Pica: SHUT UP!  I don’t hear you.  LALALALA!

For more cat-bloggy goodness, go to the Friday Ark today and the Carnival of the Cats on Sunday.

*bimbles off*

I’ve never cared much for the artist Marilyn Manson. Liked a lot of his songs, but never got into the whole “the world is persecuting me, therefore I must tape my penis and wear black eyeliner” approach to fame. Too much self-absorbed meme-ism.

However, in an interview with Time.com, he says this regarding the underlying theme of his upcoming album:

And this record is really about loss. The last album had a lot of romantic, Shakespearean ideals attached to the music, like “The world doesn’t understand us. Let’s die together.” Now? This record is more about, “If you say you’ll be with me until I die and then you change your mind, you should run very fast. Because I’ll kill you.”

Okay, now THAT is an attitude I can get behind.

*bimbles off*

It’s amazing what the idea of one Hispanic woman with power can do to the wingnuttia, eh?  I mean, seriously… those people need to take a break before they blow a blood vessel or something.

Apparently, Rushie – otherwise known as the King of the Republican Empire – thinks Sonia Sotomayor is racist, because President Obama is racist… or a reverse racist… or something. But, you know, Oxycontin can make it so hard to think straight.

Mike Huckabee has renamed her Maria, because all Hispanic women are named Maria… just like his maid, right?

And, Glenn Beck – Mr. Classy – wondered on Twitter if the “Messiah” (what the wingnuts insist on calling our President) has healed Sotomayor of her diabetes.  No and apparently no one has cured you of being an asshat, Mr. Beck.

She has also been accused of being “a Latina single mother.” This will come as a surprise to the children she does not have.

I’m of course leaving out all the blatantly racist filth spreading like wildfire through the conservative blogsphere, because as good, white, Republican christians everywhere know, Hispanic women should stay in Mexico where they belong. Especially if they are Puerto Rican.

*bimbles off*

Okay. Let me get this straight. You two people decide you are going to pimp out your children on a “reality television” show for all the money and fame you can possibly wrench out of their cute, innocent little faces. You let cameras follow their every cry, joy, difficulty and confusion in the name of nannies, tummy tucks, new hair, magazines covers and interviews and a big, fat bank account.

But, when your marriage hits a rough spot, you want your goddamned privacy?  You want the cameras to go away? You cry and whine about the invasion into your private life even as you continue with this nauseating television show… essentially turning the entire nation into your marriage counselor as you air your differences in prime time?

I’m terribly sorry, but it’s hard to work up empathy for two such absolute fame whores. The only people I feel sorry for are your children, who are going to end up in therapy before they are teen-agers.

*bimbles off*

Pixel, Pica and Coby:  Ready for the three-day weekend.

For more cat-bloggy goodness, go to the Friday Ark today and the Carnival of the Cats on Sunday.

*bimbles off*

Okay, someone please explain to me the weirdness that is proposing in public?  I don’t mean, the guy (or girl… we are all equal kittens here) takes his/her significant other to dinner, gets appropriately tipsy and pops the question over a pricey dessert.

I mean, pledging your troth on the football stadium’s jumbo-tron, through sky writing or, as I witnessed a few nights ago, at a frickin’ comedy club. Because nothing says sweet memories like approximately 150 drunk people screaming “SAY YES, DAMNIT” as a white-hot spotlight reveals that you, indeed, should have picked a less sheer fabric to wear that evening.

And, not just any comedy club, but one of those improv places that serves as a mating call to all loud, drunk, college-aged, self-obsessed memes within a 50 miles radius. Like the waste of skin sitting behind us who continually burped loudly into the back of my head and, when the emcee would ask for us to yell out a hobby, would scream “Masturbation!”  Yeah, ladies, he’s free.

I didn’t want to go, to be honest. If there is one thing I hate worse than microphones, it’s a stage. Being on a stage with a microphone. Being on a stage with a microphone, a spotlight and a group of people staring at you. Yeah, just stab me now. Repeatedly. But, JS’s best friend DT kept insisting it would be fun and we looked way too normal to be picked on.

I’ll pause for the laughter to die down.

The guys on stage were pretty good and, true to DT’s word, no spotlight suddenly appeared on the back of my head, followed by the emcee asking “And, what’s your name?”  Which would have been followed by “My name is Stick that Mic up your Ass, motherfucker.”

So. We’re sailing along through this skit where the guys are acting out a scene from “Grease” through nonsensical language (improv humor is ALL about being there) and the groom-to-be had volunteered to be in the skit. Said gentlemen also “volunteered” his cute bride-to-be. Volunteered meaning he just grabbed her arm and dragged her onstage. Obviously, she only weighed 90 pounds. If it was me, I would have dug in my heels so hard, JS would have had to have his shoulder replaced.

So, again. Cute, soon-to-be engaged couple are onstage. She, while slightly tipsy, has enough sense to realize her darling little outfit wasn’t made for the stage and keeps pressing the fabric to her sides, as if that’s going to make the sheer material any thicker. The emcee would call out the guys’ names randomly to say the lines, so he says “And, I think Brian has the next line.”  Brian then pulls the ring out of his pocket, gets down one knee and asks… erm… whatsername to marry him. Just a small intimate moment with a theater full of rowdy, drunk friends. Rowdy, drunk and stupid friends I might add, as some freak in the audience didn’t know that “Free Bird” wasn’t a Led Zepplin song.

She said yes and broke down into hysterical tears. They hugged. We cheered. The emcee then politely herded them offstage and out of the room for “a private moment and a free drink.”

Private? Excuse me? Privacy walked out the door several minutes ago when the aforementioned gentleman sitting behind me yelled “OH, FUCK YEAH, MAN! MARRY THAT PIECE OF ASS!”

I’m not kidding.

I just don’t get it. I really don’t. Maybe it’s because mine and JS’s rather laid-back approach to entire our relationship culminated in him saying “You know, we’ve lived together for two years. Should we think about getting married?” I replied, “Yeah, sure” and a couple of months later, we were playing Blackjack in Vegas after having just been wed at A Little White Chapel. In under an hour.

I never cared for a ring or the whole big to-do surrounding Being Engaged. But, to each his or her own and, for some, it is very important. Like my youngest sister. Who is officially Engaged. That’s with with a capital E, people. Trust me, it’s big. Thank goodness I’m only a bridesmaid this time and have escaped any wedding responsibilities except buying a dress and showing up. Because this is going to be the mother of all weddings. Fuck Celine Dion and her weird headgear. This will be epic. You have been warned.

But, I digress.

Proposals… shouldn’t such a life-changing question have a little more… I dunno… PRIVACY to it? Unless you’re Britney Spears or Donald Trump, marriage is an important commitment that we real people don’t take lightly. I would think you’d want to start it with more poignancy than your drunken best friend using her camera phone to video you standing awkwardly on improv stage, thereby ensuring the whole thing will end up on Youtube later that night.

There are just some things that don’t need an audience. Marriage proposal. Giving birth. Trying on a swimsuit.

Okay, so some things don’t need a mirror either.

*bimbles off*

It’s official. I will watch ANYTHING that has Hugh Jackman in it. Including snippets of his performance in “The Boy from Oz” on youtube. This really can’t be healthy.

And, after a short conversation with KN (”You do know we get to see him nekkid, right?”), we’ll be caravaning to see “X-Men Origins: Wolverine” this Saturday. Me, JS, KN and the Incredible Mr. Stephen will be taking in two hours of mediocre filmmaking so I can see Hugh Jackman’s ass. Although, that kid who plays Gambit looks promising. Could be that I just have a weakness for men with long hair. If they have long hair and play pirates and happen to be Johnny Depp, that’s all the better.

The review for the movie are tepid, at best. Wandering plot line, too many characters, cheesy affects, wasting the talent.

Blah, blah, blah.

Hugh Jackman. Wife beater. ‘Nuff said.

*bimbles off*

Very few things in this life give me pause. Seriously. You want to shock me, you’d better have a plan. In triplicate.

Unless you’re a doctor telling  me to put K-Y lubricant in my nose. With a Q-tip.

I’m not joking.

Today, while visiting with my allergy doctor, he asked if I had had any particular problems since I started my allergy shot regimen. Somehow we went from allergies to lubricant, startlingly fast.

ME:  “Well, I’ve had some bleeding off and on. Not like a nosebleed, just when I blow my nose and such.”

DOCTOR: “Okay. That’s normal with someone who has chronic problems like yours. If the wind is stirring up allergens, that could be a problem.”

ME:  “Right.”

DOCTOR:  “I wouldn’t worry about it unless it becomes a daily occurence. The best thing to do is coat the inside of your nose so it doesn’t become irritated.”

ME:  “Umhm.”

DOCTOR: “Just put some K-Y jelly on a Q-tip and coat the inside of your nose twice a day and that should help.”

ME:  *brains comes to screeching halt*  “Um…. what?”

DOCTOR: “You see if you coat….”

ME: “Did you just say K-Y jelly?”

DOCTOR: “Yes. You see…”

ME:  ” K-Y jelly in my nose? Are you serious?”

Now, during this whole conversation, the man was just carrying as if we were discussing a brand of tissue. No change in tone, no nothing. It was like I had jumped to another planet where they apply lubricant to your nose and mayonnaise on your feet.

ME:  “I mean, is K-Y my only option? Because I can’t wait to hear the conversation when I go home with a bottle of lube and tell my husband not to touch it, it’s for my nose.”

DOCTOR:  “Oh, well, yes, if you are uncomfortable using that, you can use Vaseline. Just make sure it’s a very thin coat of it. If you use too much, it can clump and get in your lungs.”

If I’m UNCOMFORTABLE with it? Excuse me? I’m not uncomfortable with anything except JS sniggering in the background while I roll a Q-tip laced with K-Y around in my nostrils. I mean, explaining how the Q-tip ended up in his eyeball is going to be hard to explain at the emergency room.

On the other hand, I don’t relish the thought of ending of the hospital with “petroleum jelly clumps in the lungs” on my chart and the words “Village Idiot” on my wristband either.

So, we came to an agreement. I can use the Vaseline if I’m very, very careful about applying a very, very thin layer inside my nose.

This is good because I already have e-mails from my sensitive husband stating one should never stick large objects up one’s nostrils.

Yeah, well… I know where he sleeps.

*bimbles off*

“>

20 years ago… when I was young and drunk.

*sighs*