Mr. Romance

Oh! My! God!

Oxygen has this new show called Mr. Romance. Twenty "hunks" all competing for the title of Mr. Romance. The guy that is on the cover of romance novels. And it is hosted by Fabio! How awesome is that!

Is romance novel model really a dream? And of whom? Who thinks what I really want to do is model for the cover of romance novels.

I am definately going to have to watch these guys make fools of themselves for this "honor." It is going to be awesomely bad. They will have romance competitions. Who can serve the best breakfast in bed or something. Who can sweep a woman up in their arms the best? Who looks best posing with their hair being blown ever so sexily.

This is going to be so great.

Fabio. I am still laughing. Ah. That one is going to give me chuckles for a while.

Petty Revenge

So, I think that I would make a good reality show. My reality show will be far more interesting than anything that you will see on most channels. I won't be "looking for love." No one on my show will be awarded a job, money or willingly ingest bugs. No, my show would be oh, so much better. My show would be about exacting revenge upon those I feel have wronged me. Normal people just generally don't get to exact revenge. If you get dumped via email, you are stuck with that. There is nothing you can do. No counterattack. No recourse. But my show would provide that. I would get the final say. Here are some ideas I have so far.

For the asshole that lived next to me in college that did not respect the sanctity of the Finals Silence or understand how to turn an alarm clock off when leaving for class, the weekend, whatever: I will award this gem of a person with my favorite rooster. Have fun!

For the guy that stood me up claiming he had a concussion and didn't remember making the date: cancellation of all of those hard to get appointments for a month. That dentist appointment? Oops, head injury. Forgot. The hair stylist for your oh so precious highlights? Oopsy. Gone. Cable TV hookup? Not happening. Anything you scheduled? Gone.

The following are some people very deserving of petty revenge. I haven't really worked out what to do to them, but something. must. be. done. I am open to suggestions.

• The guy that spread the rumor that I stuffed my bra. Ah, yes, that year when I was greeted by choruses (chori?) of the Charmin theme song every time I entered a room was really fun. You deserve some petty revenge as a thank you.
• The mean ballet teacher that locked me in a closet for talking at the barre. Hello? Five year olds? Talk to their friends. This isn't Julliard freak lady.
• The asshole who painted Small Dick across the passenger side door of my cute little purple Neon. And by the way, the Monkey Attack Victim is a girl. It's just silly, really. Bitch would have been much more acceptible. Or slut. Or even whore. But small dick? On a Neon? It just makes no sense. And plus, I got a weird looking sunburn due to the eight hours it took to get the silly words off my door.

Perhaps Petty Revenge will become a regular topic in this blog. Please, I am open to any suggestions for petty revenge ideas for these very deserving individuals. Oh, and if you have anyone that deserves a heaping spoonful of petty revenge, please, do share. I enjoy a good grudge. But not the Grudge. That movie sucked. I was confused as to why Buffy was in Japan pretending to be a social worker. I mean, really, SMG was totally wearing the same sweater she had on when she told Riley that his stupid friend had been killed by Adam.

But yeah, a Petty Revenge reality show would be awesome. If anyone has a reality show producer connection, hook a Victim up.

Showdown at the Monkey Attack Victim's Corral

I don't know if you are aware of this or not, but at times, I am a bit of a moron. A walking catastrophe if you will. I mean, in any situation, there are two courses of action that can be taken. There is the sensible, normal path which most people take. Then there is the bizarre, usually goofy path. This is the path that I tend to take. I mean, I get attacked by monkeys. I get stuck in the woods and walk into barbed wire. I get my butt stuck on the drain of the pool. Strange men offer to sell me crack pipes. Basically what I am saying is that if something goofy could happen, it WILL happen to me.

A little background, I used to live in the country. I can already hear some of you thinking about how nice and relaxing the country must be. Here's something they don't tell you about. Roosters. Every freaking morning. Unless you live next to a saw mill, in which case, you are dealing with insomniac roosters that crow? Cackle? Call? Whatever. They do it all day. So one morning, I woke up a little earlier than usual. The rooster was right outside my bedroom window and being especially annoying. I walked to the entryway and saw the BB pistol that Nephew of the Monkey Attack Victim had left sitting out. I stare at the pistol for a few moments and thought, today the bird gets it. So I started inspecting the gun, trying to figure out how to cock it. It wouldn't cock. I fiddled around with it. Somehow I pulled the trigger. And it went off. I couldn't tell where the BB went. But, there were no broken windows, so I returned to my regular morning routine grumbling about how I was going to get that rooster someday.

The next day I smelled something odd in the entry way. I didn't really think much of it. It was a weird liquor/coffee smell. Decided the smell was somehow emanating from the Kahlua bottle that was sitting on the table. I just figured it was really potent stuff. Went on with my day.

The next day, I set to work cleaning up my house. I picked the Kahlua bottle up to put it in the cabinet and noticed it was several ounces low. This was confusing since I could see that the seal hadn't been broken. I started looking around the bottle and realized that it was cracked. I was like, what is up with the freaking Mexico Kahlua? Why do all the bottles break? (I had recently had a bad experience with another bottle of Kahlua from Mexico, a suitcase and my entire wardrobe) I continued with my mental tirade. What is going on? Look at this crack in the bottle. There's a hole. Like something punctured it... Ooooooh. That's were the bb went. Yes. I shot my bottle of Kahlua which leaked on to the table where I had set it. Explaining why my entry way reeked of Kahlua. This is not a normal thing. Normal people don't shoot their liquor.

Something to think about.

Hassle and asshole share a whole lot of letters. Coincidence?

Alterna-Techno???

So, there is this phenomenon on alternative radio stations. Around 10 o'clock on weekend nights, alternative stations cease playing their normal music and, instead, play techno/club/house/whatever music. Dance music, if you will. Like that which you would hear in the Lizard Lounge or Plush or something (okay, I have never been to the Lizard Lounge. I am just speculating.)

This seems so bizarre to me. Why do the stations do this? Just because it is after 10 on a Saturday night, are my tastes supposed to change? If I wanted to listen to techno, I would tune to a techno station. I am listening to 102.1 (or 101X in Austin) because I am hoping to hear a little Green Day. Or a little Franz Ferdinand. Maybe even some good, old Pearl Jam.

So what is the purpose of this complete format change on weekend nights? Did the station just decide it would be easier to let the DJ at Plush do their broadcast? Do they figure no one is home listening anyway, so why not just plug into the dj booth? Were they thinking, hey, most of our listeners are at this club, so I bet the rest want to hear what these guys get to hear?

I just don't understand? Is the station trying to make us long to be at the club? "We're shaking our booties. Jealous?"

No. I am not jealous. I have done my time in the clubs. I am far to old and unattractive for that life. I am not a very good dancer. I mean, I attempt the booty shaking, but I feel I come off very white and pathetic. And then the icky guys come up behind me and attacking my poor, rhythmless booty.

So, you see, not only am I not getting to hear the new Green Day, I am also being reminded of unfortunate dance floor molestations. Damn you, 102.1! Now play some American Idiot.

Gwen Stefani

You know, I have always enjoyed Gwen Stefani. She is very talented. Gorgeous. Funny. She seemed down to earth. She is living out every alterna-girl's fantasy: being Mrs. Gavin Rossdale.

But now, Gwen is worrying me. I think she might be losing touch with reality. Not in a good way, either. In a Mariah Carey way. It is really quite sad. At first, I thought the solo move would be a good thing. But now, I think that she really needs the rest of No Doubt to keep her in check. Meaning normal.

Case in point: the Harajuku girls. For those that don't know, Gwen has these four Harajuku Japanese schoolgirls that follow her around to her public appearances. That's not too crazy, you might be thinking. Here's the kicker. They aren't allowed to speak English. They are contractually obligated to only speak Japanese when in public despite the fact that they do actually speak English very well. This isn't normal people behavior. This is on the path to cruising through the desert with Anne Heche behaviour.

I hope Gwen has figured out what crazy white bitch is in Japanese. I am thinking that gets said a lot.

Dude, you're old.

So, I just read the most awesomely funny thing on MSN. It was this article about albums that are coming out in 2005. There is one category called It's All About The Pension Plan. Albums from veteran acts. It includes people such as Santana, The Who, The Rolling Stones, The Backstreet Boys.

What?!?!

The Backstreet Boys!

Waaaa haa haa haa. I almost wet myself laughing at the fact that they are lumped in with the veterans. The geezers. The old guys. So freaking FUNNY!!!!! Guess their Social Security checks aren't making ends meet, gotta put out a new album. Hee hee. They're old.

Ah, it brightened my morning.

Also on a slightly depressing note, Tori Amos, Sheryl Crow and Garbage made that same list.