There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


I'm on LoonAway, myself.

I have been forced by you, America, to throw my support behind Elliot Yamin in spite of his frightening dentition and snaggle toothedness (I pretend that he’s British and then it all makes more sense), because, hello? Katherine “Howl Like a Bad Christina Aguilera Impersonator” McPhee? She has a fabulous future starring in the Springfield High versions of Man of La Mancha for decades to come. That other thing? I can’t stand to even LOOK at him for a whole song, much less listen.

But let me tell ya… Unless you’ve had real tragedy visit you recently, you didn’t have as bad a weekend as Curly Sue. But I’ve already gotten ahead of myself….

Imagine this: You have been invited to a barbeque (or Bar-B-Q) at the home of a co-worker, along with other co-workers. Said hostess is as crazy as a shit house rat, an exhibitionist who pulls her clothes off at the drop of whatever, but the presence of others lends you hope for a sane experience. Your significant other has gone off to visit his ailing grandmother, so you’re on your own for this one. After a disappointing trip to Home Depot during which you abandoned your project supplies on a flat-bed cart and went to drink Margaritas, you returned home to prepare for the bbq. You prepare sangria (yum!) and angel food cupcakes (in the spirit of full exposure, I first typed angle food) with some sort of lemon orgasm icing (or at least that’s how I remember it). Sifting was required. Sifting!! Do you get it? That’s a lot of effort, y’all.

So you purty yourself up just enough (not too much!), and head off to the event. Good friends, good food, at the home of a loon, but still…

So, you arrive, pitcher of delicious sangria in one hand! Angel food cupcakes with lemon icing and edible flowers in the other hand! Hi! I’m here!

And you’re greeted with the news that the bbq has been cancelled. But there are still people there! So, they invite you in, and you’re like all confused-y and wondering what is going on, and then someone tells you that you have stumbled into… an intervention! The bbq was cancelled and they tried to call or something or did they leave a message? Or not? Anyhoo… you’ve been sucked into an intervention for someone’s inappropriate sexual behavior and “acting out.” With her boyfriend there! And people tell horrific stories of sexual indiscretions that involve other co-workers that you have to work with, and then the intervene-ees are given the assignment of telling the slutty girl when she is being slutty! “Hi! I’m here for the barbeque!” “Oh, OK, it’s your job to tell this asshat that she is being inappropriate when she takes her shirt off at lunchtime!” Because she didn’t already know that it was not exactly what everyone else does? That’s healthy. What about SELF-control? What about SELF-respect?

All I have to say about the whole mess is that is sounded like a monumental waste of excellent cupcakes.

As for my weekend, I was gifted with both flowers and cheese for Mother’s Day. That says a lot, doesn’t it? Maybe too much…

A moment of boasting about my Alma Mater, which is featured in Playboy this month as the top party school in the country (I’m telling you, it was not easy). Also, a couple of months ago, the alumni magazine featured several pages about the dairy science department and all of the delicious products thereof (ice cream! Cheese!), and now this month there are several articles about the legendary Fudge Bottom Pie. I never stood a chance.

I’ve been seeing a lot of commercials for some sort of pharmaceutical called Endemol, which is creeping my shit out completely. Because there are these people called Nomenclature Consultants who come up with the names of consumer products, like Jell-O, which has led to an entire generation of people who can’t spell the word “gel” and insist upon saying that a situation or substance “jelled,” Paxil, which leads one to peaceful feelings, or Viagra, which makes you both vital and have the volume of a major waterfall when you feel the healing power of the divine in your weener. Or of Divine. So when you see an Acura, you know that accuracy is involved in its manufacture. Or when you drive a Pathfinder, you’ll never get lost. So what happens when you take Endemol? I conclude that one goes on a murderous rampage. End ‘em all.

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