Monday, June 24, 2013

I Straddled a Girl, and I Liked It

Recently I tried something new. Unlike most new (or otherwise) things that I try, I didn't do anything awkward or idiotic or embarrassing. I rocked this new thing so hard. I was going to tell you guys all about it so you could be proud of me, but then I realized it would be the most boring, shortest post ever:

The thing I tried? Paddle boarding.

For those of you who don't know, paddle boarding is like surfing, but with a larger board and an oar with one blade. It's best done on a river or somewhere where the water is relatively flat and calm.

A friend of mine recently turned the big three OH and a group of us joined her for a Paddle! Boarding! Extravaganza! The plan was to start at one bar, paddle to the next, have a drink (because drinking + trying new things = yes), and paddle back.

There were seven of us and I was determined not to be the fool of the group. No face planting, falling in the water, knocking myself out with the board, having my kidney eaten by a shark, or getting sucked into the motor of a passing boat for me!

All was going swimmingly. Sure I was the slowest one, and had to work 14 times as hard as everyone, and ended up going in circles a few times. But, meh, there was nothing worth writing about.

Until it was time to disembark the paddle board. That is when things went horribly wrong. Or right. It's all about perspective, really.

To get off the paddle board, one was supposed to paddle up parallel to the dock, which is maybe 2 inches above the water, and step off the board onto said dock. This is exactly what everyone did.

Everyone but me.

Next to the dock that was two inches off the water was a dock that was 10 feet above the water. I'm not sure who this dock was built for, but I'm assuming dinosaurs. I decided it would be much more fun to nearly crash into the dinosaur dock then panic because I didn't know how to go backwards or turn around, which led to the logical step of getting on my knees and going under the dinosaur dock.

Here's a crappy picture to explain what I'm talking about.

Those red things are the paddle boards. You will see that everyone else pulled up parallel to the dock, but since I decided to take the path of most resistance, the only option I was left with was to crash into it with the nose of my board.

In order to safely disembark, I needed assistance.

You guys know that book How to Win Friends and Influence People? I never read it, and I'm sure it's full of great advice, but what it took Mr. Carnegie a whole book to say, I can sum up in two words: Straddle Someone.

You read that right. You want to win friends and influence people? Straddle Them.

The lovely girl who decided to help me off my board was someone I'd met two hours ago. You could say we were in the, where-are-you-from-the-weather-is-lovely-I-like-your-eyeshadow stage of our relationship. It's a nice stage to be in, and I suppose if I was 22 I'd be content to stay there and wait for the natural progression of all the other stages. But I'm thirty. I'm getting exponentially older by the second. There's no guarantee I'm going to live long enough to see the my-gynecologist-said-the-weirdest-thing-when-she-was-elbow-deep-in-my-vagina-the-other-day stage.
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Which is why I skipped straight to the Imma-mount-you-on-this-dock-in-front-of-all-these-people stage.

As I said, this lovely girl helped me off the board by sitting on the dock and stabilizing the board with her feet. I would then crawl to the end of the board and step onto the dock. It was an excellent plan; the only problem was that she was blocking my way onto the dock.

So I said, "I'm going to straddle you." Because, duh.

And I did.

But then we were kinda stuck there and I wasn't sure what to do so I said, "Lie down." Because, of course.

I had to say it a few times, which I suspect was because she was trying to come to terms with the fact that she'd just been straddled by strange woman in a bikini in broad daylight on a dock at a restaurant where families were eating dinner.

She eventually did as I said, and I cradled her head with my hand so she wouldn't hit it on the dock (it's the polite thing to do), and then I rolled off of her.

After that, we determined we were best friends for life. Because, straddling.

So there you go. Want to make friends? Straddle someone. Business meeting not going well? Straddle someone. Awkward lull in conversation? Straddle someone.

Want to save your friend from being hit by a car? Well, for that, you gotta grab them by the boob and pull them out of the way. But that's another story for another day.

Comment gem!
There's a pop song out here now called Walks like Rihanna. About a woman who can't sing, or dance, or basically do jack shit, but it's okay because she walks like Rihanna. Does Rihanna have a special walk?! I have no idea. I've banned her in the house since my then 6 year old son started singing 'come on rude boy, boy, can you get it up'. Not ready for that just yet...
 

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Embrace the Old

Forgive me for a moment while I show my age, but what the heck are kids listening to today?

I'm pretty sure 90% of today's "music" is meant to be enjoyed under the influence of drugs, preferably ones that make you think your hands are fluffy kittens with which you use to pet your face while purple daisies tap dance in front of you.

Funny thing is, most of the young people (you know you're old when you refer to teens, as "young people") I come in contact with don't seem to be hallucinating, and yet, they seem to enjoy this "music." Which means that either they are so often under the influence of hallucinogens that soft cat hands and tap dancing daises are no big deal or they truly, genuinely, cross their heart hope to die, like this crap.

I don't take issue with the lyrics (mainly cuz I don't understand them -  more on that later), it's the sounds I have a problem with. I'm pretty sure when someone says, "These beats are sick, yo," what they are actually trying to say is, "This beats make me want to projectile vomit, yo."  The cocktail of noises assembled by recording artists will bring you to your knees faster than the combined alcohol content of six of New Orleans' famous Hurricane drinks. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you listen to this stuff long enough, you will die.

These "songs" sound as though someone unleashed three monkeys and a recording device into a kitchen, pressed record, and ran away. Except the only "instruments" in the room are one pot and a wooden spoon that the first monkey uses to tap out a "sick" monotonous beat, while monkey number two shrieks at random, all of which is interrupted by an occasional "splat!", which is, of course, monkey number three flinging his poo against the wall.

Flipping through the dial the other day, it was one poo flinging splat after another. I had to turn the radio off before I drove my car over the embankment and into the canal where I was welcomed into the sweet release of death by the heavenly melody of a 1,000 angels and St. Peter's harp.

As previously mentioned, the lyrics don't bother me. It's pretty hard to be offended by something you don't understand. Rap is some of my favorite music (because its beats do not have an affect on my upchuck reflex), but in order for maximum listening pleasure to be achieved, all songs should come with a Rapper to English Dictionary, because these guys are clearly speaking a different language.

Apparently a monkey (pronounced moan-key) is not a poo flinging animal, a lollipop is not a hard piece of candy on the end of stick, and a whistle is not something a referee wears around his neck. I'm not entirely sure what the real meaning of these things are, but one day I'll probably find out and be supremely offended. Or maybe not. When I was little I went around singing, "She don't eat meat, but she sure likes the bone." And my mom was all, "don't sing that." And I was all, "why not?" And she was all, "just don't."

Fast forward 20 years and I finally understand what Deadeye Dick was talking about. But instead of being outraged I was all, "hahahaha. that's clever."

Personally, I like songs that have meaning, are full or reflection or convey important messages. No song does a better job of conveying my message to the world right now than Icona Pop's I Love It.



I'll be honest, the beats of this song are borderline nauseating, but they make up for it when they shout I DON'T CARE!

This song would have come in handy a few years ago when my boss would plop down in my office and bother me with the most inane crap. Instead of all the nodding and brow furrowing and pretend note taking, I could have just played this song and left the room.

gsvCuR on Make A Gif, Animated Gifs



Can people's lives have anthems like countries do? If so, this song is totally my anthem, and I will order John Cusack to follow me around with a boombox over his head and every time I do something stupid (like superglue my finger to my face), or embarrassing (like give hugs to people who don't want them), John will press play and we will shout "I DON'T CARE!" and life will be grand.

In fact, maybe if I listen to this song long enough I won't care that most of today's music makes me want to weep for humanity, and that today's youth are in a constant state of hallucination, and that because of my scrupulous morals, I will never see the dancing daisies.

I'd really like to see the daisies. 

Comment gem!
Larks: Yeah, why can't we see bacon tell off a kid? I mean, we can put a man on the moon and make Franken-salmon but we can't figure out reanimated sassy bacon with a penchant for juvenile discipline? Priorities, people.

Monday, June 3, 2013

You Googled What?! - Italians are Confusing

Whenever I'm having a down day, the weird people of Google know just how to cheer me up. It's time for another installment of You Googled What?! Let's find out what weird things people googled that led them to my blog.



hey, nobody told me there be math
I hate it when nobody invites math, but there it be anyway.

Never marry an italian girl
Husband, is that you?

Marry an italian girl
Google is at odds with itself.

italian women love on stage
You wish. 

monkey stairs banana cartoon
Is this a real cartoon? Because I would totally watch it.

you googled what
Google is starting to mock itself

All I want is sleep and food
Pretty much.

how to marry an italian woman         
Hmm, maybe watch The Godfather for ideas. Whatever you do, do your best not to end up with a horse head in your bed. 

ryan gosling sees you eat bread it makes me sad
I'm sorry, but I don't care how you feel. Ryan is looking at me.

hey girl did you know my boobs asian girl
I don't even know what to say. And it's possible I'm offended on behalf of girls. And boobs. And Asians.

for the love of the dog 
is now my new favorite saying

making love to an italian woman
is awesome

how make italian woman love you
Honestly, are we that confusing?

Bacon telling off kid
Why can't these things happen in real life?

what to expect from an italian woman
Loud talking, passionate gesticulations, food, more food, guilt, even more food, guilt for not eating food, passionate talking, beating a dead horse, food, lots of guilt. And also? Guilt. "Why aren't you eating? Don't you like it? If you loved me you would eat."


Comment gem!

And there's nothing worse than sand in your vagina.
Unless it's a small dingle in your vagina.
Then I'll take the sand.
Maybe.