If you are a Joss Whedon fan via the Firefly TV series that you watched nonstop from beginning to end on DVD, or if you lusted after Firefly's Nathan Fillion and must now watch him in everything he does (e.g., Waitress) even though he has that flat face thing going on, or if you performed with Felicia Day in improvisational theatre and now see her on all those USPS commercials and caught her on that wierd and awful Little House on the Prairie Gone to Hell movie and you've been waiting for her to appear in something cool, and you like Neil Patrick Harris okay, but you could take him or leave him, then you simply MUST catch Joss Whedon's latest three-act venture called Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.
You may have a heard about it somewhere, but didn't quite catch the name right and spent all day Googling Mr. Horrible instead of Dr. Horrible, losing your opportunity forever, giving up and completely forgetting about it until you stumble across its mention on Word Happy and then you thank your lucky stars. Thank you, stars! Because now you can bask in your obsession that is Nathon Fillion. You can drown in your jealousy of Felicia Day. You can think about how that could have been you in Captain Hammer's arms, crushing your lips against his flat face. That could have been you singing in this hysterically quirky and creatively absurd semi-musical.
You can watch all three episodes on hulu.com, or you can go to the Dr. Horrible website. You can even download it from iTunes if you want to be a sucker and pay for it.
And then you can tell me how it was, because I'm not really all that interested in seeing it.
And from the Thank You Sir May I Have Another Department...
If you're into throwing yourself to the lions, the blog review site Ask And Ye Shall Receive will brutally, but honestly rip your website apart, critiquing it until it squeals. They'll bruise your ego, and undo all the flattery you've ever received from your friends. And they'll do it for FREE!
On this site, I've seen such biting comments as:
"I’ve had more fun falling ribs-first onto a fence than I was having cobbling together this review"
or
"Next to lame, in the dictionary? There is a picture of this blog."
or
"This is the most pathetically incompetent attempt at "masterful entertainment" that I've ever seen."
Did I mention that it was free?
After I witnessed the cruel harshness toward bloggers and their pride and joy, I thought, "Sign me up!"
Click here to see the review of NGIP and you can tell me (and/or them) what you think.
* * * NGIP Shout Out * * *
Speaking of nonsequitors and the people who blog about them, Stephanie over at No Cleaning Here gives us a brief tour of her local county fair. Stephanie has also been so kind as to add NGIP to her "Favorite Funny Blogs" blog roll. Thanks, Steph!
Priorities, Schmiorities
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Labels:
shameless self-promos,
shout out
I spend a great deal of my leisure time ignoring my husband while playing on the computer, talking to YOU people. He'll bounce into my office at home, asking me if I want to go to Starbucks, or go to Tiffany's so I can "pick something out", or tell me that his alien abduction is scheduled for 10pm and not to wait up, and I invariably reply: "Did you say something?"
And yet, he still supports my blogging. And burps my computer when it's gassy.
I came back from L.A. recently and he had designed and ordered these for me:
I know!
Just for that, I think I will have dinner with him tomorrow, rather than throwing whatever gourmet meal he's spent hours preparing onto a plate and taking it into my office. I might even remove the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging outside my office door.
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUT * * *
Mahala over at Hidden Mahala lives in a place called Frog Pond Holler. Which makes for great blog fodder. When was the last time you read something like, "Who puts loose weiners in the freezer?". For a good laugh, head over to her post entitled, Freezer Surprises and Wrestling Matches. Thank you, Mahala for adding NGIP to your blog roll!
And yet, he still supports my blogging. And burps my computer when it's gassy.
I came back from L.A. recently and he had designed and ordered these for me:
I know!
Just for that, I think I will have dinner with him tomorrow, rather than throwing whatever gourmet meal he's spent hours preparing onto a plate and taking it into my office. I might even remove the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging outside my office door.
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUT * * *
Mahala over at Hidden Mahala lives in a place called Frog Pond Holler. Which makes for great blog fodder. When was the last time you read something like, "Who puts loose weiners in the freezer?". For a good laugh, head over to her post entitled, Freezer Surprises and Wrestling Matches. Thank you, Mahala for adding NGIP to your blog roll!
NGIP Spills It Over At Merlotmom
I'm blogsitting for Merlotmom today while she's in Japan and you know what THAT means! PARTY AT MERLOTMOM'S! Everybody follow me over there; you people in the back can just keep your eye on this little doo-hickey on a stick that I'm holding up way out here in front, or just follow the crowd.
By the way, there's a wine cellar. And since I'm guest blogging and drinking and can't keep my big trap shut, I reward you for that extra click by divulging a big secret about Merlotmom. So, if you decide to blab it to the rest of the world, don't mention my name. The post is entitled: Guest Blogger Makes Herself at Home. And Spills.
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
Georgie over at Confessions Of... has a sister she calls The Faloozie - I'm sure it comes from love. The Faloozie sent her a funny little piece that may hit a little too close to home for us bloggers. It's called A Living Will and it's pretty dang funny. WARNING: If you are in your office, or the baby has finally, by the grace of God, fallen asleep, turn down your volume before heading over there. At press time, I got blasted by The Scorpions. Listening to her playlist may bring visions of Hair Bands and Flashdance and MTV (back when they used to play music videos) and all things 80s. Plus a little Gwen and Beyonce thrown in for good measure. A big THANK YOU to Georgie for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll!
An NYC friend of mine got a new puppy: a Vizsla. I'd never heard of them before and suddenly it seems as though they are popping up all over the place. (Is there some psychological term for that phenomenon of things you thought never existed before but were there all along, you just became sensitized to it?) Apparently, these dogs are even blogging. Dennis The Visla of Dennis' Diary of Destruction is such a dog. His spelling is atrocious, but he's a dog fer chrissakes! This mattress-eating dog's latest adventure begins with a post called hay, thats my bed!!! beginning with Dennis The Vizsla's discovery of gophers making off with his mattress. This may be a job for The Mattress Police! Thank you, little doggie, for adding NGIP to your blog roll!
By the way, there's a wine cellar. And since I'm guest blogging and drinking and can't keep my big trap shut, I reward you for that extra click by divulging a big secret about Merlotmom. So, if you decide to blab it to the rest of the world, don't mention my name. The post is entitled: Guest Blogger Makes Herself at Home. And Spills.
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
Georgie over at Confessions Of... has a sister she calls The Faloozie - I'm sure it comes from love. The Faloozie sent her a funny little piece that may hit a little too close to home for us bloggers. It's called A Living Will and it's pretty dang funny. WARNING: If you are in your office, or the baby has finally, by the grace of God, fallen asleep, turn down your volume before heading over there. At press time, I got blasted by The Scorpions. Listening to her playlist may bring visions of Hair Bands and Flashdance and MTV (back when they used to play music videos) and all things 80s. Plus a little Gwen and Beyonce thrown in for good measure. A big THANK YOU to Georgie for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll!
An NYC friend of mine got a new puppy: a Vizsla. I'd never heard of them before and suddenly it seems as though they are popping up all over the place. (Is there some psychological term for that phenomenon of things you thought never existed before but were there all along, you just became sensitized to it?) Apparently, these dogs are even blogging. Dennis The Visla of Dennis' Diary of Destruction is such a dog. His spelling is atrocious, but he's a dog fer chrissakes! This mattress-eating dog's latest adventure begins with a post called hay, thats my bed!!! beginning with Dennis The Vizsla's discovery of gophers making off with his mattress. This may be a job for The Mattress Police! Thank you, little doggie, for adding NGIP to your blog roll!
A Small Case of Attempted Murder
Do kids run away any more? I'm talking about the silly seven-year-old kind. Not the teenage, steal your mom's cookie money, hop on a bus to Laughlin, Nevada, turn a few thousand tricks and come back home pregnant and tweaking. Not that kind. Ick.
We kids were playing at some girl's house down the street from ours. I don't remember her name, so let's call her Agnes. I coveted Agnes' bike and it must have shown because she let me ride it, as long as I stayed in the driveway which ran down the side of the house. The bike was a little big for me, so when her little brother stood in my path, I mowed him down, unable to brake or steer clear of the kid. He cried. I jumped off the bike, happily turning the weapon over to Agnes. As panic and overwhelming guilt flooded my senses, some sort of fight-or-flight response took over and like a weasel, I skulked away.
I was a fugitive. On the lam. I wandered around the neighborhood, too scared to go home and face the consequences of attempted murder. Mortifying images danced around my head: confrontation with both sets of parents, our family becoming the shunned ones, jail, and OHMYGOD, ... probably an apology! There was no way I could face the victim's family.
Adreneline hopped, skipped and jumped through my body. I turned down this street and went down that alley. Where could I go? I was seven and had never traveled by foot more than four blocks to school. I did not do well with the unknown, so I sat on the sidewalk at the edge of my frontier and I shook and cried. I think I was stalling, sure that my parents would have found out by now and might be looking for me. I wanted my mommy but at the same time, I couldn't face her. She would be ashamed of me and that made me feel even worse about the whole ordeal. It would be easier if someone just caught me.
Fifteen or twenty minutes must have passed since the tragic incident when I heard the dull roar of my father's tow truck coming down the street. He pulled up next to me and I left my fate in his hands.
"Come on," he said.
The judge was lenient. I was released on my own recognizance and apologized to poor little Timmy (or whatever his name was) after being told by his mother that he required however many stitches on his face. Her feeble attempts to make me feel bad about what I'd done were puny and tardy. I was embarrassed and guilt-ridden beyond her wildest dreams.
And that was the end of it. This was, after all, the 70s, before people sued the crap out of each other for everything. Back then, shit just happened. You got your nose rubbed in it and then you moved on. Judgment was rendered by parents and neighbors, for free. Not courtrooms and lawyers, for thirty percent.
To give you an idea of my expansive journey that day, I've drawn a map:
Yep. A veritable Homerian Odyssey, that one.
(This childhood memory was dislodged by Alicia's childhood adventure story at Pleasing Procrastinator. I even lifted her map idea.)
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
Speaking of childhood memories, Meg of Prefers Her Fantasy Life , who has generously added Nanny Goats to her blog roll, recently had me on the floor laughing with her post entitled Teen's First Mammary. This post explores that whole "The-family-that-works-together..." thing. And it reveals how Newsweek magazine has insidiously evolved into a Playboy competitor, right under Tipper Gore's nose!
And while we are going on about boobs, Sandra over at My Girls has a post entitled More Boob Squishing. No, the girls in "My Girls" do not refer to her boobs. Now if you wish for a break from boobs, you might like to check out her recipe for Texas Caviar. What is Texas Caviar? Well, go look! Sandra's claim to Nanny Goats fame is that the NGIP banner picture was taken in her backyard. Wow, she sure has a big backyard! And with goats! NGIP thanks My Girls for adding NGIP to her blog roll.
We kids were playing at some girl's house down the street from ours. I don't remember her name, so let's call her Agnes. I coveted Agnes' bike and it must have shown because she let me ride it, as long as I stayed in the driveway which ran down the side of the house. The bike was a little big for me, so when her little brother stood in my path, I mowed him down, unable to brake or steer clear of the kid. He cried. I jumped off the bike, happily turning the weapon over to Agnes. As panic and overwhelming guilt flooded my senses, some sort of fight-or-flight response took over and like a weasel, I skulked away.
I was a fugitive. On the lam. I wandered around the neighborhood, too scared to go home and face the consequences of attempted murder. Mortifying images danced around my head: confrontation with both sets of parents, our family becoming the shunned ones, jail, and OHMYGOD, ... probably an apology! There was no way I could face the victim's family.
Adreneline hopped, skipped and jumped through my body. I turned down this street and went down that alley. Where could I go? I was seven and had never traveled by foot more than four blocks to school. I did not do well with the unknown, so I sat on the sidewalk at the edge of my frontier and I shook and cried. I think I was stalling, sure that my parents would have found out by now and might be looking for me. I wanted my mommy but at the same time, I couldn't face her. She would be ashamed of me and that made me feel even worse about the whole ordeal. It would be easier if someone just caught me.
Fifteen or twenty minutes must have passed since the tragic incident when I heard the dull roar of my father's tow truck coming down the street. He pulled up next to me and I left my fate in his hands.
"Come on," he said.
The judge was lenient. I was released on my own recognizance and apologized to poor little Timmy (or whatever his name was) after being told by his mother that he required however many stitches on his face. Her feeble attempts to make me feel bad about what I'd done were puny and tardy. I was embarrassed and guilt-ridden beyond her wildest dreams.
And that was the end of it. This was, after all, the 70s, before people sued the crap out of each other for everything. Back then, shit just happened. You got your nose rubbed in it and then you moved on. Judgment was rendered by parents and neighbors, for free. Not courtrooms and lawyers, for thirty percent.
To give you an idea of my expansive journey that day, I've drawn a map:
Yep. A veritable Homerian Odyssey, that one.
(This childhood memory was dislodged by Alicia's childhood adventure story at Pleasing Procrastinator. I even lifted her map idea.)
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
Speaking of childhood memories, Meg of Prefers Her Fantasy Life , who has generously added Nanny Goats to her blog roll, recently had me on the floor laughing with her post entitled Teen's First Mammary. This post explores that whole "The-family-that-works-together..." thing. And it reveals how Newsweek magazine has insidiously evolved into a Playboy competitor, right under Tipper Gore's nose!
And while we are going on about boobs, Sandra over at My Girls has a post entitled More Boob Squishing. No, the girls in "My Girls" do not refer to her boobs. Now if you wish for a break from boobs, you might like to check out her recipe for Texas Caviar. What is Texas Caviar? Well, go look! Sandra's claim to Nanny Goats fame is that the NGIP banner picture was taken in her backyard. Wow, she sure has a big backyard! And with goats! NGIP thanks My Girls for adding NGIP to her blog roll.
We Pass The Gas Onto You
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Labels:
homes,
useful websites
Can I get a show of hands ... who is sick of hearing about the price of gas? My God, if it's not on the news, it's on someone's blog. When are all you whiners going to stop complaining and DO something about it?
What? Oh, you want your cake AND you want to eat it? You people make me sick. Stop driving, already! Take the frickin' bus! That's inconvenient, you say? You have to take 5 busses to get to work? AND you'd have to walk half a mile from your house to get to the bus stop? Well boo-hoo! You should have thought of that BEFORE you had to buy the big-ass house in the burbs.
And I didn't twist your arm to buy that gas-guzzler you commute to work all by your greenhouse-gas-spewing self in, did I? No. I told you to get the Prius, but you HAD to have the behemoth that doesn't even fit in your garage. Okay, it fits in your garage, but nobody can get out of that monster after you pull into it, CAN they?
And now, here you are bitching about gas prices and bitching about how you're sick of hearing about it on the news. I saw you raise your hand earlier. I'm so disgusted with you right now, I shouldn't even tell you this, but...
There's this website called MyGallons.com. You can lock in a price of gas now, so that when gas prices rise, you still pay the old price. Oh, I can see that little hamster spinning the plastic wheel of saved pennies in your puny brain. Speaking of which, did you ever think of walking to work? Biking to work? Voting for people who won't cause your gas prices to rise? No. Because all you ever think about is yourself. And what you want NOW.
Well, I hope you load up on $4.50 gas and the price falls. I hope you max out your splitting-at-the-seams credit card with that gassy website and then I hope you choke on it.
I can't believe I'm even helping you. Just don't say I never gave you nuthin.
And now, if you'll excuse me, my converted school bus is double-parked. And I left the engine running.
[UPDATE: NGIP should stress that it does not endorse the gassy website, particularly as it got an F from the BBB, so buyer beware! Thanks, ExploreSacto!]
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
When was the last time you read a good colonoscopy story? Never. That's when. JD from I Do Things So You Don't Have To wrote this gut-wrenching tale that is not to be missed. Why? Because it's funny as hell, that's why. Plus, that story won an award from Babs at Beetle Blog. Now, I don't know if your neck of the woods realizes the prestige that comes with a Glass Poo award, but at NGIP, it's awesome to behold. You can go to this post to see it. It looks like poo. Made of glass. And the best part about it? She doesn't have to give it to five other people. I should give Babs an award for that because, did I ever mention that I'm an Anti-Memite?
And in the interest of sticking it into rant-reverse, Lisa at Boondock Ramblings, who has been so generous as to add NGIP to her blogroll, wrote a beautiful post about how fabulous her mother is. It's honest, sincere, and moving without getting too gushy. Or, I don't know, maybe it is gushy, but I liked it. It's called My mom, my best friend.
What? Oh, you want your cake AND you want to eat it? You people make me sick. Stop driving, already! Take the frickin' bus! That's inconvenient, you say? You have to take 5 busses to get to work? AND you'd have to walk half a mile from your house to get to the bus stop? Well boo-hoo! You should have thought of that BEFORE you had to buy the big-ass house in the burbs.
And I didn't twist your arm to buy that gas-guzzler you commute to work all by your greenhouse-gas-spewing self in, did I? No. I told you to get the Prius, but you HAD to have the behemoth that doesn't even fit in your garage. Okay, it fits in your garage, but nobody can get out of that monster after you pull into it, CAN they?
And now, here you are bitching about gas prices and bitching about how you're sick of hearing about it on the news. I saw you raise your hand earlier. I'm so disgusted with you right now, I shouldn't even tell you this, but...
There's this website called MyGallons.com. You can lock in a price of gas now, so that when gas prices rise, you still pay the old price. Oh, I can see that little hamster spinning the plastic wheel of saved pennies in your puny brain. Speaking of which, did you ever think of walking to work? Biking to work? Voting for people who won't cause your gas prices to rise? No. Because all you ever think about is yourself. And what you want NOW.
Well, I hope you load up on $4.50 gas and the price falls. I hope you max out your splitting-at-the-seams credit card with that gassy website and then I hope you choke on it.
I can't believe I'm even helping you. Just don't say I never gave you nuthin.
And now, if you'll excuse me, my converted school bus is double-parked. And I left the engine running.
[UPDATE: NGIP should stress that it does not endorse the gassy website, particularly as it got an F from the BBB, so buyer beware! Thanks, ExploreSacto!]
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
When was the last time you read a good colonoscopy story? Never. That's when. JD from I Do Things So You Don't Have To wrote this gut-wrenching tale that is not to be missed. Why? Because it's funny as hell, that's why. Plus, that story won an award from Babs at Beetle Blog. Now, I don't know if your neck of the woods realizes the prestige that comes with a Glass Poo award, but at NGIP, it's awesome to behold. You can go to this post to see it. It looks like poo. Made of glass. And the best part about it? She doesn't have to give it to five other people. I should give Babs an award for that because, did I ever mention that I'm an Anti-Memite?
And in the interest of sticking it into rant-reverse, Lisa at Boondock Ramblings, who has been so generous as to add NGIP to her blogroll, wrote a beautiful post about how fabulous her mother is. It's honest, sincere, and moving without getting too gushy. Or, I don't know, maybe it is gushy, but I liked it. It's called My mom, my best friend.
Can Openers: They're Not Just for Cans Anymore
Anybody here read Wired magazine? You know that "How To" section last month that gave this super helpful tip on opening those electronics blister packaging?
Scissors and steak knives are dangerous, they said. Use a can opener, they said. Just clamp down on the edge and start cranking, they said.
How convenient that I learned this, I thought, after puchasing a new ear piece for my cell phone (because my previous ear piece went kaput about 2 hours after the California Hands Free Law went into effect).
I have one of those hand cranking can openers, so I just clamped down on the edge of the packaging and started cranking:
Of course I accidentally stabbed myself 14 times trying to mangle the bastard that mangled my packaging, but I think it learned its lesson before I threw itin the trash back in the drawer.
* * * SHOUT OUTS * * *
You may want to hire Yankee Drawl to write your letters for you. The ones you've been mentally addressing to all theassholes interesting people in your life. The ones you've been wanting to maim and/or shove slivers up underneath their toenails gently remind of common courtesy. Her latest post entitled "Dear Y'All" might help relieve some of your own stress you've experienced lately, or just have a good laugh at her own misfortune. And a big THANK YOU for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to Yankee Drawl's Reading Material (aka blogroll).
Just A Girl has her own issues with false advertising. Her post about Bounty paper towels will save you the trouble and the money, and it might have you laughing as well. And when was the last time you used "Salmonfreakingella" in a sentence? Nanny Goats In Panties is honored to be a part of her "Just A Bunch Of Blogs" blogroll.
Scissors and steak knives are dangerous, they said. Use a can opener, they said. Just clamp down on the edge and start cranking, they said.
How convenient that I learned this, I thought, after puchasing a new ear piece for my cell phone (because my previous ear piece went kaput about 2 hours after the California Hands Free Law went into effect).
I have one of those hand cranking can openers, so I just clamped down on the edge of the packaging and started cranking:
Can you see how the goddam can opener I mangled it? You can click on the pictures for a closer look.
So I busted out the scissors and managed to avoid bloodshed:
What a bunch of crap that advice was. Did anybody else see that handy tip and try it? Well, I was so angry that I decided to destroy my can opener, because what good is it if it can't open that stubborn plastic packaging?
Of course I accidentally stabbed myself 14 times trying to mangle the bastard that mangled my packaging, but I think it learned its lesson before I threw it
* * * SHOUT OUTS * * *
You may want to hire Yankee Drawl to write your letters for you. The ones you've been mentally addressing to all the
Just A Girl has her own issues with false advertising. Her post about Bounty paper towels will save you the trouble and the money, and it might have you laughing as well. And when was the last time you used "Salmonfreakingella" in a sentence? Nanny Goats In Panties is honored to be a part of her "Just A Bunch Of Blogs" blogroll.
My Karma Just Ran Over Your Dogma
Plenty of us have plowed over an animal or two with our car, but is it some kind of "girl thing" to completely freak out when it happens? Or have some of you menfolk also blubbered over the murder and/or destruction of one of God's fine creatures? Los Cuatro Ojos offers up this freaking out by a girl, but I should warn you, it's a little disturbing, so don't go over there if you are easily disturbed by seeing others disturbed over more than disturbing a bird.
Hey, what's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind as he hits the windshield?
His ass.
* * *
It was October of 1981. I had a cream-colored 1973 Datsun 710 with over 100,000 miles (because when your father owns a towing service, you get the vehicle dregs for your birthday, the nasty crap that people neglect to pick up because the tow bill costs more than the car is worth. Dad had replaced the broken parts with slightly less broken used parts, hammered out the dents, spackled the hell out of the holes, poured a gallon of crappy cream colored paint over it and presented it like a long stem single red rose.)
Where was I? Oh right, driving to the high school junior class' float-building barn during Homecoming season. Two classmates accompanied me, and we were probably playing some popular album in my cassette player; let's say it was Foreigner 4 or maybe REO Speedwagon. We cruised down a lonely rural two-lane highway toward Simms Ranch, today a small oasis in an over-built cookie-cutting suburb south of Sacramento.
We gabbed and giggled with the innocence of youth, unencumbered by the tragedies and disappointments that jade you over time. We were teenagers. The world was our oyster, and my car was the cream colored pearl sliding through the slimy muscle of the boondocks. We were immortal. And then an orange tabby cat sailed into my right wheel well, crunching out its life and part of mine with it.
You see roadkill all the time, never thinking that a person took the life of that animal and may have been traumatized by it. Until it's your turn.
I was a shaking, adrenaline-fueled mess when I pulled over. My friend walked back to the cat and returned with a solemn face. "You don't want to go back there," he said. I had no idea what to do. There was no procedure manual in the glove compartment for whacking kitties.
The ranch houses along the quiet road were acres apart, but I felt I should tell someone about it, so we drove up the long dirt driveway of the nearest house. What the hell was I going to say?
When a woman opened the door, I nervously asked, "Hi, uh, do you, I mean, did you know anyone with an orange cat?"
"Yes," she said.
I told her I had accidentally hit it and it died.
"Oh, bummer." She didn't cry out or scream or anything. I was clearly more upset than she was. "Oh, poor Bummer," she said again.
It took me a second.
"You mean the cat's name was Bummer?" I asked.
"Yes. Well, it's not our cat, but our neighbor's. But you don't have to tell them. I will, you've been through too much already."
Bewildered, then relieved, we left. I was still shaky but managed to fold tissue paper into flowers that October night while completely pre-occupied with the thought of having taken the life of another living thing. Someone's pet. Bummer.
Fast forward a couple of months to basketball season. I was the manager for the boys varsity team, which is a glorified term for "gopher". I gathered up the uniforms that the boys threw on the floor while warming up, gave them water bottles during the game, and accompanied them into the locker room while the coach ripped them a new one during half-time (perhaps a peek at future parenting, and therefore one of my deterrents from it).
Coach and Mrs. Coach hosted a Christmas party (back then, December 25th was called Christmas) for the team at their house and Matt, their four-year-old took an instant liking to me. The feeling was mutual. He was such a cutie. (This is the kind of peek at future parenting you get that tries to persuade you it will be all puppies and rainbows). Later, the coach would tell me that Matt carried on around the house with his imaginary friend, Margaret (that's me, for you new readers) for a long time.
So anyway, at this party, Matt sat in my lap while we read one of his books about animals. We paged through and discussed goats and pigs and horses. Matt turned the page to the kitties and said, "We used to have a cat like that, but it got hit by a car."
He pointed to the orange cat. I slowly realized Coach's house was on that same two-lane highway as the float-building barn. Oh my God, I killed Matt's cat! Talk it through, man, just talk it through. Don't just sit there, you idiot.
"Oh, really?" I said. My body detached and floated above the noisy Christmas party with the turkey, stuffing, punch bowl, fireplace, Christmas tree, and the little kid sitting in the girl's lap with a book.
"Yeah..." said Matt.
"Ohhh...I'm sorry..."
"Yeah..."
I quickly turned the page as memories from October pushed their way into my brain. ("Oh, poor Bummer") My robot self read the words while the emotional me jumped up and down and screamed and cried and more or less had a heart attack. Not unlike the girl in the video on Los Cuatro Ojos' site.
Was I a chicken for not fessing up to Coach that I had killed the family cat? Or was it unnecessary? It's not like I was hiding some political scandal, afraid of ruining my career as a uniform picker upper or anything, but I never told them. And I could never tell Matt. Your imaginary friend is not supposed to break your heart.
Perhaps it was karma, or just dumb luck, then, that I should mangle a deer late one night on my six-hour drive up foresty Highway 101 to college. Thank goodness by then I had graduated to a four wheel drive truck, or Bambi would have done more than tear up my fender.
* * * SHOUT OUTS * * *
Tricia over at Papercages bitches about the heat so much, I could swear she's talking about Sacramento. And she bitches about driving long distances so much (anything past her driveway), I could swear she's talking about me. Regardless, I would like to thank her for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll!
One of my favorite blogs to read lately is David (aka Munch) of Free Soup With Purchase. He's mean, funny, edgy and surprising - my kind of writer! For a sample of what I mean, check out a recent post entitled Here Comes Poor Charlie. And Thanks, Munch, for adding Nanny Goats to your blog roll!
Hey, what's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind as he hits the windshield?
His ass.
* * *
It was October of 1981. I had a cream-colored 1973 Datsun 710 with over 100,000 miles (because when your father owns a towing service, you get the vehicle dregs for your birthday, the nasty crap that people neglect to pick up because the tow bill costs more than the car is worth. Dad had replaced the broken parts with slightly less broken used parts, hammered out the dents, spackled the hell out of the holes, poured a gallon of crappy cream colored paint over it and presented it like a long stem single red rose.)
Where was I? Oh right, driving to the high school junior class' float-building barn during Homecoming season. Two classmates accompanied me, and we were probably playing some popular album in my cassette player; let's say it was Foreigner 4 or maybe REO Speedwagon. We cruised down a lonely rural two-lane highway toward Simms Ranch, today a small oasis in an over-built cookie-cutting suburb south of Sacramento.
We gabbed and giggled with the innocence of youth, unencumbered by the tragedies and disappointments that jade you over time. We were teenagers. The world was our oyster, and my car was the cream colored pearl sliding through the slimy muscle of the boondocks. We were immortal. And then an orange tabby cat sailed into my right wheel well, crunching out its life and part of mine with it.
You see roadkill all the time, never thinking that a person took the life of that animal and may have been traumatized by it. Until it's your turn.
I was a shaking, adrenaline-fueled mess when I pulled over. My friend walked back to the cat and returned with a solemn face. "You don't want to go back there," he said. I had no idea what to do. There was no procedure manual in the glove compartment for whacking kitties.
The ranch houses along the quiet road were acres apart, but I felt I should tell someone about it, so we drove up the long dirt driveway of the nearest house. What the hell was I going to say?
When a woman opened the door, I nervously asked, "Hi, uh, do you, I mean, did you know anyone with an orange cat?"
"Yes," she said.
I told her I had accidentally hit it and it died.
"Oh, bummer." She didn't cry out or scream or anything. I was clearly more upset than she was. "Oh, poor Bummer," she said again.
It took me a second.
"You mean the cat's name was Bummer?" I asked.
"Yes. Well, it's not our cat, but our neighbor's. But you don't have to tell them. I will, you've been through too much already."
Bewildered, then relieved, we left. I was still shaky but managed to fold tissue paper into flowers that October night while completely pre-occupied with the thought of having taken the life of another living thing. Someone's pet. Bummer.
Fast forward a couple of months to basketball season. I was the manager for the boys varsity team, which is a glorified term for "gopher". I gathered up the uniforms that the boys threw on the floor while warming up, gave them water bottles during the game, and accompanied them into the locker room while the coach ripped them a new one during half-time (perhaps a peek at future parenting, and therefore one of my deterrents from it).
Coach and Mrs. Coach hosted a Christmas party (back then, December 25th was called Christmas) for the team at their house and Matt, their four-year-old took an instant liking to me. The feeling was mutual. He was such a cutie. (This is the kind of peek at future parenting you get that tries to persuade you it will be all puppies and rainbows). Later, the coach would tell me that Matt carried on around the house with his imaginary friend, Margaret (that's me, for you new readers) for a long time.
So anyway, at this party, Matt sat in my lap while we read one of his books about animals. We paged through and discussed goats and pigs and horses. Matt turned the page to the kitties and said, "We used to have a cat like that, but it got hit by a car."
He pointed to the orange cat. I slowly realized Coach's house was on that same two-lane highway as the float-building barn. Oh my God, I killed Matt's cat! Talk it through, man, just talk it through. Don't just sit there, you idiot.
"Oh, really?" I said. My body detached and floated above the noisy Christmas party with the turkey, stuffing, punch bowl, fireplace, Christmas tree, and the little kid sitting in the girl's lap with a book.
"Yeah..." said Matt.
"Ohhh...I'm sorry..."
"Yeah..."
I quickly turned the page as memories from October pushed their way into my brain. ("Oh, poor Bummer") My robot self read the words while the emotional me jumped up and down and screamed and cried and more or less had a heart attack. Not unlike the girl in the video on Los Cuatro Ojos' site.
Was I a chicken for not fessing up to Coach that I had killed the family cat? Or was it unnecessary? It's not like I was hiding some political scandal, afraid of ruining my career as a uniform picker upper or anything, but I never told them. And I could never tell Matt. Your imaginary friend is not supposed to break your heart.
Perhaps it was karma, or just dumb luck, then, that I should mangle a deer late one night on my six-hour drive up foresty Highway 101 to college. Thank goodness by then I had graduated to a four wheel drive truck, or Bambi would have done more than tear up my fender.
* * * SHOUT OUTS * * *
Tricia over at Papercages bitches about the heat so much, I could swear she's talking about Sacramento. And she bitches about driving long distances so much (anything past her driveway), I could swear she's talking about me. Regardless, I would like to thank her for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll!
One of my favorite blogs to read lately is David (aka Munch) of Free Soup With Purchase. He's mean, funny, edgy and surprising - my kind of writer! For a sample of what I mean, check out a recent post entitled Here Comes Poor Charlie. And Thanks, Munch, for adding Nanny Goats to your blog roll!
How To Mercilessly Taunt Those Who Raise The Dead
Nanny Goats in Panties feels the awesome weight of our duty to entertain the millions of you who stub their toe and tumble down the Internet hill, landing on the dotcom that is NGIP, Jack, with Jill right behind you! You people are relentless, coming here day after day after day.
To you anal-retentive and argumentative types who wish to point out that our traffic counter merely reads 18,000 or so, we submit that we are using an archaic blogging widget that, like a 1982 Honda odometer, has rolled over several times. Whenever that meter hits a million readers, it starts over at zero again. So really, NGIP has had like, one gazillion, forty-seven million, eighteen thousand some-odd readers as of today.
May we say we love what you're wearing and where did you get that cravat? Your repeated bleats to Nanny Goats have been heard and your wish is our command. We can't tell you how many requests we've received for more of our incredibly tantalizing, internetty tips. And the reason people keep coming back again and again to our humble site? NGIP isn't just a blog of excruciatingly helpful hints, nor is it a vessel of humor...
It is an Internet Experience.
Oh sure, you can read all those other blogs. You might have a laugh or pick up a handy new recipe for chocolate enchilada surprise. But after digesting a blog entry at NGIP, you walk away with a satisfied sense of having lived life: a true Internet Experience. That is what we strive for and by God, that is what you will have.
Also, as an NGIP reader, you get exclusive information that will set you apart from the average blog hopper. You belong to a group whose superiority is exacerbated by what you learn here. We can make you feel inappropriately better about yourself in five minutes or less. In fact, we should get right to today's superiority complex Tip #47.
NGIP Superiority Complex Tip #47:
We want you to feel comfortable insulting others on the internet. You should be able to throw down barbs with confidence and panache. Let's say you're interloping through a message forum about the Stone Tablet industry, a built-in easy target, right? I mean, who better to make fun of than Draconian internet users who can't let go of the old ways. Stone tablets, indeed. They probably don't even know the difference between a USB port and a hole in the ground, am I right? Idiots.
Now, let's say you find a thread that started several years ago, something called "Help! Has anyone out there built a Colosseum?" Go in there, and sure enough, some Neanderthal newbie (username: icankount_123) has ressurrected a thread that ended years ago and has been taking up cyberspace ever since. This is a fantastic opportunity to try out a new phrase you're just about to learn from NGIP. It's called "Necro Post" and icankount_123 has just committed this egregious act that must not go unpunished. Say something simple, forceful and be sure to use your new phrase:
"Nice necro post, moron! No one has posted in this thread since 200 B.C. ...UNTIL NOW!!!!"
Now wouldn't that make you feel just a little bit superior? I know it would me.
NGIP has also noticed your vociferous requests for more FREE stuff. Well, we can certainly understand in today's economy that all you cheapskates out there need more excuses to act like a Scrooge. And we're here to help!
TwentyFourAtHeart is giving away FREE stuff like there's no tomorrow! In fact, right now (until Friday at 8pm EST), you can win a $50 American Express Card. So get on over there and sign yourself up! And while you're there? Congratulate her on her 100th post!
NGIP came across a virtual ad for The Swiffer at Orion Unleashed the other day - virtual being the functional word there. Visit Orion today and see if you agree with his assessment of this "revolutionary" domestic tool... tool being the functional word there. Also, NGIP thanks Orion Unleashed for adding Nanny Goats to his blog roll. Thanks Orion!
HumorBloggers.com launches today and NGIP is lucky to be a part of it. 49 other bloggers are also featured on this site. Go and have a look!
Skankiness & Shoe Spray, With Honors
I got a warning (or a helpful tip, depending on your skankiness) from Jessica that the Sheraton near LAX is loaded with incompetent car parkers. They're also rife with active prostitutionism in the lobby for your business traveling needs. Did I mention the proliferation of drug use conveniently located near the elevators?
Speaking of nonsequitors, I spent every Friday night of my childhood at the bowling alley. Not bowling. From the age of two until long past the seven year age limit (I want to say at least ten) I was relegated to the nursery. My GOD the boredom. I was surrounding by screaming brats in a small room with old broken toys. Bored, bored, bored. After graduating from the nursery, I had the relentless pleasure of sitting on plastic benches for three hours in a smoke fogged alley that reeked of Lysol-ish shoe spray while my brain atrophied watching my parents bowl.
This was the 70s. This was before there were GameBoys or cell phones, or DVD players or anything that would help kill time. I envied other kids who had the quarters to play the pinball machines or Asteroids or Pac-Man. I had to make up games inside my head or mentally add up people's scores before they did, just to prevent The Reaper of Boredom from taking me away.
At fourteen I moved up to the scoring desk where I was paid something like $1.25 to keep score for one of the teams. They kept me in Cokes while they got drunk and I manually added strikes and spares and gutters (again, this was the 70s...before that fancy schmancy auto-scoring they have now.)
On the weekends, my mother watched bowling on TV, which is almost as boring as watching people today play poker on ESPN. She must have had a thing for Earl Anthony, because that's the only guy I remember from the bowling show. Was it called Bowling For Dollars, or was that some game show I'm confusing it with?
I never took to bowling. I guess when you get too much of a good thing - - you know, the kind that scars you for life - - you overcompensate for it later. So now, I'm overwhelmed with activity. I'm involved in too many things. I even live in two cities. I'll probably die of an ulcer.
And I blame the three-holed balls and their endless rolling down waxed lanes searching for ten pins to smack down.
* * *
* * * WARNING: LONG AWARDS CEREMONY COMING * * *
If you're a playa, yo, but you have virtually no pimp handle and your pimp cup looks like this:
...you're not alone. Kirsten from The Soccer Mom Files had the same problem until she got jiggy with it and now you can too, if you check out her post entitled This is off the Chain, Aight!!
Perhaps you're wondering why I keep relentlessly linking to Soccer Mom's blog. Well, the reason starts with her adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll and ends with her presenting NGIP with the Amy Oops Award. See?
And you bloggers know what's coming next, right? Wrong! You see, the Amy Oops award appears to have hit a saturation point. I feel I can't pass this award on any further without it repeating on itself like goose liver and onions in a bacony, garlicky sauce. However, if I am wrong and you wish to add this award to your trophy case, well then, knock yourself out. This award is free for the taking! In fact, if you want to say you got it from me, I'll say I gave it to you by updating this very blog entry. Hear that folks? All you can eat links for free!
And not to be outdone by The Soccer Mom Files is Wit's Bitch who has also presented me with the Amy Oops award. (See what I mean by saturation? It's like Amway around here. Oh, excuse me - - Quixtar.) For those of you who were asleep during my last discussion of the Amy Oops award, here it is again:
Now Sandy from Wit's Bitch is a bowler who sucks less than she did at the beginning of the season, so you might want to pay a visit and congratulate her for that. Because she got an award for it. She must not have been subjected to the lanes the way I was as a child, because she appears to enjoy it.
And while I'm showing off awards, here's one I got from Scratch Bags: The KickAssBlogger Award which originated on MammaDawg.
And I would also like to brag about my Spread The Love Award that I received from Twenty Four At Heart. Thank you, Suzanne! I'm honored and awarded and bestowed!
So, okay, that's enough showing off for one blog.
As you were.
Speaking of nonsequitors, I spent every Friday night of my childhood at the bowling alley. Not bowling. From the age of two until long past the seven year age limit (I want to say at least ten) I was relegated to the nursery. My GOD the boredom. I was surrounding by screaming brats in a small room with old broken toys. Bored, bored, bored. After graduating from the nursery, I had the relentless pleasure of sitting on plastic benches for three hours in a smoke fogged alley that reeked of Lysol-ish shoe spray while my brain atrophied watching my parents bowl.
This was the 70s. This was before there were GameBoys or cell phones, or DVD players or anything that would help kill time. I envied other kids who had the quarters to play the pinball machines or Asteroids or Pac-Man. I had to make up games inside my head or mentally add up people's scores before they did, just to prevent The Reaper of Boredom from taking me away.
At fourteen I moved up to the scoring desk where I was paid something like $1.25 to keep score for one of the teams. They kept me in Cokes while they got drunk and I manually added strikes and spares and gutters (again, this was the 70s...before that fancy schmancy auto-scoring they have now.)
On the weekends, my mother watched bowling on TV, which is almost as boring as watching people today play poker on ESPN. She must have had a thing for Earl Anthony, because that's the only guy I remember from the bowling show. Was it called Bowling For Dollars, or was that some game show I'm confusing it with?
I never took to bowling. I guess when you get too much of a good thing - - you know, the kind that scars you for life - - you overcompensate for it later. So now, I'm overwhelmed with activity. I'm involved in too many things. I even live in two cities. I'll probably die of an ulcer.
And I blame the three-holed balls and their endless rolling down waxed lanes searching for ten pins to smack down.
* * *
* * * WARNING: LONG AWARDS CEREMONY COMING * * *
If you're a playa, yo, but you have virtually no pimp handle and your pimp cup looks like this:
...you're not alone. Kirsten from The Soccer Mom Files had the same problem until she got jiggy with it and now you can too, if you check out her post entitled This is off the Chain, Aight!!
Perhaps you're wondering why I keep relentlessly linking to Soccer Mom's blog. Well, the reason starts with her adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll and ends with her presenting NGIP with the Amy Oops Award. See?
And you bloggers know what's coming next, right? Wrong! You see, the Amy Oops award appears to have hit a saturation point. I feel I can't pass this award on any further without it repeating on itself like goose liver and onions in a bacony, garlicky sauce. However, if I am wrong and you wish to add this award to your trophy case, well then, knock yourself out. This award is free for the taking! In fact, if you want to say you got it from me, I'll say I gave it to you by updating this very blog entry. Hear that folks? All you can eat links for free!
And not to be outdone by The Soccer Mom Files is Wit's Bitch who has also presented me with the Amy Oops award. (See what I mean by saturation? It's like Amway around here. Oh, excuse me - - Quixtar.) For those of you who were asleep during my last discussion of the Amy Oops award, here it is again:
Now Sandy from Wit's Bitch is a bowler who sucks less than she did at the beginning of the season, so you might want to pay a visit and congratulate her for that. Because she got an award for it. She must not have been subjected to the lanes the way I was as a child, because she appears to enjoy it.
And while I'm showing off awards, here's one I got from Scratch Bags: The KickAssBlogger Award which originated on MammaDawg.
And I would also like to brag about my Spread The Love Award that I received from Twenty Four At Heart. Thank you, Suzanne! I'm honored and awarded and bestowed!
So, okay, that's enough showing off for one blog.
As you were.
The Doctor Will See You...NOW!
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If you fall down the stairs on a Sunday and snap your hootenanny, do you go to the hospital emergency room right away, or do you wait until Monday morning to call your doctor, thinking that if you can get a same day appointment, at least you won't have to sit in the ER waiting room all night just to get a prescription for a throbbing hootenanny? Because you know a measly swelling hootenanny will keep getting one-upped by real emergencies like gun shot wounds and severed arms.
MrMudPuppy and I found ourselves in a similar quandry recently when the pain in his head became unbearable and he knew it was a sinus infection or something and he just needed to get started on antibiotics as soon as possible, or "stat" as they say on the medical dramas. Do they even say "stat" in real hospitals? We thought, shouldn't we just be able to walk in, grab a bottle of pills, pay the good doctor, and walk out?
All I could think of was the last time MrMudPuppy was sicker than a dog with the flu and a temperature of a hundred and something and his brain was frying so we went to the emergency room on a Saturday night (why do these things always happen on the weekend?) and sat there for 4 hours before he saw someone who sent him home with some pills. The wait was agonizing. MMP was miserable, trying to sit up in a chair, hot with fever and out of his mind (in fact, he didn't remember ever going when I reminded him of it and how long we waited). I wasn't looking forward to a long wait again.
We don't have a ton of experience with hospitals, not for ourselves anyway, so we're sort of stupid when it comes to options. Still in my little pea brain, I began to wonder if there wasn't some place like a weekend clinic rather than an ER room to fix the boy up.
While the MudPup Googled for such a place, I jumped in the shower. This may have been a pressing matter, but I couldn't go out looking like a heathen for heaven's sake. He had found something. Turns out these types of places are called Urgent Care Centers, or After Hours Clinics, how about that? So I packed like we were going to the snail races: iPod, writing journal, latest Wired magazine...I was locked and loaded, prepared for the long haul. I was gonna wait the crap out of this doctor, whoever he was. I envisioned sitting amongst crying babies, crying toddlers, whining children, plegm-heavy coughing, sneezing, fevers,...I figured we'd come home with more than we left.
We jumped in the car, drove a few minutes to midtown, entered the building, found Suite #203, and opened the door to see this:
We stood there with the door and our mouths agape. Surely we were in the wrong place. It was Sunday at 3pm. What gives?
Three minutes later, they called MrMudPuppy in. I took advantage of the empty waiting room to sneak another picture of the kids area where they had a fun house mirror!
I know, I know...why so long in the face? Yes, ha ha, that's very funny. Can we get back to me now, Mr. Attention Hog?
Fifteen minutes later, we paid for our parking, picked up the drugs and spent the rest of our totally waiting-room-free evening in dumbfounded awe. I could almost live in this God-forsaken city.
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
If you ever wanted to know how to make your own ribbon-bound books, Diane from Much of a Muchness is willing to tell you how, step by step. Or, if you're as lazy as I am, you can simply buy them instead. Hers are gorgeous. I'm certain mine would look like origami by the time I gave up. I think she plans to make them and sell them, just go over there and bug her, ask her if they're ready yet. Or check our her list of other book binders. And thank you, Diane, for adding Nanny Goats to your blog roll!
Kimberly has six kids, hence the name of her blog: An Even Half Dozen. As Kimberly puts it: "I think somebody left the Vacancy sign lit one night and they just kind of showed up". A big thank you to Kimberly for adding NGIP to her blog roll!
MrMudPuppy and I found ourselves in a similar quandry recently when the pain in his head became unbearable and he knew it was a sinus infection or something and he just needed to get started on antibiotics as soon as possible, or "stat" as they say on the medical dramas. Do they even say "stat" in real hospitals? We thought, shouldn't we just be able to walk in, grab a bottle of pills, pay the good doctor, and walk out?
All I could think of was the last time MrMudPuppy was sicker than a dog with the flu and a temperature of a hundred and something and his brain was frying so we went to the emergency room on a Saturday night (why do these things always happen on the weekend?) and sat there for 4 hours before he saw someone who sent him home with some pills. The wait was agonizing. MMP was miserable, trying to sit up in a chair, hot with fever and out of his mind (in fact, he didn't remember ever going when I reminded him of it and how long we waited). I wasn't looking forward to a long wait again.
We don't have a ton of experience with hospitals, not for ourselves anyway, so we're sort of stupid when it comes to options. Still in my little pea brain, I began to wonder if there wasn't some place like a weekend clinic rather than an ER room to fix the boy up.
While the MudPup Googled for such a place, I jumped in the shower. This may have been a pressing matter, but I couldn't go out looking like a heathen for heaven's sake. He had found something. Turns out these types of places are called Urgent Care Centers, or After Hours Clinics, how about that? So I packed like we were going to the snail races: iPod, writing journal, latest Wired magazine...I was locked and loaded, prepared for the long haul. I was gonna wait the crap out of this doctor, whoever he was. I envisioned sitting amongst crying babies, crying toddlers, whining children, plegm-heavy coughing, sneezing, fevers,...I figured we'd come home with more than we left.
We jumped in the car, drove a few minutes to midtown, entered the building, found Suite #203, and opened the door to see this:
We stood there with the door and our mouths agape. Surely we were in the wrong place. It was Sunday at 3pm. What gives?
Three minutes later, they called MrMudPuppy in. I took advantage of the empty waiting room to sneak another picture of the kids area where they had a fun house mirror!
I know, I know...why so long in the face? Yes, ha ha, that's very funny. Can we get back to me now, Mr. Attention Hog?
Fifteen minutes later, we paid for our parking, picked up the drugs and spent the rest of our totally waiting-room-free evening in dumbfounded awe. I could almost live in this God-forsaken city.
* * * NGIP SHOUT OUTS * * *
If you ever wanted to know how to make your own ribbon-bound books, Diane from Much of a Muchness is willing to tell you how, step by step. Or, if you're as lazy as I am, you can simply buy them instead. Hers are gorgeous. I'm certain mine would look like origami by the time I gave up. I think she plans to make them and sell them, just go over there and bug her, ask her if they're ready yet. Or check our her list of other book binders. And thank you, Diane, for adding Nanny Goats to your blog roll!
Kimberly has six kids, hence the name of her blog: An Even Half Dozen. As Kimberly puts it: "I think somebody left the Vacancy sign lit one night and they just kind of showed up". A big thank you to Kimberly for adding NGIP to her blog roll!
Perverts and Abacuses (or is it Abaci?)
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Labels:
shout out
How many perverts does it take to screw in a light bulb?
See, here's the thing: A pervert will arrive on this post, not because he will Google the word "pervert" (why would he do that?), but because of the word "screw". And not just because he types in "screw", but because he will, in his twisted mind, have a reason to type in "screw" and "panties", or something else and "panties". If he is a stupid pervert, he will type in something and "pantys". With a Y. Why? Because everyone knows perverts don't use spell check. Perverts and hostage takers. Hostage takers can't spell either, did you know that? Yeah, that's why they cut words out of magazines for ransom notes. And even then:
Have you ever said a word over and over again so many times that it doesn't sound like a word any more? I did that today with the word abacus. I had this awesome story I was going to tell you about an abacus. It was terrifying and engaging. One of those hanging-on-the-edge-of-your seat abacus stories, but totally original. It had a surprise twist at the end and everything. But then I said abacus too many times and it didn't sound like a word any more and I lost my story. So now I'm talking about perverts instead. Maybe telling the abacus story is like cracking your knuckles, or having an orgasm, where if you wait long enough, you can do it again.
Have you seen the phrases that the cyber-pervs have polluted their search tools with to get to poor little Nanny Goats In Panties? Here I'll show you:
What does that last one even mean?
Mind you not everyone is interested in panties. To wit:
It might interest you to know, that goat is indeed not for breakfast any more.
See?
Now you can get goat 24/7.
Like at IHOP.
Or Denny's.
abacus. - Hey! I thought I was all out of those!
* * *
NGIP would like to thank PegLegStarFish for adding Nanny Goats to her blog roll. PLSF hails all the way from Houston Texas (OK, that's a relative term, but if you're more than a couple hundred miles from Houston, I can probably still use "hails all the way from", except for maybe Holly from June Cleaver Nirvana or Allison from WomenBloom or Feisty Charlie from Feisty Charlie who are also from Texas). Anybody else out there from Texas? Can I get a Yee-Haw?
ENNYWEIGH...... PegLegStarFish scares easily (there's a video and everything!) All you have to do is sneak over there and yell BOO in ALL CAPS.
NGIP is currently in Beancounters' In Basket. It's not quite the blog roll, I'm just there sort of waiting in the wings. Maybe I'm on probation. Maybe I better lay off the pervert talk for awhile. Maybe I'd better get some funny stuff up here already. No pressure or anything. Just.."I haven't decided if I want to keep you just yet. We'll see..."
I hate "we'll see", don't you? You need to plan your life, but your friend wants to wait until the last minute to commit, because well, what if something better comes along? So you lose sleep because you have NO IDEA of your fate.
Well, I just won't think about it is all. I'll just go about my blogging and not give it another brain cell. It's not like she hails all the way from anywhere. She's right here in Sacramento. And while I'm counting the days I have left on her site, she's counting the beans. I wonder if she has an abacus. Whoops! There goes another one. I'm beginning to think I could have told you about that darned thing after all.
See, here's the thing: A pervert will arrive on this post, not because he will Google the word "pervert" (why would he do that?), but because of the word "screw". And not just because he types in "screw", but because he will, in his twisted mind, have a reason to type in "screw" and "panties", or something else and "panties". If he is a stupid pervert, he will type in something and "pantys". With a Y. Why? Because everyone knows perverts don't use spell check. Perverts and hostage takers. Hostage takers can't spell either, did you know that? Yeah, that's why they cut words out of magazines for ransom notes. And even then:
Have you ever said a word over and over again so many times that it doesn't sound like a word any more? I did that today with the word abacus. I had this awesome story I was going to tell you about an abacus. It was terrifying and engaging. One of those hanging-on-the-edge-of-your seat abacus stories, but totally original. It had a surprise twist at the end and everything. But then I said abacus too many times and it didn't sound like a word any more and I lost my story. So now I'm talking about perverts instead. Maybe telling the abacus story is like cracking your knuckles, or having an orgasm, where if you wait long enough, you can do it again.
Have you seen the phrases that the cyber-pervs have polluted their search tools with to get to poor little Nanny Goats In Panties? Here I'll show you:
cramming panties
ancient chinese panty
picture of goat in panties
picture of goat in pink panties
how to shorten your poo
kind of panty do female use in india
wearing no any panties thumbs
What does that last one even mean?
Mind you not everyone is interested in panties. To wit:
goats to hot slobbering
goat - it isn't just for breakfast any more
what's the name of a goat's house
goats in the movies
nancy grace strange caller about her twins it's not going to happen
It might interest you to know, that goat is indeed not for breakfast any more.
See?
Now you can get goat 24/7.
Like at IHOP.
Or Denny's.
abacus. - Hey! I thought I was all out of those!
* * *
NGIP would like to thank PegLegStarFish for adding Nanny Goats to her blog roll. PLSF hails all the way from Houston Texas (OK, that's a relative term, but if you're more than a couple hundred miles from Houston, I can probably still use "hails all the way from", except for maybe Holly from June Cleaver Nirvana or Allison from WomenBloom or Feisty Charlie from Feisty Charlie who are also from Texas). Anybody else out there from Texas? Can I get a Yee-Haw?
ENNYWEIGH...... PegLegStarFish scares easily (there's a video and everything!) All you have to do is sneak over there and yell BOO in ALL CAPS.
NGIP is currently in Beancounters' In Basket. It's not quite the blog roll, I'm just there sort of waiting in the wings. Maybe I'm on probation. Maybe I better lay off the pervert talk for awhile. Maybe I'd better get some funny stuff up here already. No pressure or anything. Just.."I haven't decided if I want to keep you just yet. We'll see..."
I hate "we'll see", don't you? You need to plan your life, but your friend wants to wait until the last minute to commit, because well, what if something better comes along? So you lose sleep because you have NO IDEA of your fate.
Well, I just won't think about it is all. I'll just go about my blogging and not give it another brain cell. It's not like she hails all the way from anywhere. She's right here in Sacramento. And while I'm counting the days I have left on her site, she's counting the beans. I wonder if she has an abacus. Whoops! There goes another one. I'm beginning to think I could have told you about that darned thing after all.
Dennis Hopper Would Like To Ask You A Question
Stop me if you've heard this before...
You're barreling downhill on a runaway trolley with five other people: a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker, and two nuns. With red hair. The wind whips across your face as your fellow terrorized passengers scream in terror. You notice an upcoming fork in the tracks and you're standing next to the lever that will switch the trolley to the other track which levels out and would slow down the trolley to a safe stop.
But wait! A man is standing on that other track. If you switch tracks, you'll kill him. Your hand is on the lever. The other passengers are frantically smacking into one another as they alternate between praying and cursing. What do you do? Do you pull the lever and kill one person to save five?
But what if the man is the Dalai Lama? Or a policeman? Or a grandmother? Or your grandmother?
Or what if the man was a murderer, you may think. Why is he wearing a trench coat and what's with the black handlebar moustache that he's twisting? And why is he hunched over? What if he ties little kittens to railroad tracks? Or worse, this little guy?
Pop quiz, hotshot. What do you do?
* * *
You're barreling downhill on a runaway trolley with five other people: a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker, and two nuns. With red hair. The wind whips across your face as your fellow terrorized passengers scream in terror. You notice an upcoming fork in the tracks and you're standing next to the lever that will switch the trolley to the other track which levels out and would slow down the trolley to a safe stop.
But wait! A man is standing on that other track. If you switch tracks, you'll kill him. Your hand is on the lever. The other passengers are frantically smacking into one another as they alternate between praying and cursing. What do you do? Do you pull the lever and kill one person to save five?
But what if the man is the Dalai Lama? Or a policeman? Or a grandmother? Or your grandmother?
Or what if the man was a murderer, you may think. Why is he wearing a trench coat and what's with the black handlebar moustache that he's twisting? And why is he hunched over? What if he ties little kittens to railroad tracks? Or worse, this little guy?
Pop quiz, hotshot. What do you do?
* * *
Win this Piggy Bank!
Lynn over at After The Dust Settles is having a contest (two, actually). Click on this link (or the piggy picture) to win this beautiful handmade piggy bank, and see the details for entering her second contest.
NGIP would like to thank Pleasing Procrastinator for adding Nanny Goats to her blog roll. Her post entitled Christmas in July is a perfect example of what it means to procrastinate.
AB from My Neck of the Woods has a great tip for the many Nanny Goats who flush their panties down the toilet, accidentally or otherwise. See her post entitled Plugged Toilet? for the perfect (and inexpensive) solution to any of your drainage problems. You'll find NGIP on her blog roll as well...THANKS AB!
(photo courtesy of Mike S. of Mike's Mixed Memories. The goat picture along with others pics of Glacier Park can be found here )
Fact or Myth: Are Mac Users Snobs?
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Labels:
computer,
useful websites
As some of you recall, I got a MacBook Air recently, which from the side could be mistaken for a pen. Many alert readers pointed out to me that Drew and Justin are no longer an item. Whether their falling out was predicated on her operating system preferences, who's to say?
One of the first things one does when one gets a new computer is to start loading software onto one's desktop, which may prompt a visit to the nearest Apple store to pick up say, the equivalent of MS Office.
When the bespectacled, mousse-updo-ed, sales kid blew hot air about why Macs are superior to PCs and regaled us with stories about how he knows more about Comcast compatability than the Comcast guys and peppers his diatribe with "shit" at least three times, all to presumably demonstrate his genius, I have to say... well, I don't know what to say. The kid was a cocky arrogant punk, not to mention unprofessional, and I will now restrict my Mac-related purchases to the online arena. So I guess that would be what I have to say.
MrMudPuppy wanted to get me additional peripherals for my new laptop, but I want to keep it simple. No extra keyboards, no mice, no monitors, nothing. I want to be able to travel with this thing and not take a suitcase of extras with me. Besides I do still have a PC at home with all that stuff, should I feel the need to peripherate.
I've been obsessed with the whole notion of free wireless locations. I fantasize about taking my laptop around and writing in the park, or some other public locale. Never mind the fact that I have no children to "get away from". For me, it's like the 21st century romanticized version of going to the Parisian cafe to pen, like Ernest Hemingway in Immovable Feast.
I also get WiFi envy every time I go to a coffee shop and see other people writing, although they are probably just surfing the web and checking their email, but I don't know that. Being seen alone, staring into the glare of a MySpace page or perusing sites like Barefoot Foodie or Unfinished Ramblings is the writer's version of Al Fresco dining on the Sunset Strip, only you're in a coffee shop, with convenient electrical outlets.
My laptop's wireless maiden voyage occurred at the Sacramento airport (excuse me, the Sacramento International Airport, because they fly to Guadalajara on alternate Wednesdays). FYI: For all you Where's-My-Free-Wifi-Hotspots people out there, LAX does NOT have it. Bastards.
By the way, there is a website that lists every free wifi hotspot it can think of, or allow users to contribute to the list. It's called The Wifi FreeSpot Directory. Not that it's entirely accurate as it doesn't list the Sacramento airport. Or the International one. But if you ever find yourself in Downtown Kuwait City and you simply must blog about the pineapples falling from the sky right that minute, isn't it comforting to know that free wireless internet access can be found at the Dasman-Sharq Holiday Inn?
Just don't visit the Apple Store while you're there, because if there's one thing snobbier than a Mac user, it's a Kuwaiti Mac user. He'll look down his nose at you while showing off hs 24 terabyte iPod, even with a pineapple lodged in his skull.
* * *
NGiP would like to thank Mamasphere for adding Nanny Goats to her blog roll. If you've ever gone to work with a wardrobe malfunction, such as mismatched socks, Mamasphere can top that with a post entitled Another Embarrassing Day At The Office.
Hey, while you're here, could you do me a solid and click on this link which will bump me up a bit in the Sacto Top 25 rankings? That's it, just one click, nothing else. Thanks, man.
(photo courtesy of Clarita)
One of the first things one does when one gets a new computer is to start loading software onto one's desktop, which may prompt a visit to the nearest Apple store to pick up say, the equivalent of MS Office.
When the bespectacled, mousse-updo-ed, sales kid blew hot air about why Macs are superior to PCs and regaled us with stories about how he knows more about Comcast compatability than the Comcast guys and peppers his diatribe with "shit" at least three times, all to presumably demonstrate his genius, I have to say... well, I don't know what to say. The kid was a cocky arrogant punk, not to mention unprofessional, and I will now restrict my Mac-related purchases to the online arena. So I guess that would be what I have to say.
MrMudPuppy wanted to get me additional peripherals for my new laptop, but I want to keep it simple. No extra keyboards, no mice, no monitors, nothing. I want to be able to travel with this thing and not take a suitcase of extras with me. Besides I do still have a PC at home with all that stuff, should I feel the need to peripherate.
I've been obsessed with the whole notion of free wireless locations. I fantasize about taking my laptop around and writing in the park, or some other public locale. Never mind the fact that I have no children to "get away from". For me, it's like the 21st century romanticized version of going to the Parisian cafe to pen, like Ernest Hemingway in Immovable Feast.
I also get WiFi envy every time I go to a coffee shop and see other people writing, although they are probably just surfing the web and checking their email, but I don't know that. Being seen alone, staring into the glare of a MySpace page or perusing sites like Barefoot Foodie or Unfinished Ramblings is the writer's version of Al Fresco dining on the Sunset Strip, only you're in a coffee shop, with convenient electrical outlets.
My laptop's wireless maiden voyage occurred at the Sacramento airport (excuse me, the Sacramento International Airport, because they fly to Guadalajara on alternate Wednesdays). FYI: For all you Where's-My-Free-Wifi-Hotspots people out there, LAX does NOT have it. Bastards.
By the way, there is a website that lists every free wifi hotspot it can think of, or allow users to contribute to the list. It's called The Wifi FreeSpot Directory. Not that it's entirely accurate as it doesn't list the Sacramento airport. Or the International one. But if you ever find yourself in Downtown Kuwait City and you simply must blog about the pineapples falling from the sky right that minute, isn't it comforting to know that free wireless internet access can be found at the Dasman-Sharq Holiday Inn?
Just don't visit the Apple Store while you're there, because if there's one thing snobbier than a Mac user, it's a Kuwaiti Mac user. He'll look down his nose at you while showing off hs 24 terabyte iPod, even with a pineapple lodged in his skull.
* * *
NGiP would like to thank Mamasphere for adding Nanny Goats to her blog roll. If you've ever gone to work with a wardrobe malfunction, such as mismatched socks, Mamasphere can top that with a post entitled Another Embarrassing Day At The Office.
Hey, while you're here, could you do me a solid and click on this link which will bump me up a bit in the Sacto Top 25 rankings? That's it, just one click, nothing else. Thanks, man.
(photo courtesy of Clarita)
Bullet Proof Vests Now Required in the Kitchen
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Labels:
food,
sacramento,
shopping,
shout out
So there I was at the Farmer's Market the other day, you know the one in Sacramento in that parking lot downtown, underneath what some of us old-timers call the WX freeway? What's that thing called now? Anyway, I came across something I don't recall seeing before, but I can only assume I ignored them all the time and became sensitized to them when I was served flowers at a Hollywood restaurant recently...
I stood there like a tourist and took a picture of these squash blossoms, attempting nonchalance, because what idiot takes pictures of vegetables at the Farmer's Market? I mean, really. I've never seen anyone take a picture there. People are too busy pushing and shoving to get to the perfect basket of strawberries, ignoring the fact that this is a civilized society, people and there's a line here, buddy, I want to pay for my avocados too you know and I got here before you! That is what normally happens at these places. Anybody stopping to snap a photo is just plain cuckoo and should be made fun of.
Less than a minute later and further down the aisle, I walked past a woman pulling out her camera and exclaiming, "Oh! I've never seen THESE before." And then click, click click.
Was she crazy? A camera at the Farmer's Market? Didn't we just go over this? Honestly!
So I whipped out my camera again, just so I could show you what she found so fascinating...
Good Heavens, with ingredients like squash blossoms and torpedo onions, what kind of violent offensive would a cook execute in his or her kitchen? Hammunition Surprise? Blood Red Velvet Cake? Firecracker Quiche in a Nuclear Fusion Sauce? I mean, yeah, they sound yummy and all, but the next time you're at Joe's Landmines and Chop Suey Bistro, and the guy at the next table blurts out, "This soup is the bomb!", take cover.
* * *
NGiP would like to thank Drowsey Monkey for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll. Every time I visit her blog, I smile, because penguins roam around in the side bar and penguins make the corners of my mouth reach for my ears. Today (Saturday) is Drowsey Monkey's 1 year Bloggiversay, so go over there and say Congrats! And tell her Nanny Goats sent ya!
I stood there like a tourist and took a picture of these squash blossoms, attempting nonchalance, because what idiot takes pictures of vegetables at the Farmer's Market? I mean, really. I've never seen anyone take a picture there. People are too busy pushing and shoving to get to the perfect basket of strawberries, ignoring the fact that this is a civilized society, people and there's a line here, buddy, I want to pay for my avocados too you know and I got here before you! That is what normally happens at these places. Anybody stopping to snap a photo is just plain cuckoo and should be made fun of.
Less than a minute later and further down the aisle, I walked past a woman pulling out her camera and exclaiming, "Oh! I've never seen THESE before." And then click, click click.
Was she crazy? A camera at the Farmer's Market? Didn't we just go over this? Honestly!
So I whipped out my camera again, just so I could show you what she found so fascinating...
Good Heavens, with ingredients like squash blossoms and torpedo onions, what kind of violent offensive would a cook execute in his or her kitchen? Hammunition Surprise? Blood Red Velvet Cake? Firecracker Quiche in a Nuclear Fusion Sauce? I mean, yeah, they sound yummy and all, but the next time you're at Joe's Landmines and Chop Suey Bistro, and the guy at the next table blurts out, "This soup is the bomb!", take cover.
* * *
NGiP would like to thank Drowsey Monkey for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll. Every time I visit her blog, I smile, because penguins roam around in the side bar and penguins make the corners of my mouth reach for my ears. Today (Saturday) is Drowsey Monkey's 1 year Bloggiversay, so go over there and say Congrats! And tell her Nanny Goats sent ya!
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