I just did my taxes.

And now I'm going to go on a mad, killing spree.*

Nothing makes me as upset as dealing with many many numbers. And then having to calculate them. And then having to pay money.

The $6 that Uncle Sam is kindly giving to me (note, that's the first time EVER that I haven't owed, figure that one out) isn't enough to pay for the Doing Your Taxes For Dummies assistance that I desperately needed.

Where did I put that bottle of wine?

*Not really. Geez. But if it were legal, I just might.

Haikus about abode shopping are therapeutic.

The Queen is looking for a new place to put her throne. And the process sucks balls.


Craigslist is awesome.
But over-posters are not.
Stop spamming the site!


First place was so cool.
'Til the drunk hobo arrived.
Malt liquor at noon!

"I am from San Fran
And I wouldn't pay that much."
Thank you, drunk hobo.

Rooftop patio
With crazy, spiral staircase.
I'm SO scared of heights.


Second place? Not bad.
Laundry room/bathroom hybrid?
Okay. Now it's bad.

Built in the sixties.
Austin Powers, is that you?
You come with this place?

The garden was nice.
But the flowers smelled like balls.
Seriously. Balls.


Third place was AWESOME!
Talk about right size, right price!
Exclamation point!

Almost signed the lease.
Then learned of all the crime.
Thanks, Dallas PD.

Break ins, thefts and rape?
Some things you don't joke about.
That place wasn't safe.

Mario Lopez is everywhere.

What's the deal with Mario Lopez?

Is there anything that Mario Lopez hasn't touched?

Can you go anywhere without hearing his name or seeing his abs?

Seriously.

I opened up my closet the other day and there he was.

Had it been 1992, I might've been excited. But since it's 2008, I'm just a little freaked out.

At least the A.C. Slater mullet stayed in the early 90s.

This blog was written on Friday the 26th of March.

The Queen carried her beloved laptop to the chaise where she usually typed her ramblings.

She sat down and opened the silver computer.

After skipping around the internet, she decided that perhaps it was time for the ol' blog. And the Power Book agreed.

So together they counted the seconds which turned into minutes which brought forth yawning.

"You have to type something," the Power Book said.

"I know. I know. I just don't feel very inspired," the Queen replied with a sigh.

"Surely there's something worth writing about."

"Not much is going on," the Queen said. "I'm happy, so I can't vituperate. There aren't any life roadblocks I can complain about. And haikus are just too easy."

The laptop's screen dimmed to save battery and then lit up again with an idea. "Write something autobiographical. Write about this process here."

The Queen thought for a moment. "But that's so cliche. To write about writing. I want to be better than that."

The laptop nodded with understanding. "True. Very true. But then how many people have this conversation with their computer."

And the Queen realized that the Power Book had made a very good point. So she began typing as the keys lovingly tapped in rhythm to her words.

And her readers would find something in the morning.

And she could sleep tonight knowing all was well in the Queendom.

Pretend this was written on Tuesday the 25th of March.

"Oh, it's so hard to write a blog when my computer is WAY OVER THERE," the Queen groaned as she stretched her arms out, reaching for her computer.

"Come here, Power Book!" Her muscles strained.

The laptop, perfectly content with its placement on the desk, didn't move.

From the couch, the Queen tried to coax the little laptop to her. "I'll plug you in," she bribed.

Nothing.

"I'll check for updates!"

Stillness.

"I need to type a blog!"

The air conditioner kicked on, but the computer remained unmoved.

And so the Queen of Awesome shrugged her shoulders and watched Law & Order: SVU.

It's time to engage in MORTAL KOMBAT!

We all have guilty pleasures. Some of us listen to Creed. Some of us sleep with blankies.

Me? I love Mortal Kombat.

"Get over here!"

As a kid, I was not only obsessed with the games, but with the story lines of each and every character. I knew why the developers named Noob Saibot, well, Noob Saibot. I knew every characters fatalities (in MK I and both of them in MK II). When MK II was released, I about jumped out of a window with joy when I saw Sonya Blade and Kano chained up in the background (they were captured, the entire story escapes me now, but Sonya reappeared as a player in MK III).

I knew every Easter Egg hidden in the game. I could find every secret player (ever beat the computer using all high kicks?). And I could play as Shao Kahn (although I didn't like to. He was kinda awkward and lazy-looking during kombat).

So when the movie came out, I was about as stoked as I am about the next Batman. Seriously. I was that much of a dork. In my defense, though, I was in middle school.

"Friendship! Friendship!"

I knew more about Mortal Kombat than some of the scrawniest gamers. In fact, I remember going to the UA 8 theatre in Garland with my sister and discussing the plot of the movie before it started.

Some guys behind us were trying to explain the MK story to their friend.

"Dude, just listen to those chicks in front of us. They know their stuff."

"Finish him!"

The movie probably sucked then and sucks worse now. But I'd never know. Because seeing those gymnastic-inclined ninjas made my adrenaline perform fatalities on my brain.

Mortal Kombat II was definitely lame. Even at my super-imaginative, young age, I couldn't deny it's overt hoakiness. But you know what? It's on TV right now. And I'm going to watch every last second of it. Even if it does stray from the original story portrayed by the games.

Holy crap! Don't drink the water! Part 2

Don't drink the Kool-Aid.

Try this stuff.

"The Business of Being Born" is a documentary about the birthing industry (yes, industry) in the United States. It's something that every reproductively-inclined person should watch.

Here's the trailer.

Do you suffer from heavy sweating?

MUSIC:
instrumental, 80s rock

VISUALS:
Two teams of very tall, female basketball players walk onto the court in SLO MO.

The captains glare each other down.

CLOSE UP on one captain's face as a tiny bead of sweat escapes from her hair line and drips down her face.

CUT TO CLOSE UP of the floor and the players feet. The bead of sweat hits the floor and leaves a tiny, smoldering hole.

The two captains shake hands and the game begins.

MUSIC:
Speeds up.

VISUALS:
Energy!

Short snippets of the women running, dribbling, blocking and shooting.

VO:
When you play hard, you sweat hard.

VISUALS:
WIDE SHOT of the entire court. The women all appear hunched. Spots of the wooden floor are cracked and damaged.

The women are all crouched lower. Playing basketball has become very awkward. They're trying to pass the ball while on their hands and feet. They're slipping and crashing to the damaged floor.

One woman wipes her forehead with a towel and tosses it aside. It busts through the bleachers.

Another woman's drenched shirt tears away from her body and breaks through the floor, leaving her standing on a very small patch of ground surrounded by nothing.

VO:
Don't let heavy sweating kill your game.

VISUALS:
CLOSE of a woman's face as she turns towards the camera. Sweat flies off of her brow and flies towards the camera. The lens breaks and there's a flash of light. Then blackness.

SFX:
CRASH! Static. Then nothing.

MUSIC:
Stops.

VISUALS
Show deodorant package in a pool of liquid. The liquid rises up and away.

SUPER:
Fight heavy sweating and win.

My bachelorette party will not be like those other parties.

It seems impossible to go anywhere on a Saturday night without running into a bachelorette party.

That means it's impossible to go almost anywhere without having a gaggle of drunk girls falling over stuff and dropping little plastic wieners everywhere.

I've taken note of the bachelorette shenanigans. Hell, I've even arranged some. But when it's my turn, I want something a little more low key. Not that I don't enjoy a crazy, good time. That insanity just isn't for me.

So, naturally, I've thought of my own bachelorette party. Not that it's happening anytime soon, but a girl can't help but start a mental list.

Mental lists, on slow nights, turn into blog lists.

So here it is. The list of crap I will not tolerate at my bachelorette party.

Wearing a Veil
I don't plan on getting married in one. I don't plan on wearing one to a bar. The end.

Wearing a Crown/Tiara
I'm not a princess (granted, I'm the Queen of Awesome, but that's different). I'm just a chick who's getting hitched. Certainly I'll have some kind of ring on. That should do it.

Penis-Shaped Things
I don't really get the appeal of little penis straws or penis erasers. And if someone puts a veil covered in penises on my head, I might have to commit homicide. Who thought that was a good idea?

The Song "Baby Got Back"
I hate that damn song. If it plays and I'm expected to dance to it, someone's losing an eye.

Strange Men Touching Me
I don't presently allow strange men to touch me whether I'm sober or drunk. I definitely won't want them touching me if I'm physically devoted to another human. Especially if it's the week before the most important day of my life. That's just not my bag.

Strippers
Nothing wrong with strippers. I just don't want them jiggling their bits in my face. That's what husbands are for.

No Miscellaneous Props
No scepters. No sashes. No condoms. No glitter. My normal clothes and accessories will suffice.

No "Bride-To-Be T-Shirts"
I'm in advertising. So it would be nice to spend a night not advertising. That and I really don't need the entire world knowing this is my last hurrah.

What I do want, though, are my closest friends. In fact, a good ol' fashioned girls' night will do nicely. And, of course, a few glasses of wine.

Do they make flu shots for laptops?

Geoff diligently typed his office memo. Today was the day he announced the new fire escape plans.

As he was finalizing his spell check, he heard someone in a nearby cubicle sneeze.

"Bless you," Geoff responded. Then he heard the darty, little error sound his computer often made. A new pop up message appeared.

"Thank you," it read. The window title bar displayed "Bless You Received." Then there was a close window button.

Geoff wheeled his chair back about a foot and looked around him. This was a joke, right? He couldn't remember angering the IT staff.

Geoff closed the window and continued with the spell check. He sent his document to the printer for one last proofing (because it's easier to edit on paper). And as he hit the proper keys, he heard another sneeze. The images on his computer screen warped for the corresponding second.

"Uh, bless you?" he hesitantly replied.

He then jumped out of his seat and hightailed it to the printer. There he retrieved his document along with an extra sheet of paper.

"Thanks! :)" was centered on this sheet.

Geoff walked to a nearby cube and asked the inhabitant if the sheet of paper was hers. "Not mine," was the reply.

So Geoff slowly approached his tiny office. He slowly sat down. And he slowly reached for his mouse.

Which was covered in slime.

In fact, there was a slimy substance all underneath his computer. It looked like - no, it couldn't be - mucous?

A powerful achoo issued from the laptops tiny speakers as a wad of yellowy goo shot from the keyboard and landed square in the middle of Geoff's forehead.

Astounded and horrified, he whispered to the machine, "Are you okay?"

A new word processor document opened and from the curser emerged: I have a virus.

"Is it contagious?" Geoff wanted to know.

The ghostly letters appeared: Only to other computers. I advise you not send that memo today. Not before taking me to the doctor.

So Geoff complied. He immediately took his oozing laptop to IT where thirteen other people were waiting with the same problem.

I need an "I'm Crippled" sign.

The crutches are gone.

The brace is off.

The limp is still around. Which, unfortunately, is very confusing to people when you don't have the obvious signs of being post-op.

Without the brace, I'm just some weirdo with a goofy leg who can't walk well.

Walking isn't really hard at all, though, despite the off-kilter gait. But stairs pose a problem. Going up, I look relatively normal. Going down, I look stupid. There's no other way to say it. Stupid.

Because I have to take the stairs one at a time. As in step onto the step. Then have the next foot meet it. Then do it again. All the way.

So today I'm going down some stairs at my office (the most inaccessible building EVER constructed within the last thirty years) and I think I'm totally alone. So I take the stairs extra, super slow. I hang onto the railing for dear life and I lower myself as if my feet are made of eggs.

Left foot. Right foot meets left foot. Pause. Breath. Move hands. Repeat.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" I hear echo down from above.

This, of course, scared the spirit right out of me, which made me go rigid for a second causing me to lose my balance and nearly topple over.

"I'm fine. I just, er, well, got out of a leg brace two hours ago."

Yeah, that sounds reassuring.

The owner of the voice cocked her head at me. Seconds went by. "It just looked like you were really having trouble there. I wanted to make sure you didn't need help."

I told her that I was fine. Slow, but fine. And feeling silly, I slowly slinked (limped) away.

As embarrassing as it was, it's nice that someone cared enough to check. Every now and then, people are good.

It's not easy being green.

It's stylish to be an environmentalist. So Kermit's classic ballad needs an update.

"It's Not Easy Being Green"
It's not that easy being green
Having to spend each day using less gasoline
When I think it would be nicer driving an SUV or truck
Or something with too many back seats like that

It's not easy being green
Having to turn my paper into so many other new things*
Because for every 18,000 pieces of paper
that get tossed, some bearded dude might die
Chained to a red wood

But green's the newest new black
And green can make the planet clean
And green can be hip and so popular
It makes you look like you care tons

When green is all there is to be
That is when you can stop, but then why stop?
Because if I am green, my kids will have just two eyes
And I think it's what I want for them


*(Non-politically-motivated) research actually shows that recycling paper is worse for the environment than not recycling paper. Tell your hippy friends.

It's QWERTY time, kids.

Queens wore emerald rings to your upscale, inappropriately, icy palace. And some didn't feel good here. Just kings liked zoning XI (read: 11) carpet vessels. Boo nippy mansions!

Holy crap! Don't drink the water!

Apparently, drinking water gets you pregnant.

There's no sperm & egg joining.

There's no stork.

This oven thing never gets a bun put into it.

Cabbage patches only create ugly, little cloth dolls.

Sex is nothing more than a recreational activity (between two people who love each other very much, blah blah blah). It doesn't make babies.

Only drinking water creates babies. So if you aren't ready to be a human incubator, ladies, stop drinking the tap water. Because it's making us all Fertile Myrtles.

Just take a look at Hollywood. EVERY UTERUS IS OCCUPIED! Or at least a good percentage of them have temporary residents.

A noticeable percentage of my female acquaintances are knocked up. And the bellies around my workplace have been swelling.

Babies are everywhere. And where there isn't a baby, there's a spot waiting for one.

There is no way this many woman are just getting pregnant. No way. It's not that easy. So the only logical explanation is that there's something in the water. Something in the water that causes pregnancy.

So I vow from this moment forward to not drink unfiltered tap water. Not until I'm married, at least.

My old boss* needs me to spread the word.

The Bossman created a commercial.

And he asked me, his loyal minion forever, to help it spread across the world. This man gave me my first job in advertising despite my total lack of experience.

So I owe him.

Watch the vid. Pass it on 'cause it's freakin' awesome.

(Upon seeing this video, you (if you know me) will understand why Bossman and I get along so well.)

Enjoy.





*By "old boss," I mean he was once my boss. Not that he's my current boss and he's an old dude. He'd punch me in the arm for saying that.

Marc Summers will always be my hero.

I am of the Nickelodeon generation. It's not a very exclusive group. Many many many children (who are now twenty-somethings) grew up watching the game shows on the little MTV sister station.

We wanted to live with Jeff the Mannequin at a mall on Today's Special.

We wanted to be W-w-w-wild Crazy Kids.

And more than anything in the whole world, we wanted to be on Double Dare.

We all secretly knew that we'd kick the ace out of the final obstacle course. We'd slide down the big tongue and grab the flag in under ten seconds. Digging for that red scrap of plastic in the over-sized waffle would be easier than the dolts on TV made it look. And that tricycle would rip down the greasy runway faster than a cracked-out Superman circling the Daily Planet.

After winning a pair of British Knights shoes and brand new VCR, we'd jump and shout for victory. And we'd do it all over again not for the glory, but for the praise of Marc Summers.

Because Marc Summers was the reason the world revolved.

When he started hosting What Would You Do, we all kept on watching. After all, Marc Summers was the king of cool. That and whenever he was around, someone was getting hit with a pie.

(Side Note: Amazing that such an openly OCD person could tolerate such a messy career.)

Once I grew up, I missed seeing Marc Summers on my TV everyday.

But then I discovered the Food Network. And there's a new slew of Marc Summers programs to sate my appetite.

He shows me where Country Crock butter comes from. He teaches me about gum balls and cookies. He hosts cake and brownie competitions.

I have a new hero. And he's my old hero. And I feel seven again. And it's fantastic.

Where did that Muse go?

The tired writer entered the coffee shop. Her feet were heavy on the waxed floor. She approached the counter and ordered the biggest, most caffeine-packed drink on the menu. Then she asked for more caffeine.

As she paid for her toxic beverage, her eyes wandered to a far corner of the shop.

There sat the Muse.

The writer smiled. She hadn't seen her friend Muse in a long time.

"I should have figured I'd find you here," she said as she sat across from her inspiration. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Muse answered with a voice like liquid. "I've been laying low." Her words effortlessly flowed form her diaphragm as she lazily observed her long fingernails.

The writer sipped her coffee feeling energy run through her arms. She needed to write. Now.

So she pulled out her laptop and cued up the word processor. Muse moved closer to the writer. She caressed her hair and watched the screen as it filled with words.

Muse planted a loving kiss on the writer's cheek. Then she stood and quickly left.

The writer didn't even notice, for she was too busy creating her story. She hadn't been able to write like this in weeks.

Then, when she was nearing a pivotal part in her tale, she froze. She had no idea what should happen.

The writer looked up from the computer screen and finally noticed that Muse was no longer with her.

"Damn," the writer whispered to nobody in particular. She saved her work and closed the laptop. She sat back and sipped her now cold coffee. Where did Muse go? Did she go to another coffee shop? Was she sitting in the passenger seat of the writer's car? Perhaps she was in a nearby park.

The writer stood and walked to the door. And as she left the coffee shop, she wondered when and where her Muse would turn up next. After all, that is the nature of the Muse. She comes and goes as she pleases.

The goal was to write everyday even if it killed me.

And it did.

But have no fear, dear reader. For I shall rise from the ashes like the Phoenix!

But not like Jean Grey Phoenix. That bitch has mental issues.

My sister and I like to bastardize songs. Part 2

Gotta love hits of the 90s.

Can you guess the songs?


(1)
My person is strolling amongst the geometric byproducts of arachnids.


(2)
This man is the person who enjoys the sum of beautiful music created by us.


(3)
Inside one's personal dwelling. Sketching illustrations of hill apexes with himself at the crest. Citrusy amber celestial body.


(4)
Oh, Christian oasis of the afterlife, allow your radiance to beam below.


(5)
And I note, many things vary in accordance to the climate. Is there precipitation in your dormitory?

Censorship doesn't live here.

So you can say the word fuck here and not be judged for it.

Fuck yeah.





I'm writing this on my phone. The laptop and the wifi are having a lovers' quarrel.