Doombots and Prostitots: The Story of Islands of Adventure

Having exhausted all opportunities in Disney's own parks over the past two weeks, yesterday we adventured to Universal's Islands of Adventure (bee tee dubble ewe, if you find that you've got 90 dollars just burning a hole in your pocket that you plan on paper shredding or flushing, kick it up a notch. Adventure to this park. It's basically the same thing...only this version comes with 3 hour lines per attraction.)

...but that's not the point of today's post. More importantly, I'd like to issue an 80s style PSA regarding parents and their choices of clothing (or...rather...lack thereof) for their little girls. Letting your child walk around in a see through training bra while you carry her shirt doesn't constitute good parenting. It makes you look like a careless dolt and your daughter look like a pre-pubescent, pre-adolescent trollop. Even less sexy is allowing your 4 year old to strut about in a "bikini" top comprised of two teensie tiny triangles (high five for alliteration!) showing off the goodies she won't develop for another 8-10 years. Finally, letting your 8-9 year old daughter walk around TOPLESS in a crowded park (not Islands of Adventure per se...this was encountered on today's Blizzard Beach adventure) should garner you jail time. If not jail time, then at least a swift kick in the teeth. And if that still isn't possible...at least know that I'm currently brandishing my fist at you. You deserve it for turning your baby girl into a pedophile's wet dream.

...Whew. I'm tired. And yes, I just flew the "The More You Know" star over my head.

Best. Shirt. EVER.

To preface, this post is for those of you who remember the 90s. A simpler time. A magical time. A time when we played hopscotch instead of Xbox. A time when we had real friends in real life that we had actually met...not creepy old men who knew a friend of a friend of a friend of a great aunt of a kid who may or may not have sat next to us in one class in junior high...who was just lucky enough to rekindle our :ahem: deep friendship through Facebook's "people you may know" stalker button. A time when caffeine addiction was running rampant through California high schools. A time when said addiction was documented by one ridiculously attractive fake blonde boy and his cell phone which was roughly the size of my arm.

Which brings me to the best shirt ever, the inspiration for this very post. I happened to be in Epcot a few nights ago trolling the grounds between one side of the World Showcase and the other. As I was crossing the bridge between France (BOO Frenchies!) and England (YAY Brits!), there it was...the BEST.SHIRT.EVER.

I was momentarily shocked and awed by the beauty standing before me. Simplistic in its design, the shirt featured nothing more than a bottle of caffeine pills surrounded by the words "I'm so excited. I'm so SCARED." Immediately, I was in love, and transported back to the time when 7 year olds didn't weigh 145 pounds. It was like sex...only 90s-er.

With that, I conclude this post. I hope it managed to transport you all back to a better time. A simpler time. A time when Jessie Spano went to rehab for caffeine pills.

Cheers.

I Am My Own Darwin Award.

If we've known each other for over five minutes, or if you've ever had a conversation with me, it's pretty likely that you've heard me utter the phrase "I'm the dumbest smart person ever" or something to that effect. In fact, you've probably heard it on a regular basis because, well, I'm the dumbest smart person ever.

What brought this on in blog form, you might ask, given that this is coming from the lady who once managed to cut herself on bread. Why now? Why this day? Well, while vacuuming my room two days ago I somehow managed to wham my outer calf into my bed post and now I'm sporting a super sexy bright blue bruise just in time for vacation. Granted, this probably doesn't seem out of the ordinary...a lot of people smack into their bedposts. However, my bed post is only 4 inches off the floor on a good day. And since I'm taller than 3'9", there's really no physiological reason I should have managed to whack my calf into my midget...er..."little person" bed. Now I just look like I'm dating an abusive Keebler Elf who is six inches tall and views calf abuse as his only way out of his dead end job, nagging mother, alcohol problem, and calf kid he's about to father.

Sigh. (Yes, I just threw a sigh in there for good measure.) I may be bruised, but at least my grammar is flawless.

An Open Letter to Guys with Facial Hair.

Dear Guys with Facial Hair,*


*This includes all of you with beards, goatees, sideburns, moustaches, or some weird yet sexy combination of the latter two like Joe Cocker rocked circa 1969. This excludes all you with unibrows and freaky chin pubes. Those aren't facial hair. Those are just scary.

Disclaimer aside, and inspired by Steppenwolf (the band, not the book, because really, who reads when there's classic rock to be had), I wanted to thank you. With the plague of Justin Biebers and other pre-pubescent looking, hairless boys masquerading as males, it's time to thank you for stepping up to the plate, spitting in the face of femnazis (lest they steal your hair in addition to your balls), and growing your manly man hair, just as nature and Grizzly Addams intended.

I'm not sure when it got cool for men to no longer look like men. Once upon a time, facial hair was revered. Cavemen had it. General Grant had it. And then the 60s happened... and everyone had it. And it was good. And men looked like men.

Then, somewhere down the line, it was decided that men should be as clean shaven and hairless as their lady counterparts. Even the Brawny Man was unceremoniously stripped of his man fur. And that was sad, because, well... beards are sexy and moustaches are neat and sideburns are basically the coolest thing ever. Unless they're on the face of that one chick I went to high school with.

So, rather than do my annotated bibliographies for work, I decided I'd applaud you manly men. Be fruitful and multiply, and fur-ify, and spread your furry man love throughout the land.

Thanks guys,
<3 Me

The Cookie Monster, Fred Durst, and Everything in Between

Recently I became fixated with a dress I saw in JC Penney's. Now, understand that I don't typically fixate on a single article of clothing- especially in our modern world of skank-and-ho couture. However, this dress stood apart from the others. It was cute. It was black and white. It was on sale. It was not in my size. Disappointed, I decided to troll New Jersey for this magical dress. Four Penney's-es later, I finally found it.

The above really has nothing to do with the rest of this post. I just really like that dress.

Adult-onset ADD aside, as I was trolling said Penney's aisles, I came across a shirt in the juniors department that said "I did it all for the cookie" and featured the one, the only, the Cookie Monster, dressed head to toe as Fred Durst.

As I stood, staring, as one stares at a four car pileup or train derailment, I wondered to myself...was the target audience of this shirt even BORN when Fred Durst was doing it all for the... [(cookie - c) + n]? (She CAN do math!) And was Nookie REALLY that much of a cultural epiphany that we're still shirting about it 11 years later? And have I mentioned how much I LOVE my new dress?

Now I'm not saying the juniors department is reserved solely for the prostitot crowd (it's also a marvelous option for midgets like me who just never felt compelled to grow into the size of normal adults who can wear normal adult clothes)...but a Cookie Monster Fred Durst? Come the fuck on.

Baby Got Black: The Sequel

This afternoon, I almost stole a black baby from a local burger joint. Now now, I know what you're all thinking: "Didn't she almost steal a black baby from a city bus once? What in G-d's good name is wrong with this girl?" Before I get pegged as a crazy would-be baby thieveress, let me reiterate my dislike of children. Further, I didn't ACTUALLY almost steal him. I would never thieve a child (a pan of fresh baked Ghiradelli brownies, maybe. But that is another story for another day when I finally give up on my arteries.) In fact, 99.9% of them annoy the crap out of me. It just happens that Montclair is apparently populated with hoards of the most adorable black babies the world has ever seen.

Today's baby was named Bishop (which begs the question of who ACTUALLY names their child "Bishop"...you know...like the chess piece? I guess? But I digress) and he was one year old (strangers also like to tell me the life stories of themselves and their children; it happens at least 5 times each day.) He was walking around the burger joint with his mom as his dad got their food ready (go ahead, everyone have a good laugh that the vegetarian was in a burger joint, because no one has yet realized that veggie burgers have been around for at least fifteen years. Hardy har har), and then tried to sit across from me at my table. The determination on his face was priceless...until his mom yanked him away, apologized, and took him back to their table.

It was mildly heartbreaking. But still not as much as when they discontinued all-banana Tootsie Roll pops.

And Now for Something Completely Different.

Like snow. To that end, I've decided to petition Ms. Nature for a redress of grievances (a.k.a. let's send the mother of all mothers a bitchy rambling piece of brain trash composed as the clock approached midnight):

I have to hand it to you, Mother Nature. You've really gotten all sorts of creative this winter. We've had blizzards, on top of sleet, on top of dustings, on top of more blizzards. I have to tell you, I'm not thrilled. You see, dear Mother Nature, I'm really not a fan of this mayhem you've chosen to unleash on our fair state. I understand that it's New Jersey and if I hate snow, I should move south. But, Mother Nature, what you don't seem to realize is that I'm scared of the following things: palmetto bugs; fatback; and kissing cousins. I just don't think I'd last too long in those states we should have just let secede.

Furthermore, I understand that snow is good because it blah blah blah something about global warming. In the interest of being fully candid, though, I must tell you that your behavior this season is really just making me want to drink from disposable plastic water bottles while driving the new SUV I'm going to purchase just to spite you.

Bitter? I wouldn't call it bitter. I'd call it time for sunshine before I crawl into a hole and don't emerge until June, when it will be time for Mountain Jam, and my soul will no longer be weeping.

Mother Nature, please just stop. Save the snow for those polar bears who really need it, and give me back my 70 degree Februaries.

Slowly losing it,
Me.