For Better, or for Ratings

So, I believe the Kardashians fall into one of two potential scenarios.

The first is obvious.  Self absorbent, narcissistic morons who don’t care what exactly happens on their show, they’re just gob smacked at the opportunity to open their face holes and let sound come out while having a camera follow them around as they sit and give each other Oh. My. God. looks while nonchalantly listening to voice mail on speaker phone or having a laptop set up on the table so they can read off the CRAZY EMAIL they just got.  Because that’s how we all get our news, we wait for an audience, then check texts.

They don’t put a lot of consideration into what is going to be filmed, but like Mr. Ed, they think they know when people want them to move their mouths, only they’re a lot less adorable to watch and can’t fit into quite as small a stall.  Sure, maybe they have some vague idea of what the producers have planned, but I suspect that when no cameras are present, they’re desperately quiet to each other, afraid that the one and only worth while thing they say their entire lives won’t make it to film.  Rest assured, ladies, you haven’t missed a day that will never be.

The second option is the one that scares me; it is possible that they actually attempt to ‘script’ their shows.  Not just some vague “OMG HA HA HA we’ll put koolaid on a tampon and make him think we left it lying out!”  “OOOH! Yeah! And he’ll taste it to verify!!  OMG YES!”

I mean an honest to god, complex thought out game plan which enabled them to avoid this season of the Kardashians from fizzling out because it was the same old disgusting sorority girls that have still failed to graduate onto something else.  No, they weren’t just going on about their pathetic, self centered existences, they were figuring out a way long before the season filmed to make it worthwhile, to up their ratings.  I admit it, I even had a thought about how funny it would be to see this pathetic relationship play out on screen knowing it would end 72 days later…

BUT THAT WAS PROBABLY THE PLAN.  It wasn’t just that he was stupid, or she was desperate to have the attention you get as a bride, or the cash from the photos, magazine spots or the endorsements from designers and products… oh no.  This was a planned out assault that the whole thing would go to shit *BEFORE THOSE EPISODES AIRED* so that their show would suck in potential new blood believing they were going to be watching a train wreck in the making.  The wedding and subsequent bitch fest had to all play out before it aired, ENSURING you wanted to see what the fuck was the story before the shit hit the fan.  It creeps me a little to think that was always the plan…pick a guy just dumb enough that even if you tell him the secret, it’s too much meat for thoughts to move through and his face won’t reveal a thing. 

Don't you dare doubt me on this one.

The few times he says something smart, like “whos gonna know you in a few years anyway?” will be comedy gold, ultimately just proof that he already saw this as some sort of intense clown brigade that he was only traveling with until the next town.  They have the stories about joining the circus, but if you ever notice, when the circus comes to town, it’s all old timers… they don’t mention the bodies they drop out of the wagons before they reach the next locale. 

Near Braindead Experiences

I am angered that there is any shroud of mystery around “NDE’s” aka Near Death Experiences.  Really?  Are people that fucking stupid?

Let’s review.  There is overwhelming evidence that people have very similar experiences with NDEs; there are similarities, tunnels, lights at the end of it, floating above themselves.  There is also a consistent corollary, that most of them are completely inaccurate when reporting about what they “saw” that is usually up and out of their view. 

You know that many hospitals actually put random things above cabinets and such, so should someone have an out of body experience, so if someone actually does float up, they’d be compelled to say “HEY! I actually saw this thing up there!”  You know what? NO ONE HAS EVER IDENTIFIED ANY OF THOSE. 

Never.

Not once.

So, back to what we do know.  Similar experiences, phenomena, visions… what does this tell us?  You might say “well, it just seems suspicious, doesn’t it? I mean, why would they all report the same things, even those people that aren’t aware of what other people reported??” 

It just seems like the most classic logical error of evaluating the evidence you have and jumping to an unsupported conclusion.  The only thing those common experiences prove… is that you’re using the same instrument to measure.  You’re using a human; a human brain.  You’re a vessel with limited but similar capacity to interact with your reality. 

Think of yourself as a measuring device, such as a device to detect Gamma rays.  You cannot use that device as a barometer (unless you’re MacGyver I guess).  You don’t use a scale to measure volume.  You do not check temperature to identify chemical makeup.  A human brain, in it’s seemingly infinite capacity but actually ability, is really just a device with limited applications and functions.  Tunneled vision isn’t out of this world, it’s something commonly found in exhaustion or head injuries.  The out of body experience isn’t evidence of a soul or of heaven, it’s a very likely transmutation of consciousness to dreaming in which our brain confuses and disorients us.   

How often has one dreamt of flying?  Or falling? That jump when you startle yourself awake feeling your dream-self pancake into the ground?  How often do you day dream?  When you’re tired, do you feel you see more random things out of the corner of your eye?  The shadows you drive past seem like a dog or animal, yet there’s nothing there? Your “eye plays tricks” on you? You’re going to trust your perception at a moment of severe trauma, more than you rely on your brain when you’re simply tired?  Really??

The fact that one can trick their own brain should be reason enough not to trust it.  Give it a placebo and it totally runs with it.  

It drives me insane that there is actually money and funding being wasted on such a stupid, asinine conjecture.  It’s another example of ascribing a religious nature to something without any proof that such an attribute has any logical bearing on religion, whatsoever, rather than study what is obviously at issue, the brain.  The brain gasping on too little oxygen, or feeble support systems, injury, a dream like state of delirium, or just choking on the unbearable claustrophobia of an intellectual midget.  Why would anyone assume evidence of anything else when we know enough about the mysterious brain to know every single element of a NDE is consistent with trickery of the mind.

It’s not evidence of a light at the end of a tunnel you buffoon, it’s evidence that however uselessly, you still possess a brain.

A Day of Mourning

As much as I am saddened by the recent passing of Christopher Hitchens, I am delighted by the sheer volume of recorded talks, debates, appearances, interviews, essays, articles, and books.  I spent the day perusing Hitchslaps, and had the time to just soak in so much of what he was famous for; whether you find any of his ideas inflammatory or spot on, there is no doubt that he was an incredible intellectual with a merciless wit. 

My first thought, after seeing him eviscerate his opponents for intellectual shortcomings, was that the apologist movement must have issued a universal sigh of relief.  No longer would they have to risk opening their mouths and saying something asinine like “oooh what about … what about pascal’s wager!” and know that Hitchens would first chide them for relying on such a stupid argument and then dispel any notion that the idea is worth entertaining.  I was shocked watching some of the footage in which his opponents attempted humor by saying things that he used to just BURY them. 

Like the Rabbi who commented about his son’s briss that “my son cried more at his first haircut than he did when he was circumcised” to which Hitchens first replied, “then you were doing it wrong.”  (The haircut, I presume.)  But he goes on to say “What if I was a muslim and said ‘my daughter cried more at her first hair cut than she did when I had her clitoris cut off.’?” And preceded to bring his point home that religion makes decent, nice people do outrageously horrible things in the name of religion. 

Or how about the time that fucking Grand Poobah of high pitched whiny morons has a moment of clarity when he quips “Now Hitch, I know you’re used to being the smartest man in the room…” Honey, everyone’s used to that feeling when they talk to you.  It’s not just Hitch.  That was Sean Hannity.  What a fucking tool.  He sounds like a 1930’s mafia informant, high pitched, nasal, and whiny.

I’m delighted that apart from the appearances on stupid news programs and inflammatory crossfire like LoudestVoiceWins news network appearances, Hitch also did a number of talks, friendly debates, book talks, and interviews which allow him the freedom to weave together his arguments without some moron who starts the interview with “So, I believe in god, I’m a Christian, but what is all this you’re saying about religion isn’t a force of good in the world!  What could you possibly mean by this?”  I totally respect the guy for making the rounds in places that may have quite a few non-believers hidden within that could use a reminder that they’re not alone.  He was just so fucking good at knowing when niceties were uncalled for and when someone needed to be called to the mat.

I watched him receive an award from Dawkins in Oct 2011 (2 months before he died), and I just couldn’t.  It made me sob.  He was so sick, and knowing he was nearing the end was so heartbreaking.

Forever in our conscious, even if no longer in the universe.  <3

Fuck Off, Jesus, You're Giving Away My Position

Warning Label:  Lest your eye deceive you, nothing written below is in any way shape or form an indication that I have anything but the highest respect for the brave men and women that serve in the military to do a job few of us would volunteer to do.  To suggest otherwise would not only be wrong, but it would be incorrect. 

So I was thinking about Gays in the military (huh, strange… I felt the urge to capitalize that, yet I insist on writing ‘god’ on principle… lol), and I was reminded of an article I read by my favorite Gay advice columnist and overall fabulous Dan Savage, in which he thanked the military.  It was before he met his husband? Partner?  I forget if they got hitched or not… anyway, he recounted dancing in a club when he was young, and spotting a military dude and thinking ‘thank you, U.S. military, for giving that boy a body like that…”

And apart from imagining a hot gay soldier dancing in a club, something else dawned on me…I totally get it now.  The whole jesus-freak fear of gays in the military, I get it.

You see, religion has long cornered the market on taking everything you want out of and trying to control your access to it by dangling that eternal life thing in front of you.  Sex, booze, drugs, more sex… all of the things that you like, those are the things about which religion has the most to say.  Think about it.  How do you get a baby’s attention?  That’s right, you dangle keys in front of it, or your cell phone – something you don’t *really* want your kid to have, but let’s face it, when you want to get his attention, showing him a memoir written by a Real Idiot Housewife of Whogivesafucksberg isn’t going to have the same “reach out and grab ya” effect.  That’s nothing anyone wants.  You have to dangle something they DO want, even if they’re not allowed to admit it, in order to get them to listen to the rest of what the fuck they have to say.  If religion professed to shun all the wickedness that is Model Airplane Building, do you think more than a handful of individuals would take notice?  Aaah, but bring up strip clubs and sexual deviance, and NOW you’re onto something near and dear to one’s heart, and it’s just one extra step to convince them that shit feeling they have inside is due to that lust for smut, not from excessive fast food and inactivity.  Trust me, I know things.

So, back to that whole gays-fill-fatigues-like-no-one-else thing…er, I mean, gays openly serving in the military (seriously, is there anything sexier than a ripped gay, in a military uniform, with a big gun and all that random gear strapped to him or her?)  The military has long been one of the staples of patriotism to the christian nation.  Fuck you, microsoft, if I wanted to capitalize christian, I’d have done so myself.  Making me autocorrect the autocorrect is rude.  Where was I? oh yeah. Jesus soldiers.  Soldiers are an odd choice for poster boys, really, because – while they’re absolutely awesome human beings – they also have glorious potty mouths and wicked senses of humor (some, anyway) which aren’t exactly appropriate for bible study.  Have you watched the military channel?  There’s more bleeps than a Lisa Lamponeli special shown on network tv.   Stupid metaphor, my point being, they curse, a lot.

Think of all the ways soldiers are described – brave, courageous, devoted parents, spouses, children.  They make us proud.  They’re heroes.  None of these things are any LESS true knowing some are gay… unless you’re a fundy.  Letting Gays serve openly in the military, for fundies, is like letting a woman get an abortion during “children’s week” in church.  I think the whole reason they’re so up in arms about it is they’ve spent so much time and effort cultivating the god --> patriotism --> military connection that this would seriously fuck up that scenario.  If you could have “patriotic” and “gay” in the same breath, how the fuck are you going to sell the idea that Gay Marriage as a poison pill inadvertently swallowed by a feeble and struggling America, so delicate that it was weakened by all the condoned gay sex that’s going on??  The military has yet to recognize gay spouses, you know, they’re not invited to on-base events that allow soldiers to bring a spouse and kids.  No joke, you can’t bring your gay husband to the fireworks display or family cook out.  And when THAT finally changes, what next?? 

It dawned on me that by letting gays serve “openly” (isn’t that a shit kicker?  The whole argument is prefaced with “openly…” as in, we could GIVE a fuck if you fucking go back in the hell closet you belong in, so long as we don’t have to know about it…), it ruins the God Guns and Country identity.  It takes something that they’re so used to owning, and makes it an unstable ambassador for their ideals. 

Now I’m not saying they own the military, but the simple fact that there even had to be a lame, counter movement about “I don’t have to support the war to support our troops” gives you at least an idea on the whole christian/military relationship they’re used to expecting, that image that ties god to guns with such…flamboyancy.  Who knows, maybe it’s the whole having to be willing to die for a cause/promises of heaven that make the two so natural on a playdate together.  You know, no atheists in foxholes crap.

Whatever the reasoning, I realized that gays serving OPENLY OMG OPENLY HOW CAN THEY DO THAT does exactly what religious types hate, makes them share some concept with heathens and sinners.  It’s gay gift giving around a gay christmas tree with gay people that don’t own a nativity scene and if they did, it’d be done in drag.  It’s eroding at the illusion they have over a lot of things, that no one else should be able to partake in it, it’s theirs by exclusive god given right, like the constitution, nascar or state fairs. 

How Very Little I Know or Care to Know about Music

So let’s start out with a few caveats, shall we?

1. I do not fuck all about the music industry outside of baseless conjecture and assumption.
2. I have musical taste which while eclectic, still falls comfortably into that bell curve of mainstream music – while I certainly like some random things, my taste in music is, for the most part, lazy and unimaginative, unless you count Benny Goodman as imaginative.
3. I don’t really care all that much to change 1 or 2, though I’m always open to listening to something that might delight my ear.

Who would have thought that weird perm-headed kid would turn out to be Justin Timberlake, talented musician, actor, voice actor, and whateverthefuckelse he does?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fanboi – I wasn’t even that in to NSYNK or however they butchered that word, but I would like to point out that the one that was probably the easiest to pass over is currently the only one I can really remember.  Truly, I’m not even that much of a fan of his music, but I watch all of the SNL videos with that guy that’s not Adam Sandler and played some evil kneivel character.  I have to admit he’s got both comedic timing and whether you like his brand of music or not, which I don’t really, he’s still pretty damn popular.

I forget which band Nick Lachey was in, if it was the same one, but what the fuck is that guy up to?  I see him as the host of the Sing Off, and it’s a damn shame he doesn’t sing.  If you’ve ever watched the Sing Off, Lachey has the most velvety, smooth voice I’ve ever heard.  It’s fucking creepy how silky and smooth it is.  I couldn’t name a single song he sang, but if he can TALK like that, the guy has to be able to sing like an angel.

And it got me thinking… if he and Timberlake were in the same band, do they ever think of corroborating?  And then, wait, no, that’s just weird.  When do you EVER hear 2 guys working together on a song unless one is a rap artist and one is a country singer, or some other vibrantly contrasting musical style?  Usually one does a bridge, or a looped background thing… Like that horrible apology song with Faith Hill’s husband (wtf is his name…)… something about it’s too late to something something, it’s too late…..

Or Adam Levine inviting the once-vaguely-talented-now-morphing-into-untalented-white-version-of-Aretha-Franklin Christina Aguilera to sing on his song… Dudes invite chicks to sing. 

Girls might sing with girls, like…wait, that hook sounds like the…Dixie Chicks??  Or maybe Katy Perry and RiHanna or something, but you never hear OOOH! Timberlake and Lachey are touring together! 

I admittedly watch a few different reality television shows where you get to see musicians/singers whoring themselves out to network television.  Such as Jennifer Lopez performing her new song (I should have fast forwarded it, how could I know at the time I’d hear it 1,000,000,000 more times every time I turned on the radio?), or Usher going on Dancing with the Stars to sing horribly without auto tune… auto tone? True tone? Whatever it’s called, see #1.  I will listen to about 15 seconds worth just to see how terrible they are live.  It’s fun to see them struggle with it.

To all of you with unique, incredible taste in music, congratulations.  You’re fucking morally superior in every way, and have a “spine” or whatever else you want to say it takes to make up your own mind about music.  You know what? I don’t care.  Part of me wants to, part of me wants to go discover new interesting stuff, but the other half has heard enough non toe tapping crap to be really sort of over it.  Music is, for the most part, a lovely backdrop for me to let my brain do all sorts of other useless things, and when it becomes too interruptive or cranky about being melodious I’m done with it.  So, my hats off to you, thanks to your efforts at the far end of the bell curve, your drive to find something before it was cool help discover it for people like me to play it into oblivion.  Thanks!

To all those that tried Russian Roulette with an automatic, I salute you.

I can see how the machines rise up.  I really can.  It’s actually quite easy.  Take, for example, the recent TSA scandal in which a woman’s luggage was searched, her sex toys found, and a note put inside her luggage, something to the effect of “You go girl!” or something equally retarded and Forever Alone.  Some idiot tasked with a job that is supposed to require some amount of professionalism OR AT LEAST SECRECY… leaves a fucking note that says “hahahaha you said duty.”

What. The Fuck. people.  Seriously.  When we coagulate into organized group to try to do some task, we seem to always fuck it up.  We don’t have the right screening processes… or enough people who can manage to give a fuck for a long enough period of time for things to not just completely go to shit.  If it’s run by humans, it will invariably be run by fucking morons who find it fun to press an impression of their penis into every cupcake before frosting it.  Lest you think I’m merely picking on men, trust me, it takes an equally fucking idiotic woman to decide to fuck said moron male to continue making useless steaming piles of carbon we call “TSA agents” and other names. 

So, the machines.  Honestly, people.  If you can’t fucking do your job and just keep your fucking mouth shut, maybe we do need the machines to do your job.  You’re not fucking capable of maintaining the level of composure it takes to, I don’t know, hose down a front walk, without making it look like you’re peeing or hawking a loogie and then watching the water spray peel it’s disgusting stickiness from the cement.  You’re part of the problem.  You need replacing.  And for fuck sake, maybe if we programmed a machine to do your job, and made him depressingly unable to refuse commands (You did have it rough, Marvin buddy! They never utilized your full abilities!) , we wouldn’t have this kind of shit happening.

I have already sent my Thank You card to Google, welcoming them as my new overlords, but perhaps I should preemptively fill one in for the machines, too.  Because I admit it, I’d rather take some accidental metalman rapage (yes, rapage, not rampage, as in a robot in a rapey mood) from a miswiring than I would having to deal with your average greeter from Wal-Mart.  At least you know the machine probably isn’t going to twitter about it.  I’m just ready to sacrifice a whole lot to an unknown, heartless machine that trust anything in the hands of the extremely stupid.  You know what I’m talking about.  These people exist, and thinking too hard about it just makes me weep for a time where you’d welcome being shoved out an airlock “for the good of the majority,” just so THIS doesn’t get any sort of job near me:   

You know how I found that?  I googled “poor decision making skills.”  I wish I was kidding.

Using the internet as a spyglass into humanity, I have found the terrors of living in the matrix run by machines is a fucking hell of a lot less frightening than having a pedophile on the child taskforce police department (San Jose), Any Outspoken Anti-Gay Politician (who writes speeches about the evils of homosexuality while a boyscout licks his scrotum), or any single person that has asked an honest question on Yahoo Answers that deals with sex, semen, condoms, peanut butter, being gay, drug tests, or god.  Because those people are too dumb to live.

Calling it a Quirk Doesn't Make You Less of a Twat

Quirk: That set of behaviors that a sorority girl truly beleives makes her irriesistable.  

Personality quirks are just character flaws that you’ve decided you don’t need to work on to improve.  Some inconvenient exception you expect everyone to make for you because you’ve declared… it’s not an area you plan on improving.  That’s it, there’s no more evolving or growing to be done there, it’s now just the cutesy little detail that makes you unique. 

I know someone that “hates surprises.”  It’s full spectrum, from not liking to have someone throw them a party that they didn’t get to help plan, from not liking presents, because as they put it, they don’t like the expectation wrapped around what might be disappointment and then having to pretend they’re thankful.  Now, I don’t know how you’d go about changing that, but it seems to me that it’s masking being a self centered little twat by calling it a quirk.  But even worse, because it’s labeled a quirk, the “I hate surprises” is the end of story.  No “I need to learn to be grateful when put on the spot!” nothing like that.  And because it’s a QUIRK they believe it excuses them for being ill mannered!  What the fuck?

I suppose when you embrace your quirk as your identity, you see no interest in changing it because somehow it’s defined you, but don’t expect people to be impressed if you’re just using it as an excuse to be a lazy fuck of a human being.  Mo’Nique or however you spell it… her quirk after Precious and the Oscar nominations was that she didn’t shave her legs.  And my god, when they showed a pic of them, THOSE LEGS WERE YETI.  A few months later, I caught a story that said she’d started shaving, which all I have to say is hooray for her husband that his wife was publicly shamed into recognizing that little quirk wasn’t cute, it was lazy and gross. 

Snookie’s “quirk” was that stupid fucking poof of hair.  Lo and behold more public shaming, and she hasn’t worn it since.  One could argue Jennifer Grey’s “quirk” was her nose, and having it fixed made her too ordinary.  Yet Pamela Anderson’s 2 quirks were the only thing that got her recognized. 

I think there’s 3 types of quirks.  The odd habit, the psychological/dysfunction habit and simply a fucking bad habit.  A quirk is that thing that makes you different, makes you stand out, that little tidbit of against-the-grain that you don’t apologize for having because really, it’s a part of you.  Or, perhaps, not something you can do anything about but just part of your uniqueness.   I have a friend that sneezes tiny sneezes in groups of 3 or more.  Never less than 3.  It’s totally a quirk, and kind of a cute one.  She’s completely hostage to it… so when I start laughing when she sneezes, there’s not much she can do while involuntarily spasming to my amusement.  I have another friend who sends out solstice and equinox letters that I always look forward to receiving.  It’s certainly one of the best quirks I’ve ever found in someone, these beautiful, creative letters of artistic poetry and creative uniqueness.  My husband told me if we divorce, he’s fighting for full custody of this friend, but I stand solidly by my claim that he was my friend property before the marriage and I will retain him should the marriage end.  

Those are the kind of odd quirks that romantic movies can make you hate… it’s the Reality Bites scene with the guy who says “bless you” when you sneeze, or better yet, he remembers YOUR quirks so he shows up with your blatantly retarded coffee order, just right.  The movies may have soured them… but these quirks, they’re the good ones, or can be. 

Likewise, there’s a fuzzy line between a quirk and a dysfunction… in fact, sometimes, there’s no line.  There are some habits driven entirely by some dysfunction or psychological hang up.  My inability to sleep with a twisted sheet is certainly one of my quirks, no doubt just OCD behavior but I’ve made the conscious decision that I’m not going to go through therapy about it, and my husband has to live with me suspiciously checking to make sure he actually tucked in the blankets.  That’s a psychological habit, it’s beyond liking things a certain way and gets into needing them a certain way to function.  These quirks are essentially odd habit/interest quirks with underlying psychological cause… you can choose to find them adorable, entertaining, or they’re going to drive you fucking insane and you should break up right now, because they’re not going away without therapy. 

For example, I think there’s a difference between someone having a fear of speaking in front of crowds, and someone having to have the last word.  The former is most likely not something one’s happy to have, the latter is just fucking self indulgent.  If I tell you I’m sorry that I need to stop and get out of the elevator, I probably mean it – I’m sorry… but I’m not going through exposure therapy to get over claustrophobia, because it essentially involves stuffing you into a small space until they rupture the fear right out of you.  I’m apologizing because frankly, I’d rather not be claustrophobic, but I do actually have enough self-awareness to see that it at times inconveniences others if they have to take the stairs with me.   Apologizing for being a rude scumbag bitch when it’s entirely within your power NOT to be a rude scumbag bitch is entirely another thing.  You’re apologizing for shitty behavior as though it’s just one of those lovable things we all have to accept… it’s your quirk! You can’t help it, you just have a knack for cheating on your significant other! Oops!  Love me for who I am!

The bad habit quirk is like a giant pendulum quirk that swings precariously back and forth between the odd habit and the psychological habit, dipping in the middle through a stream of self indulgent arrogance.  The bad habit quirk is synonymous with self-centered rudeness, unapologetic bad manners and the entire id of a reality star.   It’s using the word quirk instead of the more descriptive term, such as a stupid fucking bad habit or you’re just a douche.  Maybe your quirk even has some root in a psychological habit, a fear of abandonment, some bipolar disease… but if your cutestly little quirk is stabbing people in the back and feigning ignorance, expect to be lonely, legally dysfunctional or not.

I’m just asking for some basic fucking self awareness if you have a quirk that impacts other people.  I know I’m a nazi when it comes to how the bed is made.  But in my defense, I try to be nice about it.   I’ll volunteer to do it myself.  I’m not asking anyone to put themselves out, rather to just let me have a smooth surface to sleep on at my own expense. 

Continued Search for the Perfect Insult

Back to the subject of insults, I have concluded that a genuine look of surprise/embarrassment, and the explicit assumption that one is mentally challenged is really the best route.  I am looking forward at some point to saying “oh!  I’m sorry, I didn’t realize they let mentally challenged people [order food / drive / go to the movies / drink in a bar] while unsupervised.  My apologies, of course you’re special*!!”  Note, that last word there is said out of rhythm with the rest of the sentence after a tiny pause.  Yes you are, you’re special. 

The other day I almost got out of my car to go tell someone how special they were because I was just so enraptured by their animated nature.  An SUV attempted to make a left hand turn in front of me, me being their oncoming traffic.  I did what I like to do (far more insulting than the middle finger, I’m telling you)… I wagged my finger at her.  IT WAS FUCKING PRICELESS!  Said fucking moron immediately brings up her own claw, wagging it, and so clearly pronounces “DON’T YOU WAG YOUR FINGER AT ME!”… while poised precariously over a double yellow, foiled at executing a left hand turn against traffic like the fucking idiot she was.  I wanted to roll my window down and say “GASP! I didn’t realize they let the mentally challenged drive!  Kudos for almost getting it!”  I find out later that that woman had so touched my husband’s heart, he’d actually have been okay with me getting out of my car to talk to her, usually a circumstance that makes the pit of his stomach drop out.  So awesome was this encounter that it even led to he and I simultaneously wagging our fingers at each other only to erupt in laughter that we had both decided it was now the best way to insult each other.

Oh man, I need to figure out how to embed a picture, I have the perfect one for right here.

While chatting with my sister, she told me that while on a “transitional” vacation with her husband...as he transitioned from his year in Afghanistan to remembering how to be a husband/father, not always a smooth ride… she had an even better insult story.  I wish I’d gotten more details directly from my brother in law, but I only saw him briefly and didn’t know this happened.  Apparently after telling some kids to splash at the other end of the pool, my sister and BiL were accosted by the teenagers’ mothers, blind with rage that ANYONE would tell their little darlings they were anything other than perfect little snowflakes.  My sister said one of the mothers threw a drink at her husband as he got out of the pool… Remember, the key part of this story is HE HAD JUST RETURNED FROM A YEAR LONG TOUR.  Soldiers aren’t known for having polite tongues.  One of the attackers yells “You’re mother was a whore!” and he responded, without skipping a beat, “I fucked your mom last week.”  Oh yeah, mother jokes.  Always good.  According to my sister, she left the pool and her husband did not return for 3 hours.  I am betting that it was absolutely the best transitional vacation he ever had to take, he had 3 hours to stun an ill-equipped civilian who was being a douchebag.  All of this delivered in a completely calm voice, because, even more insulting, he didn’t find any of them threatening… and that always bugs the shit out of people.  I should have laughed at “Don’t You Wag Your Finger At Me” lady.  That would have been great!

I need to know more details, I finally feel like I have something interesting he and I can talk about when I see him next.  And in the context of excellent insults, I feel that he probably touched upon some excellent tactics.

Everyone Could Use Some Constructive Criticism!

Imagine driving down the highway.  There’s very little traffic.  That stupid little fucking sedan… or maybe a minivan… decides OMG I MUST CHANGE LANES THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS IT… and cuts in front of you.  No one around in any other lane.  They change lanes… to the left, let’s say… where they should be going faster… yet they are traveling at 5 to 20 mph slower than you.

Hate this fucker?  How about the one that taps the breaks to change lanes in the first place, on an empty highway?  OMG I MUST BREAK I’M SO AFRAID OF WHAT MIGHT BE IN THAT EMPTY LANE BESIDE ME!!!  I don’t know what goes through their heads.  But if that’s you, fuck you, you shouldn’t be driving.

In my dreams, I have a number of inventions.  Cars might have LED signs on them which would broadcast passive aggressive notes like, “are you just learning how to change lanes?” or “I noticed you forgot your plastic bike helmet today.”  The signs would get pretty brutal pretty fast, please see my prior post about the dying art of insults… you may as well just start up with them blaring “FUCK YOU!” with a little animated middle finger dancing it’s way around the screen.

The next invention is far more gratifying – it’s a giant nerf gun.  When someone is being a dickhead on the road, you simply aim and fire.  This isn’t brutal violence, it merely fires a giant suction cupped dart which attaches easily to a car and bursts forth with a sign that says “I’M A FUCKING MORON WHO VEERS RIGHT TO MAKE A LEFTHAND TURN.”  Just, you know, like merit badges they’ve earned throughout the day.  You would be able to send messages and have them display... it'd be so informative!

I fully admit, there would be times when I get home and I’d have to do that awesome move from 300 where I swipe all the arrows out of my car-shield, but there would be other days where popping the fuck out of some stupid motherfucking car with those god damn stupid family stickers in the window would be so goddamn gratifying.  Also, they’re just syllables, and potty words just feel *right*.   And yes, it WAS a hard day down at the docks, thanks for asking. 

To Breed, or not to Breed

I think there are arguably some really easy litmus tests out there to examine whether you’re decent parent material or not.  I think it takes something special to be a parent, a type of patience I was not keen on developing.  It is all in your point of view, and how you look at the situations that would inevitably arise in the course of raising a new, blank slate that can really tell you the obvious.

Facing the truth, your baby, no matter how they score on whatever tests they use to measure performance and smarts in the first few weeks, is incredibly stupid compared to any adult.  I’m sorry, but it’s true.  Here we have a world of technology, advancements, inventions… and out there on the horizon, distantly, I might add, are the days when your child will finally learn to tie a shoe, shit by itself, or set up the coffeemaker to go off the next morning.  I mean, those things are EONS away…. No matter how quick your kid is to grab your finger with its sticky little brand new hand, you STILL have to teach that lazy little diaper filler to brush its teeth. 

To be a parent, you have to look at all those momentous occasions with both anticipation and joy.  You have to long for the day you can teach him to tie a tie, or her about her period (okay, maybe that’s not a fun lesson), and then have the requisite sadness that little Timmy is getting so big.  You remember fondly that first time you caught him with that telling, furrowed brow, and plunked him down on the potty shaped like a wishing well, or whatever they do to make kids excited about pooing in a civilized fashion.  You have to be convinced that introducing your kid to things a million have done before them, and a million will do after, is somehow still an exciting mile marker that you’ll document and post in a status message.  Somehow I just don’t think it would go over well if I posted a pic titled “Timmy FINALLY fucking holding his head up on his own.” 

For example – you might be perfect parent material if you get giddy at the idea of introducing your child to what you loved as a kid.  Showing them your treasured star wars toys, sitting with them during the original movies, watching them fall in love with it just as you did.  You’re shitty parent material, like me, if all you can think about is what a fucking time sink it’s going to be having to catch them up on everything.  Jesus Christ, you’re so far behind, you don’t even realize that The Venture Brothers is a twist on Johnny Quest, or Toy Story was awesome because all the old toys that went to goodwill made cameos in the film.  That layer would be completely lost on a new kid.  You have to not be bothered original films will fail to hold their interest, that they’d rather watch the drone war cartoons 10x a day, and Jar Jar Binks amuses them.  And still, it fills you with joyous pride that you’re sharing this new world with them…

There’s another fairly easy litmus test out there, along with that patience, that you have to have.  In addition to taking delight in the seriously underachieving world of baby accomplishments, you have to soldier on forging a bond with a person that drools and blows spit bubbles when you want to talk current events.  Forget having a bad day, because little gassy belly bloat over there isn’t going to suddenly ask you if you’re doing okay or if you’d rather just order take out.  No, that selfish little puke machine hasn’t the slightest inclination to worry about how YOU’RE doing, despite the fact that at least for a  while, you’re really that kid’s only lifeline to the outside world.  That takes some serious tolerance for a parent to not only wait a year before requiring a kid “say please first,” but to not carry growing resentment for every time that kid dropped whatever you made for them for dinner onto the floor after trying to wear it as a hat.  Remember?  Because they still haven’t figured out forks and spoons yet.  Seriously.  Apes can use tools.  And your little cretin will start out by stabbing himself in the eye with one.

So, if you get all starry eyed just thinking about being there the first time your kid finally figures out how to do what the rest of us have been doing for years, it might be right for you.  Some people say they’re afraid to bring a new person into this world because of the deteriorating state of this planet.  I say I’m against bringing in one more ignorant moron to this world that until you teach them otherwise, will eat dirt and try to taste the dog.

Recipes are for the weak

If it weren't for the fact that most restaurant food kinda sucks, I'd never cook.

I hate cooking.  I don’t think I’m particularly bad at it, but honestly, I’m not a fan.  I dunno.  Maybe it’s growing on me.  In retaliation, if I’m cooking, I’m doing it my way.  I get excited to try new things, I like leafing through cooking magazines for mouth watering pictures, but in all honesty, cooking kinda blows.  I usually make it through half of the recipe before I’m picking from it what I find appealing and dumping the rest.  I just find no joy in following along, unless it’s something new and unfamiliar, and I want to figure it out first before I reject their suggestions out of hand. 

There’s just no fun in following a stupid recipe.  Yeah, sure, I take to heart time and temperature… my goal is not to make anyone ill.  But once your recipe tells me to use saffron, we’re off the reservation.  I’m not using an $19 piece of flower lint to flavor a meal.  I don’t care if it does taste like unicorn tears.   Especially if I’m making something like stew… fuck if I can even remotely hang in there halfway through the ingredients anyway, it’s fucking stew! Isn’t it, by definition, what’s left in your fridge/pantry?   

My favorite recipes are tragically a mark of my heritage.  Those mother fuckers just aren’t written down.  My sister claims Grandma taught her how to make strudel.  I’m sure she has it on a post-it buried somewhere … and dammit if it wasn’t fucking amazing.  Note to self, ask about recipe… I don’t know, maybe it’s just me that gets into the chemistry lab of the kitchen and decides I’m fucking boss and I’m going to do it however I want.  That’s how she made her strudel, and it was heaven.  Imagine the best part of a pie – the goo soaked into homemade crust.  Like she made an actually tasty apple pie with cinnamon, but then scraped out the mushy yucky fruit, rolled up the soft crust, put a little sugar on it and baked it, letting those granules of sugar burn and make a caramelized crust of amazing around this perfectly moist spiral of vaguely apple soft cinnamon goodness inside.  

I have this suspicion that my mom actually uses recipes, but… I also highly suspect she wanders off into her own idea halfway through most of them.  She can make mini muffins out of thin air using zucchini, cranberries, or lemons.  She has the same Betty Crocker cookbook from 50 some odd years ago, but then again, baking is a little more scientific so it’s possible she’s a lot more capable of following directions than I am.  I know I’ve seen her just throw random shit together, and it comes out great.  "Oh, i just put some applesauce in instead of sugar."  It’s my dad you have to worry about.  He’ll take last night’s spaghetti and heat it in a frying pan, making it like it was fried rice, crisping up some of the noodles and dropping whatever else he found in the fridge.  Spaghetti and left over mashed potatoes, coming up… in one scoop.

Recipes are like fashion magazines… MAYBE there’s something attractive in there, or some idea you never thought to add…But hell if you’re gonna find me actually believing you can mix a large print with stripes or that celery tastes good in anything.  Even vegetarian magazines used actual meat in the pictures to make the food look palatable, just like that model isn’t wearing some off the rack item without some behind-the-scenes tailoring or photoshop to make it look good. 

The obvious draw back to my inability to let some little piece of paper tell me what to do is that I have no one else to blame if it sucks, and if it was awesome, I will absolutely never be able to make it again.  And just to make SURE of that, even if I could remember what I put in, there are the times I randomly remove bits of it.  If it didn’t fit in the pot I will randomly remove stuff and toss it to make room.   Or I add something else halfway through, crossing my fingers. 

Tonight we’re having stew… instead of the 4 carrots, 3 potatos, and celery and an onion it called for, there are 5 carrots, a crate of cherry tomatoes, a bag of mini onions and half a large onion, some farro I tossed in, a can of stewed tomatos… one sweet potato, one regular potato, some small purple tiny potatos… and then randomly removed bits of potato when it no longer fit in the crock pot.  I forgot the garlic and added it a little while ago, along with spilling in a few more farro grains because if you ask me, sometimes stew misses something in the crevices to soak up the flavor.  I failed to look at the clock, but I have a feeling it won’t be done until 7pm or so, but that’s merely a guess.  I just can’t be bothered to worry about it. 

Also, Dear Husband, since I know you never read this, this is the ideal place to tell you...you got another summons for jury duty.  :-/

Fucked movie logic

I feel like I did a pretty good job on some of my blog posts.  I feel like this one is crappy, so don’t bother failing to comment to tell me about how fail it is, I already know. 

I once started to make a list of movie clichés I was sick of seeing play out, and then I found out that on Ebert’s site, he actually has a complete anthology of all of them.  You know, like the one slow clapper at the end of a film that gets the crowd to start clapping for the unlikely hero…or the angry tearful fighting between a man and a woman that will ALWAYS result in them fucking… those sorts of stupid, retarded, only in movies type shit.

A few things I’ve learned about movies include, if a woman throws up, or touches her belly, she’s pregnant.  Queue director: “okay, so in this scene you’re starting to really think about what this pregnancy is going to mean and what you’re going through…” Actress: furrows brow, looks down in mirror at her stomach that she touches gingerly…  Yeah.  There are only so few ways they know how to communicate these things.  You know without a doubt if they show her throwing up, it’s meaningful.  People don’t use the bathroom in movies unless it’s to get their junk stuck in a zipper, take a pregnancy test, hide from an attacker, or to slow a loveless empty marriage where two people floss and brush teeth in as unsexy a manner as they can to prove their love is gone. 

Is it true that every parent coming to visit or mother in law coming to stay is some witty version of Jane Fonda that’s going to make under the breath stabs at you every moment?  Granted, I know there are some parents like that… but more than likely, they are the same, clueless bumbling parents they were when you were little, that hurt you more with comments like “you really shouldn’t have seconds” or “no, your father and I prefer staying in a hotel, thanks.”  They bring you a present that’s a shitty T-shirt that doesn’t fit and would be too obnoxious to wear anyway, and constantly comment about how your city is just not like home yet don’t return there soon enough.  Not everyone’s in-laws are aging movie stars that wear Ralph Lauren to the county fair.  Some, yes.  But every single one? No.

Likewise, the adorable blonde that slings herself onto the barstool doesn’t happen to do so next to a down and out yet perfectly successful bill paying intelligent yet jaded wanker with heart.  At least, not in the bars I’ve been to.  Unless by adorable blonde you mean strung out talentless moron who isn’t going to try out and successfully sling drinks for Coyote Ugly and perfect jaded guy is some jesus freak warrior that wants to tell you about his ministry that he got into after deep soul searching while incarcerated, his restraining orders from his ex wife, the kids he was accused of beating, and the horse stables he now mucks.  True story, I met that guy.  I’m sort of blonde, hardly adorable, but at least what I’m saying here is odds are against either one of those well adjusted people showing up ready to rom com it up, even if one showed up, it will never be both at the same time, and most likely will be someone one chapter from a murderous rampage over a parking lot space dispute.

Blah blah blah but movies are fiction and about escapism so the impossible happens… yeah, sure.  But, how does this explain the clueless mother who doesn’t realize her new boyfriend and her son are wrestling and trying to kill each other when she leaves the room?  Or how some failure at life moron suddenly becomes the guardian for an orphaned kid because some BIGGER moron knew in their heart of hearts that if they died suddenly and inexplicably, their kid would be better off being raised by a childless immature alcoholic that needed a baby thrust into their lives to bring out their inner shine?  Considering that kind of reasoning, sadly, the kid IS better off because the original parent IS FUCKING STUPID.

Movies about some sort of apocalypse must zoom in on a nutjob with a sandwich board.   Kid adventure stories must start with an eye rolling forlorn looking kid hearing their busy, working, single parent bark words of caution to them before scrambling out the door and leaving said kid alone to get into trouble.  Dramas about someone stumbling onto information they shouldn't know start with their mundane morning commute, coffee purchase, and "hello" to the building security guard.  Oh, how normal their life was, just yesterday.    GAAAH POST IS SO ANGSTY i can't even finish it.  No, I guess I can.  Bored irritated hipster shuts laptop with a snap in a moment of frustration that life is just too much to deal with right now, so they leave their upscale amazing apartment in a swank neighborhood to throw back drinks at an awesome local bar where... an adorable blonde slides in next to them absolutely ready to notice that they’re different.

A PESTILENCE ON YOUR HOUSE!

Honestly, we really need to bring back the proper insult.  I feel we’ve just let things devolve to the simplest form, and in doing so took hairspray flame napalm to an entire Who-Ville world of possibility. 

Today’s parking lot fights over a spot are so predictable. 

“Hey! That was my spot, I was waiting for it!” 

“Hey, Fuck you!”

“WHAT?  No, Fuck YOU!” 

I mean, has it deteriorated so exceedingly far that both sides of a fight use the same coup d'etat thereby making the entire conflict end on what is unfortunately a tone of agreement, don’t you think?  Yeah, fuck you too.  So they’ve decided they should each receive a fuck, but does that leave anyone thinking later… HOW COULD HE SAY THAT TO ME?

Those words just aren’t haunting to anyone.  Now this one, this one is bound to get someone – and by someone, I mean the only person I’m certain reads any of this:

“You egg, you fry of treachery.”  (or at least were collected by said Treachery).

Shakespeare had some dooseys, but I admittedly had to google that one, so I’m putting the limit at one source check here.  Mostly problematic because I prove my own premise, I too have become pretty shitty had good insults.  While I do in fact like “A plague on your house!” It’s not that gratifying in a shopping mall fight.  Rosie O’Donnell was on the right path when she said “I hope you get cancer,” although it loses something when you start knowing people that get or die of cancer.  It’s not quite so… insulting.  And instead it’s just, well, pathological. 

Perhaps the best approach would be to assume the unexpected, like brain damage or mental retardation.  “whoa, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were…special.”  You just have to give the right inflection.  A sudden change of reaction based on some fabricated perceived defect with someone might sneak up on them later… or even an unplanned (yet planned) sudden outburst like “you saw me waiting fo… holy shit your eyes are close together.”  That sort of thing… THAT they will remember.  Imagine a giant bug on their face when you react and say it, like you’d do anything to not have to look at them anymore, including concede and argument.  That might do it.

Sure, maybe “hobo plagued dandelion” lacks the impact that “Fuck you, you lazy sack of shit, maybe if you sang louder they’d have heard you…”  Though maybe that’s moot, because I’m pretty sure if any garden flower I came across made a sudden and unexplainable noise like that, my first instinct would be to kill it with fire.  I know this because I’ve already tested what flora is flammable, and I didn’t even have to hear it sing to pursue it. 

Fucking magnets, how do they work?

I recently made a Victoria’s Secret purchase.  I might be shitty at spending gift certificates in a timely fashion, but I’m fucking awesome at keeping them.  I know for a fact one of them was an engagement present, so that thing was at least 8 years old…and one was from a birthday before that.  You know what?  Not a single one lost any value.  Yeah, I know, I know, California passed a law about gift certificates retaining their value… and I’d have to google what year that passed… and then I’d be doing research for a blog (fuck that)….

Anyway, I had $190 worth of gift certificates saved up, so I went on a lazy shopping spree (yes, from my computer).  And damn, not only does VS know their fucking business (my shit arrived in like 3 days!), they have the architecture and engineering down like a fucking boss.  In fact, my new bathing suit DOES make me look like I have a fucking rack and a half.  And that lace thingy with the red and the garters?  Yeah, that thing?  Effective.  Very effective.  And surprisingly comfortable.  And supportive.  For being… essentially nothing.  It's like magic, really, seems improbable, yet, there they are.  Kudos, dood who sold his VS business for next to nothing and kicks himself daily for selling…great idea! Too bad it’s no longer yours!

Anyway, after my swank purchase, I am of course plagued with the daily VS email about clearance and sales and promotions… Every day, a new hot chick in my mailbox, frolicking around in the surf, writhing around on the dock… promoting cheaper and cheaper versions of herself.  It’s like we had our moment.  And now… now she’s just letting me know exactly how pathetic and dirty she’ll get for my repeat business.  Either I was duped before into thinking she was some sort of merchandise goddess, or I’m only now seeing how that slut bag will do just about anything for a couple bucks. 

Thanks, Vicky, but I’m good for right now.  And you’re starting to look desperate.  Put some fucking clothes on and try your sales pitch without your finger pulling down the side of your lip, you’re starting to look like a mouth breather.  With a hip problem.  Seriously, who juts their hip out that far to the side so your entire body looks like a scoliosis S curve?  Oh right, people with scoliosis.  My bad.

 

You, you fucking didn't. Try again.

You know what, I’m not much of a fan of “oh, I’m asking for a friend.”  That joke might have been funny the first time an 18 yr old in 1991 asked how much the 36 count box of condoms behind the counter was, but it was only funny because he was actually serious and no one believed him.  It’s subtle, people, but it requires a slightly less narcissistic person to actually get the humor.

Allow me to explain.  I find twitter quite entertaining.  In fact, I was sort of surprised at what began as a bullshit, secret account where I could bitch without my sister reading it, that became a great medium of expression.  And not only that, when you come into contact with other real actual humans, there’s something nice that happens there.

But this post isn’t about that, I’ll write another day about the adorable gay man I have a huge crush on or the awesome single mom midwife that fucking does it all and manages to remain human and intriguing at the same time. (This is where I’d insert a hyperlink, but because I hate blogs that do all that kind of shit, maybe I’ll just post a link to it at the bottom).   This post is about the self centered fucking morons that use twitter as one big hyperbole piece of shit “asking for a friend” waste receptacle of the stupid fucking ideas they come up with to tweet.

You know why you sound stupid?  Because you’re trying, and it’s obvious, and no one thinks for a moment you did what you claim you did.  That’s why.  No, you didn’t beat up an old lady.  You didn’t annoy your neighbors by prancing around naked.  No, we don’t believe you that you just “showed your co-worker who’s boss,” or that you were flippant to your boss at work. 

No, we know that you shut your fucking mouth at work, you tweet from a bathroom stall, and you’re sure as hell not handing out beatings left and right.  Unless right now you are dictating to the cop filling out paperwork to catalogue the pile of your confiscated items sitting on the desk next to him, hoping he’ll send your last tweet from the holding tank, “So how much time do you get for slapping the shit out of a stupid salesclerk?  Asking for a friend.”






Aforementioned blog: http://citymidwife.blogspot.com/

My magical pants have a message. That message is, "Fuck you."

So I have a fucking magical pair of pants.  Magic, you say?  As in, they can travel from person to person, improbably flattering 3 skinny chicks and one fat one?  No, moron, and thanks for outing both of us for knowing that stupid plot.

These are vindictively magical, psychologically brutal pants.  How so, you ask?  Well, these jeans fit, but with that reminder that perhaps dessert should be an apple, not a brownie.  Sure, probably not the best fit ever, but that’s their power. They fit, although they have that slight whisper that, you know, maybe you could lay off the salt, you might be retaining.  When I originally purchased these pants, appreciating that they fit without that stupid gap in the back or any of the other million ways jeans can be so ill-fitting on a girl who's NEVER complained "why is my butt flat! *pouty face*"  I did what you're are supposed to do when you find gapless pants: I purchased two pairs of them. 

Yet I think only this one pair is magical.  The other, I don’t notice.  I feel good wearing them, they’re comfortable, and they fit.  But this pair, this pair is just cranky as fuck.

So…time passes, and I lose 5lbs.  And what do you know?  Said pants still fit.  However, they have now decided to let me think about all my past mistakes, concentrating on my waist, giving me that self conscious worry that I’m muffin topping all over the place.  What about 5 lbs ago?  Where was this horrible feeling then?  How did these pants fit then if I am noticing now that they feel too snug? 

Somewhere there is a painting of my jeans, flopping around, stretched out beyond usefulness.

So more time passes, and I lose another 5lbs.  I triumphantly return to The Pants, in hopes that they finally concede defeat.  Mr. Belt, not so magical, now needs to go down a notch size.   However, magically, Mr. Pants have seen my 5lbs, and raised me an extra snug feeling in the thigh.  Seriously, pants? Really? I lose 5lbs, you magically shrink and find a new way to make me feel a little pudgy?  What the fuck did my thighs do between now and last month? It's not the salsa stain, is it?  Are you that petty?

Stupid pants.

I knew my pants which preceded these were done the day I went to pull them off to pee and realized I hadn’t undone a button or zipper to get them around my ankles.  Yet, The Pants have no such intention of being here today, gone tomorrow.  I should invite over 3 friends so we can all try them on and hate ourselves just a little bit more.

Vanity... fuck you.

My first entry should have been entitled who the fuck reads this crap, because obviously I don’t, or didn't, from the number of edits I was compelled to do after seeing it posted.  And I know this because I fucking read my own blog.  For the love of all that is made with blueberries (really, what ISN’T good with blueberries??*), if there’s anything I loathe more than blogs it’s ones that are hastily and poorly written.

*Take a tub of blueberries.  Score the bottom of each one.  Drop into sealable container filled with vodka that has been every so slightly watered down.  THIS IS IMPORTANT.  Place in the refrigerator for 1 day, then into the freezer.  The day in the fridge will allow the blueberries to absorb the vodka.  The water in the vodka will allow the vodka to freeze.  Once frozen, add to your drink.  Delicious, AND alcoholic.  You're welcome!