It’s April 17th which can only mean one thing- Haiku Day!!
Throw some wasabi into the air and celebrate with me. You won’t regret it at all.
Now, it’s time to get your culture on, fools!
Maybe it’s the awesome weather we’re having. Maybe it’s the eleventy-millionth day of school being closed due to snow. Maybe it’s because I have a fever- the kind you can measure with an actual thermometer AND the Here’s Johnny! Jack Nicholson kind. Or maybe, just maybe it’s because I’m chemically unstable. Whatever the reason, I am taking off my gloves and I’m dropping the heavy hammer of “What the hell is wrong with you?”
As some sort of reward for bull-shittery my son came home from kindergarten yesterday with a baby tree courtesy of the MIddle Tennessee Electric Company. Strong work, electric company! Not only did you send home a tree for me to plant amidst the ice and snow-pocalypse, but you sent home the very thing that you lay slaughter to every year!!! What a concept!
We all know that once this tree gets as tall as I am that you will swoop in with your hard hats and chain saws to butcher its limbs off. Hey, I know!. Why don’t you just have my kid name a goldfish, then make us all stand in the bathroom as you flush Nemo down the fucking commode!!
Do any of your department heads talk to each other? Because I really feel like this was the product of some idiot savant in the PR department who didn’t bother to run the idea by anyone else, much less focus group it. I’d love to talk more about this matter, but you see I have a tree to kill, dreams to shatter, and time’s a waisting. Thanks again, butt holes.
Stable Mom- 35
All aboard the I Hate Brian Williams Express to Judgement Village, population: shut your damn mouths.
That’s right. I said it.
Remember the saying “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?” Well, keep that in mind before you go picking apart every word Brian Williams has reported since the beginning of time, as well as his citizenship. Damn birthers. We ALL live in glass houses. Brian Williams is just the most recent celebrity to have his reduced to rubble. Do you know what it’s like to walk on broken glass? I don’t either, but I have been camping before and I can tell you that it was terrible. Absolutely terrible. The pain he is experiencing right now is unimaginable, unless you have a REALLY creative imagination like Brian Williams.
Journalism is a thankless job in a cut-throat industry with an audience that takes no prisoners. Trust me when I say that no one was there to wipe my brow and hand me a cookie when in November 2014 I singlehandedly blew apart the hiking industry for being the giant scam that it is. Do you think those graphics created themselves? Hell no they didn’t! I spent two hours photoshopping high heels on monkeys, dammit. That was admirable as hell, but I digress.
Did Brian Williams lie to the American people? Not really. He just sprinkled a little sugar on top of his story the same way his Mama used to on his cornflakes.
Instead of shaming Brian Williams for his faults perhaps we should show some concern for his memory loss. I personally experienced a bout of memory loss after a 2012 crafting incident involving a few cans of spray paint and some crazy glue. Sure, I looked fine on the outside- in fact I looked great, but I couldn’t remember my kid’s name for days. Has anyone stopped to think that his memory problems just might be due to head trauma he received in 2003 when the Chinook helicopter he was riding in… Oh, I see what you’re saying.
There are a considerable number of phrases that cause me to cringe a little, but some are worse than others. Here are the top five things I hate hearing.
It’s pretty apparent that the older I get, the less I’m able to tolerate. However, I’m not the only one experiencing intolerance with aging. So spill it. I want to hear what grinds your gears? What phrases, cliches, or otherwise annoying activities make you cringe? There are no wrong answers. Go!
After last year’s epic holiday card, I was under a lot of pressure to come up with something of equal, or better value. It was put up, or shut up time.
However, due to several first-world problems I was unable to get the Wescott family holiday card created and mailed in a timely manner. Instead, I’m sending it to everyone on the interwebs, not to mention saving eleventy-hundred dollars on postage.
From everyone here at Loripalooza (aka me and my dog, Baxter who is currently just lying on the sofa and licking the spot where his balls used to be) want to wish you and your loved ones a happy EVERYTHING this holiday season.
LET THE FIGGY PUDDING COMMENCE!
There are several things that really chap my ass, but being such a soft-spoken, girl-next-door type, I usually hold my tongue (see Stupid Suburban Problems and Moms Against Sexy Faces). However, most likely due to my menstrual cycle I have absolutely had it with hiking.
For centuries Homo sapiens have participated in this activity without need for fancy weatherproof boots, or collapsible, aluminum trekking poles. You know what they called it? They called it fucking walking! And they didn’t even brag about it.
So how did this multi-million dollar industry get started?
I’m glad you asked.
It began as a typical Tuesday in the early 1900’s when a third floor building that housed the headquarters for Millican’s Mustache Wax, Inc. encountered an elevator problem. Maintenance was called and it was estimated that the elevator could be out of operation for up to an hour.
Twelve men wearing suits and wingtip shoes took the stairs and ascended to the third floor on foot for the first time. As they rubbed their weary feet and scratched their heads being careful not to muss their heavily waxed coifs, one of them had a brilliant idea.
You know that thing we just did that poor people do all the time? Let’s make it into a sport. We could sell special shoes and make a fortune!
Mr. Merrell, the obese, mouth-breathing CFO having just walked in the door because he actually waited on the elevator to be fixed, chimed in. “Well, I could never do that. Not without a cane, or a backpack full of snacks.”
And that is how hiking came to be. As fortune would have it, Theodore Roosevelt would soon be gallivanting all over the country declaring National Parks everywhere he turned. This only served to reinforce the concept of walking with canes, special shoes and of course, snacks.
Call it a sport if you want to, but find me a pain-clinic patient with an appointment on the other side of town and a car that won’t start and I’ll show you the most extreme hiking you’ve ever seen. No shoes required.
All this typing has made me hungry. I think I’ll hike downstairs and make myself a snack.
Baxter turned ten-years-old yesterday and he insisted on making it a big to do.
Now, I’m not one to judge, but I think he let things get out of hand. I made the decision to shut it down after one of the neighbors called the cops. He was clearly angry at me and yelled something about me not being his real Mom before passing out on the couch.
I came right out and this morning and asked him about the three-legged labradoodle I saw him hitting on before the cops showed up. She wasn’t even wearing a collar. Skank.
I’m not sure how much he will remember from last night, but I hope his memories are fond ones. You do only turn ten once.