kym, who was a dancer in the Lido de Paris at the Stardust, to the Celebration Lounge at the Trop. A great cover band called Friends played, and we stayed for two sets while Hubby and Kym waxed nostalgic about old Vegas. They told me about the Moby Dick Room at the Dunes, with its faux oyster shell booths, and mighty lounge acts whose names they can't remember, as well as Sassy Cats, an act that played in the lounge at the Trop 40 years earlier, and the 1:00 am shows that the headliners put on just for the Strip entertainers, comps galore, great dining, friendly faces,the manners of the past, and so much more. Vegas today, in their eyes, is nothing like Vegas of yesteryear. Sure, the mob may have run the town, but they were nice about it. As long as they didn't blow up your car.
A week from this Monday, we are going to the Stardust, as it closes its doors forever the next morning. We'll drink vodka tonics, stop in at Charlie B's, and check Kym's reaction as memories come back to her of the 20 years she spent as a dancer there, hanging with Siegfried and Roy, drinking champagne that Sinatra and Sammy sent after the show, and just remembering what it was like to pull up to a casino's valet and the respect you got from the Valet parker for being a dancer at the Stardust in the Lido.
So I'll take your Vegas, baby, and raise you the bittersweet memories of when a good town was great. Viva, well, you know the rest.
Last night, Hubby and I went to see the fabu Tony Bennett at the Hilton -- that's right, the old stomping ground of Elvis. Lore has it that Elvis's old stomping ground is his current stomping ground, at least for his ghost.
Being a second-rate Sinatra has paid off for Tony. When I'm 80, I wanna look as good as he does. And sound as good as he does. My only complaint is that he didn't finish the show with "I left my Heart in San Francisco." He did it mid-show, and thinking it should be the finale, I clapped my heart out, then grabbed my purse to go. Imagine my surprise when he then started in with "Fly me to the Moon."
Tony was great, and it made me wonder what Vegas was like in the 70s or earlier, the Hey-Days. Hubby lived here from 1971-1976 and had stories to tell, mainly about the Trop, one of the last of the old great hotels. Along with Hilton, they make up the two best of the old ones that exist today.
So tonight, we went with our pal Kym, who was a dancer in the Lido de Paris at the Stardust, to the Celebration Lounge at the Trop. A great cover band called Friends played, and we stayed for two sets while Hubby and Kym waxed nostalgic about old Vegas. They told me about the Moby Dick Room at the Dunes, with its faux oyster shell booths, and mighty lounge acts whose names they can't remember, as well as Sassy Cats, an act that played in the lounge at the Trop 40 years earlier, and the 1:00 am shows that the headliners put on just for the Strip entertainers, comps galore, great dining, friendly faces,the manners of the past, and so much more. Vegas today, in their eyes, is nothing like Vegas of yesteryear. Sure, the mob may have run the town, but they were nice about it. As long as they didn't blow up your car.
A week from this Monday, we are going to the Stardust, as it closes its doors forever the next morning. We'll drink vodka tonics, stop in at Charlie B's, and check Kym's reaction as memories come back to her of the 20 years she spent as a dancer there, hanging with Siegfried and Roy, drinking champagne that Sinatra and Sammy sent after the show, and just remembering what it was like to pull up to a casino's valet and the respect you got from the Valet parker for being a dancer at the Stardust in the Lido.
So I'll take your Vegas, baby, and raise you the bittersweet memories of when a good town was great. Viva, well, you know the rest.
October 19, 2006
Too Pooped to Pop
I have not been blogging much lately because I am pooped. Let me be blunt. I work with pedestrian people who figure that since they get up early, we should all be at work at 7:30. There was some sort of vote/non-vote that I did not have a chance to participate in, or rather, no one cared what I thought (marketing people, who cares?) and now our hours are 7:30-4:00. I actually had to go to the doctor because I've been so tired that I thought I had some deadly disease. I may still have one -- I never rule out the worst possible thing happening to me, but for now, my doctor thinks I'm tired because 1) I work with sick people who think that going to work at 7:30 is civil and 2) I'm middle-age and smack in the midst of peri-menopause. Damn old age and damn early birds.
So that's why I haven't been blogging much. I'm tired.
In the spirit of the old LaBlogda of yesteryear, I'd like to say that I still hate George W. Bush. There. It's just like old times.
So that's why I haven't been blogging much. I'm tired.
In the spirit of the old LaBlogda of yesteryear, I'd like to say that I still hate George W. Bush. There. It's just like old times.
October 13, 2006
When Binx met W
Writers are always encouraged to write "what if . . .."
With that in mind, I decided to write a flash fiction piece about me and George W. Bush having a brief affair.
An Affair to Forget
Binx met W in Crawford. She was passing through, on a road trip where she stopped at Southern diners, ate their fries, then blogged about the experience. It was mid-afternoon, and the diner was empty. W came in with a secret service team. The boys were hungry. They ordered pot pies, shakes and apple pie. W set across the diner. Binx thought he was making eyes at her, but she couldn't tell. His eyes were too close together. He was either looking at her, or looking at her beer. She decided to test the situation. She raised the bottle to her lips and looked at W. Sure enough, he was looking at the beer.
She wiggled the bottle in his direction, and he walked over. "Mind if I join you," he asked.
Binx was sure he was looking at the beer, not her.
She motioned to the waitress, "Dos," she said.
"Oh I couldn't," he said.
"Kinda like you couldn't make the right decision on stem cell research?"
W looked confused. Had she just insulted him? No one had ever done that before. Who was this strange girl? Was she, could she be, no, it wasn't possible . . . was she a terrorist? Or was she just one of those annoying Democrats? He studied her face. She had a long nose. Ah. That explains it. She was French.
The waitress came and put the beer down. "They'll see me," W said, referring to the Secret Service.
"I'll divert their attention."
Binx walked to the middle of the diner, stood on a table, and started chanting "F^&! You, Mr. Cheney! F^&! You!"
The Secret Service were on her like W alone in a booth with a beer.
Later, W made sure she was released from jail and invited her over to ranch. Laura was away, doing something useful with her time. "How can I repay you?" he asked, the smell of Miller heavy on his breath.
"Let me show you, Neocon boy," she said.
It was awful, but she had a greater purpose. As she predicted, he left in the middle of the night, abruptly ending his Crawford vacation for a Camp David vacation.
Three months later she got the news. She leaked it, of course. Then she went down to Planned Parenthood and walked past the throngs of right-to-life protestors. She went into a sterile little procedure room and later, when it was all done, she told the press about her experience.
"Hah," she said to W when he confronted her. "Your reputation is ruined. I've exposed you for what you are and put you in the middle of a scandal."
"Hah back," he said. "You may have proved it, but it's an election late and a lot of funding short. I got re-elected in 2004. Damage is already done. I've ruined my own reputation."
"Oh hell," Binx said. She hadn't been thinking clearly. It was her perimenopause, which caused fuzzy thinking, but unfortunately, didn't stop women from getting pregnant. W was right, the damage had already been done. She had wasted her time and efforts on nothing.
She lived out the rest of her days in a cramped apartment in Bakersfield that sat behind a Burger King. She got fat on fries and lived out her life watching reruns of Gilmore Girls. The end.
Note from writer: my stories never have happy endings.
With that in mind, I decided to write a flash fiction piece about me and George W. Bush having a brief affair.
An Affair to Forget
Binx met W in Crawford. She was passing through, on a road trip where she stopped at Southern diners, ate their fries, then blogged about the experience. It was mid-afternoon, and the diner was empty. W came in with a secret service team. The boys were hungry. They ordered pot pies, shakes and apple pie. W set across the diner. Binx thought he was making eyes at her, but she couldn't tell. His eyes were too close together. He was either looking at her, or looking at her beer. She decided to test the situation. She raised the bottle to her lips and looked at W. Sure enough, he was looking at the beer.
She wiggled the bottle in his direction, and he walked over. "Mind if I join you," he asked.
Binx was sure he was looking at the beer, not her.
She motioned to the waitress, "Dos," she said.
"Oh I couldn't," he said.
"Kinda like you couldn't make the right decision on stem cell research?"
W looked confused. Had she just insulted him? No one had ever done that before. Who was this strange girl? Was she, could she be, no, it wasn't possible . . . was she a terrorist? Or was she just one of those annoying Democrats? He studied her face. She had a long nose. Ah. That explains it. She was French.
The waitress came and put the beer down. "They'll see me," W said, referring to the Secret Service.
"I'll divert their attention."
Binx walked to the middle of the diner, stood on a table, and started chanting "F^&! You, Mr. Cheney! F^&! You!"
The Secret Service were on her like W alone in a booth with a beer.
Later, W made sure she was released from jail and invited her over to ranch. Laura was away, doing something useful with her time. "How can I repay you?" he asked, the smell of Miller heavy on his breath.
"Let me show you, Neocon boy," she said.
It was awful, but she had a greater purpose. As she predicted, he left in the middle of the night, abruptly ending his Crawford vacation for a Camp David vacation.
Three months later she got the news. She leaked it, of course. Then she went down to Planned Parenthood and walked past the throngs of right-to-life protestors. She went into a sterile little procedure room and later, when it was all done, she told the press about her experience.
"Hah," she said to W when he confronted her. "Your reputation is ruined. I've exposed you for what you are and put you in the middle of a scandal."
"Hah back," he said. "You may have proved it, but it's an election late and a lot of funding short. I got re-elected in 2004. Damage is already done. I've ruined my own reputation."
"Oh hell," Binx said. She hadn't been thinking clearly. It was her perimenopause, which caused fuzzy thinking, but unfortunately, didn't stop women from getting pregnant. W was right, the damage had already been done. She had wasted her time and efforts on nothing.
She lived out the rest of her days in a cramped apartment in Bakersfield that sat behind a Burger King. She got fat on fries and lived out her life watching reruns of Gilmore Girls. The end.
Note from writer: my stories never have happy endings.
October 01, 2006
Love Letters: The New Gay Republican Porn
If Jesus and Mohammad are indeed gay, then Mark Foley is in good company, so Republicans, take heart. Of course, I never accused Jesus or Mohammad of being perverts. Mark Foley, well that’s another story all together . . .
Mark Foley is THE buzz today. My friend’s Robby and Sean, actors in LA, are doing their version of Love Letters and are reading the Foley/16-year-old mail page email exchanges aloud, appropriate voices and all.
Robby made the point that when you read the emails, it’s disappointing because even when Republicans are pervs, they are still pedestrian. What’s the lesson here? Leave perversion to Democrats. We have so much more experience at this.
But back to Foley. He is so much in the news that I decided to Google “Mark Foley” and then Google “I’m angry” to see which keywords had more hits. As I have blogged before, I’ve noticed that if you Google “I’m angry,” you get a wide and varied response. After all, we’re all angry about something. Mark Foley gets about 9,490,000 hits, while “I’m angry” receives 40,100,000 hits. More people care about anger than they do about Mark Foley, but a lot of people are interested in Foley. So for fun, and to make a useless and obscure point, I then decided to Google “I’m Angry, Mark Foley” and I got 251,000 hits, with the number one hit being crooksandliars.com. I have not bothered to visit the site yet, but geez, it sounds like the type of site La Blogda might want to link.
For more pointless fun, when you Google “Love Letters,” it gets 34,500,000 hits. Way more than Foley and close to “I’m Angry.” Ahh, we are a race of angry people in love.
Mark Foley is THE buzz today. My friend’s Robby and Sean, actors in LA, are doing their version of Love Letters and are reading the Foley/16-year-old mail page email exchanges aloud, appropriate voices and all.
Robby made the point that when you read the emails, it’s disappointing because even when Republicans are pervs, they are still pedestrian. What’s the lesson here? Leave perversion to Democrats. We have so much more experience at this.
But back to Foley. He is so much in the news that I decided to Google “Mark Foley” and then Google “I’m angry” to see which keywords had more hits. As I have blogged before, I’ve noticed that if you Google “I’m angry,” you get a wide and varied response. After all, we’re all angry about something. Mark Foley gets about 9,490,000 hits, while “I’m angry” receives 40,100,000 hits. More people care about anger than they do about Mark Foley, but a lot of people are interested in Foley. So for fun, and to make a useless and obscure point, I then decided to Google “I’m Angry, Mark Foley” and I got 251,000 hits, with the number one hit being crooksandliars.com. I have not bothered to visit the site yet, but geez, it sounds like the type of site La Blogda might want to link.
For more pointless fun, when you Google “Love Letters,” it gets 34,500,000 hits. Way more than Foley and close to “I’m Angry.” Ahh, we are a race of angry people in love.
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