Parental Irresponsibility

I love Katy Perry.  Seriously…I do.  Her tunes are bouncy, she’s beautiful in that classic sort of way and she can rock a night brace like none other.  But did you know she used to have blonde hair, a different last name and sing Jesus songs?  Talk about the cross-over of all cross-overs!

Anyway…if you have a small kid you know that out of 5 million words in a day, they’ll hone right in on the nasty inappropriate ones…repeating them loudly in church, school and grocery store check-out lines;  meanwhile, you’re left standing there trying to defend your pathetic lack of parental monitoring.  When this happens, I usually blame the public school system.

For Cali’s first three years of life, the only television channel she watched was Noggin (pre-commercials).  It was also during this time that she ate oatmeal and eggs…and never begged for stupid toys that squirt cookie dough and glow-in-the-dark paint.  I can’t really pin-point the exact time we exposed her to the other televised programming for children.  All I know is that after that, she started swilling Bubba Cola, walking like a hunchback, picking her nose and wearing peculiar things upon her head.  She also refused to eat roughage.  Truth be told, she became plumb ignorant.

(See pics below for verification)

So back to Katy Perry.  My kid is also a big fan because I have my iPod chuck full of her tunes.  We’ll have the sunroof open, cruising down Slappey Boulevard, singing about extraterrestrials and fireworks.  It was during one of these jaunts that my iPod’s battery died and we were left with nothing but talking space.  So she’s back there, slurping on a Slurpee, looking like a hillbilly when she asks:

“Mama.  What’s a menage a trois?”


“A menage a trois.  Katy Perry talked about that’s what she could have might have did last Friday night.”


And in my most brilliant parental save-a-scene to date, I replied:

“Chinese food.  It’s Chinese food.  She had Chinese food last Friday night.”

Katy…consider yourself censored.


How I Got Stupid in Minneapolis

Let me tell you how ignorant I used to be.  One time…I packed a duffel bag and hopped a plane in Columbus, Ohio…headed towards Chicago…and wound up getting stuck at the Minneapolis International Airport due to inclement weather.  The weather wasn’t ignorant.  What was ignorant was that I only had 62 cents in my pocket; no stupid food and hotel voucher mattered if I couldn’t afford the cab fare to the dang place.  It was around 7pm when I realized my flights…ALL the flights had been cancelled and wouldn’t resume until morning.

At first, it was cool.  Adrenaline pumping…taking smoke breaks outside with some cool hippies who were on their way to meet God via Delta.  There was a soccer team from somewhere in the midwest who let me share their crackers and Cheeze-Whiz.  This was prior to 9/11….so aerosol cans were waved on through.  I think.  Anyway…around 10pm the crowds got thinner and thinner and by 11pm….I was the Lone Ranger.  With my 62 cents.  Which wouldn’t even buy me a crumb because of the over-priced vending machines.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Minneapolis airport…but it’s flippin’ huge.  Especially when it’s completely empty.  I was like Christopher Columbus up in there…exploring, being nosey.  I noticed that the cleaning staff were starting to give me looks that ranged anywhere from curious to frightened.  They finally got fed up with me asking to open the doors so I could smoke…and invited me out through their special cleaning land door.

It was out here on the sidewalk that I became stupid.  Against my will.  You see, the moisture in my eyeballs froze.  No, I mean it FROZE my eyeballs wide open.  I looked perma-startled.  My snot stopped dead in its tracks.  My lungs felt like someone had poured anti-freeze down my gullet and all the while, the cleaning people stood huddled together…a safe distance from me…talking smack about me in a non-English dialect.  Hell, it could’ve been English…but by that time, I was too stupid to know.

Long story short…I was stranded in that place for 2 1/2 days.  Write that down.  Two.  And a half.  DAYS.  By the second night, the cleaners had warmed up to me….sort of.  Enough to bring me some tacos wrapped up in aluminum foil and a can of Tab.  Oh yes.  Tab.  I think they were sick of hearing about how I only had 62 cents to my name.

At any rate….I high-tailed it out of there.  But know this.  I haven’t been right since.  Not completely.  I’ve dimmed a little.  Like if you ask me, “Quick!  What’s 6 times 7?”  I’ll have to stand there for a minute and figure out what 6 times 5 is first…because I’m familiar with that….then count up from there.  So we’re looking at…oh, I dunno…a good 35 second pause.  See?  Dim.  This wasn’t so before Stupid Town.

I don’t really know how to end this stupid story…other than to say on occasion…I miss being young and stupid with only 62 cents in my pockets and no fear.  Maybe I would’ve stayed cool…had it not been for those two days in Stupid Town.

DISCLAIMER: To all those who dwell in Minneapolis and its surrounding areas…be not offended.  Be warm, people…be warm.

Pia Toscano: Another Casualty of Ignunt Voters

Just yesterday, prior to last night’s American Idol episode, I told Husband that I didn’t think Pia was going to make it much farther.  Not that I didn’t think she deserved to….because it’s obvious the girl has some mad skills.  I said this because of the voter demographics.  These are the same kids who made Jersey Shore the most popular show in the history of MTV.  So their taste and opinions are highly questionable.

Young girls these days are flat nasty.  By ‘nasty’, I mean catty….mean….haters.  Unless your eyeballs are covered in acidic residue, you can see that Pia is drop-dead gorgeous.  She’s also a bit on the reserved side.  This is no doubt interpreted as  “stuck-up, triflin’ heffer”.  This could’ve resulted in a mass texting, vowing to get rid of “HER”.  I’m telling you….these girls are ruthless.  Just sayin…..

I also think it rather cruel to tell a person they have been rejected by thousands, then hand them a microphone and tell them to sing about it.  If I were the one voted off, I’d pop Ryan in the face with the mic and head on home to promptly blog about Jacob’s crush on Casey and how Naima threatened to take Ashthon outside and beat the brakes off her.  Yeah, I’d spill all the dirt.  Screw a contract.

Anyway…it’s a shame to see Pia go.  Now we have to watch that little rat-bag Stefano for another week.  I’m gonna vote my hiney AWF next week.  I suggest you do too.  Don’t let these ignorant whipper snappers make all of us brilliant masters-of-life look like dim-wits with no moral compass.

Why Napster Can Kiss My Keister

I got a new iPod for Christmas…which was long overdue.  My old one was like those cell phones in a suitcase.  Big ‘n chunky and on my last nerve.  Up to this point, I’ve used Napster for all my music binging needs.  Thankfully iPod had the good sense to make their devices incompatible with Napster.  Kinda like taking the keys away from a sloppy drunk.

In hindsight, I can see that my criteria for choosing Napster was liken to my criteria for choosing my first husband.  I went to Jesus School and didn’t know no better.  So now I feel I must direct those wayward souls out there stumbling around in the dark, trying to find the most cost-effective way to listen to their favorite music without winding up in jail for copyright infringement.

1)  Don’t let that candy-coated “Free Trial” offer fool ya.  It’s their way of getting you into the gas-chamber without  physical violence.

2)  When “Free Trial” is over, their customer service folks are nowhere to be found.  Sort of like those moles on that Whack-a-Mole game at Chuck E. Cheese.  You know they’re there…you can see them…but you just can’t get hold of them.

3)  If you wish to cancel your account, you’re directed to call a 1-800 number and asked to follow the prompts.  Prompts that break you down emotionally and cause you to hang up just before reaching the cancellation department.  This is deliberate.

4)  When you get your credit card statement and find whack charges from Napster on there, don’t even bother calling to complain.  Even if you somehow by the grace of God get through to a customer service agent, the conversation will probably go something like this:

YOU: Why you charging me these bogus charges?!  I didn’t authorize this!

THEM: Whatever, man.  I’m fixin’ to hang up on you and change my number.

5)  And buying their songs?  Well…THAT experience is like buying a frying pan at Walmart and trying to walk out the door, only to be stopped by the security/greeter person.

WALMART GREETER:  Uh, excuse me?  You can’t leave with that frying pan.

YOU:  What?!  But I bought it!  Here’s the receipt!

WALMART GREETER:  I don’t care what you got.  I don’t even care if Baruck Mubama signed your receipt.  You can’t leave this here store with that pan.

YOU:  Oh?  Oh?  Yeah?  Well, watch me now.  You see me walking?  Yeah?  You see me walking out this door…ooop….here I go!

WALMART GREETER: Okay then…walk on.  But we got your credit card number fool.

6)  If you don’t hook up and sync your device with Napster at least once a week, they act like a disgruntled girlfriend and stop putting out.  Then they’ll leave you a snotty little message that pops up on your device saying something like, “You ain’t got no license to play NOTHING”.

7)  When and if you are able to finally cancel your account…they’ll act like the jilted lover and take all their stuff back.  Meanwhile you’re left with nothing but an inflated credit card bill and no music to make you feel better.

8.  That creepy little fox icon mascot thing of theirs can’t be trusted.

9)  Downloading their software is liken to turning Charmin toilet paper into bricks of gold.

….and the final reason why Napster can kiss my keister….

10)  The word “Napster” sounds like “Hamster” and I was traumatized as a child by a hamster named Bob who chewed off his own leg and hissed at people through two broken rotten out teeth.