Itsie Bitsie Teenie Weenie Bald Faced [Dead] Liar

For a small period of time, our country began what can only be known as the most difficult and arduous grieving process in cultural memory.

Paul Vance, co-writer of the beloved song Itsie Bitsie Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, was pronounced dead on Tuesday, September 26th. It was discovered shortly thereafter that Paul Vance was indeed NOT dead, but the man who had been posing as him for God only knows how long had actually died.

When I read this article on the train the other day, I was brought to tears, snorts and breath taking fits of laughter. The fact that someone decided one day to impersonate, out of all the people in the world, Paul Vance, just goes completely over my head. Maybe this man was drunk at a party once, and for some reason it just slipped out as a joke but never had a chance to reach the punchline [until he died and got his name all over the paper, that is].

I think my favorite part of the article is when the wife of the imposter is informed that her husband is, in fact, not the Itsie Bitsie Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini man. Her response? She is “kind of devastated” at the news.

That sad woman probably married that man for that only reason.

In other news, I think it’s time I tell you all that my name is NOT John, but instead I am the celebrated singer and performer Sisqo, known far and wide for such musical diddies as The Thong Song and…um…The Thong Song.

There. I feel much better now.

At Times Like These, I Think It’s Important To Sit Down And Ponder The Meaning Of Life

Screech Powers. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The man who got struck by lightning and obtained psychic abilities? The kid who owned a robot named ‘Kevin’? The nerd who developed a zit cream that made blemishes disappear in a flash, but eventually turned your face purple? Who forever will be bound by his eternal love for Lisa Turtle?

I’m guessing that he’s gotten over that childhood crush. Especially since Screech aka Dustin Diamond aka the man who’s face alone would make me want to try to bitch slap a hundred rabid howler monkeys is now starring in a sex tape.

In the tape, Diamond is reported to be having sex with two other women [how, I've no idea, though I assume it has something to do with a soul, contract and Lucifer]. Good ol’ Screech then puts the coup de gras on the film by then giving one of the women a dirty sanchez.

If it weren’t for the fact that they’re secured in my head, my eyes would be jumping out of my face and running to the bathroom to grab the sharpest razor available, if only to end their newly found freedom by slitting their wrists to ease the pain of living.

You Can Take The Girl Out Of College, But You Can Never Take The College Appetite Out Of The Girl

After a long day at work, it really helps to boost the morale to go online and see this as your friend’s away message.

Dear Jesus, or God, or Buddha, or Allah, or whoever was responsible for putting the Taco Bell across the street from my apartment,

You are the best.

Love,
Lauren

Read more from Lauren, my brother in Alpha Phi Omega and friend in life, here. Try not to be dazzled by her beauty or lacerated by her sharp wit.

But knowing Lauren, if you manage to make it through her posts unscathed, she’ll most likely find you, set a flare off in your face and then cut you with a razor just to acquire the desired effects. Be aware.

Then, After Hitting ‘Publish’, John Realized He Needed A Life Of His Own

I’m sure most, if not all, of you put aside everything that was going on in your life in order to watch one very important hour of television last night, as I did. And if you didn’t, then I hope your soul hasn’t become too sullied by all the demon pixies that have stolen it to wipe their evil, sinful crevices.

Strap yourself in, because I’m about to give you some spoilers on the season premiere of Grey’s Anatomy, complete with bullet points, angry words and an ample amount of capital letters.

*Meredith is a cheating, filthy whore. I believe we all need to come to terms with this one right off the bat. This being said, I think the CFW [cheating filthy whore] is preggo with a bastard child. If dramas have taught me ANYTHING, it is that regardless of sex statistics [only %8 of unprotected sexual acts end in pregnancy], you’re gonna get big. So of course, CFW will start showing her bump sometime around Christmas time. Congratulations, you fickle asshat. Santa’s bringing you cramps and sore nipples.

*You took my advice, Sandra Oh, and I’m proud of you. You’ve begun to open up to Burke and take care of him in his time of need. I’ve even noticed via previews that you’ve begun to slut it up, red lace and hospital bed style, for your man. It takes a brave woman to blow her man in front of his mommy. You may want to take it easy, though. SMALL steps, Sandra. Small steps.

*Addison. Try and make it a little more apparent that you’re pregnant, please. I don’t think the deaf, dumb and dead crowd have caught on yet. What will you do with your life and baby once you find out your husband slutted it up on a gurney with the intern? I wonder what those family birthday parties will look like…

What am I saying. According to the Rules of a Drama, one of you is going to get tragically hurt and lose the baby. We’ll all cry a lot, then say how much we can’t wait for next week.

Oh. And stop being such a sick and twisted panties stealing freak. I hope Merideth had scathing crabs all up and down her cabbage patch and that you get them all over your face.

*Derek. Oh sweet, adulterous horny assed Derek. It must be SO hard being you. I can only imagine what it’s like to receive the paycheck of a prominent doctor, have two women lusting after you and having the nickname ‘McDreamy’. I think it would be best if you just throw yourself off the space needles into a small pool of glass and alcohol, because I don’t think your two kids could handle you deciding to LEAVE THEM for someone you think to be PRETTIER or YOUNGER. Stupid McPrick.

*I think we can skip the whole Callie and George situation. She’s still an eastern European wrestler and he’s nothing more than a pansy. I wonder how many more different scenarios the writers have up their sleeves that will prevent George from saying ‘I love you’ to Callie. Because I usually put ‘bubonic plague’ at the end of my list.

*Alex. He’s boring and therefore is dead to me. NEXT.

*Did I miss something during this episode, or has Miranda become all the sudden an emotional BASKET CASE?! She never used to cry like this before over a dead patient. But now, I feel as if a patient could come in with the clap and she’d crumble to her knees in a blubbering mass of tears.

*I’m calling it now. Since Richard’s wife [FINALLY] left him, he’s gonna start bumping nasties, medically speaking, with Miranda. On the following Friday, you can find me in the hospital receiving cornea transplants, on account of my previous corneas up and decided to explode in my head after witnessing what can only be described as the opening act of your orientation to life in Hell.

*The last thing any of us need [read: first thing, as we are all hungry for drama] is for Izzie to make it back into the hospital as a surgeon, only to see her dead Denny’s visage in the face of an old man having emergency shingles surgery. Pick up a job at the 7/11 and let that be that.

This all being said, I can’t fucking WAIT for next Thursday at 9 pm.

Which Is Pretty Much The Extreme Opposite Of Being Beat Up

Judge Mathis: So she threatened you?

Plaintiff: Yes she did, your honor. She threatened to beat me up.

Defendant: Your honor, that is a LIE! I did not threaten to ‘beat her up’. I told her that I’d ‘rock her world’.

Sometimes I Blog While On Break In The Apple Store In The Mall

People have been asking me as of late how the job hunt is going.

Remember the Greek myth of Sisyphus? Where the man was destined to push a boulder up a hill for all eternity, forever seeing his goal but always being kept from it?

Well, that’s me. Only my task is harder than that of Sisyphus only because at the top of the mountain, Sisyphus didn’t have potential employers pissing down the mountain and making him slip and fall.*

Speaking of which, I need to do a lot of laundry when I get home tonight.

*Note to potential employers who may stumble upon this site. Please take into consideration that my middle name is David, whereas my Confirmation name is Facetious. So please, take no offense.

Phobia

Recently, I’ve begun to become quite afraid whenever a select few commercials and infomercials appear on TV. Now, I’m smart enough to recognize the use of fear as a tactic to sell services and items. However, I still can’t shake the feeling that whenever these commercials come on, something bad will happen to me if I don’t call that 800 number at the bottom of the screen.

The first fear inducer is the old, bald man that resembles an old Jack Lemmon who sells Oreck vacuums really late at night. Last night, I became glued to the screen as this man told me about how I’ve been lied to, for YEARS, by the big vacuum companies. They’ve been filling my head with all sorts of propaganda, telling me that bagless vacuums are better and healthier, leading me down a path of lies and false security.

In comes Mr. Oreck, a bastion of light and truth in the otherwise dark and abysmal world of vacuums. He tells us that bagless vacs are actually NOT as good as the bagged, and that by using bagless vacs, we are actually dirtying our homes even more. He demonstrated this by using black lights and showing us exactly what was being left in our house after vacuuming. The Oreck was clean as a whistle, whereas the bagless, illuminated by the black light, left a neon green stain of death all throughout the area.

Here’s where I got scared. Mr. Oreck then proceeded to tell us all how dangerous this dirt was, and how it seemed to pervade throughout the house, causing allergies to go crazy and germs to breed like rabbits. The kicker was this. The dirt is invisible! Throughout our homes, there is invisible dirt and germs TRYING to KILL US.

Last night, I’m willing to bet every single citizen with an inkling of OCD called that 800 number if only to protect themselves from the apparent invisible sewage they stew in on a daily basis.

The other commercial that strikes fear into my soul is that of the law offices of Mark E. Salomone. It is my belief that Mark E. Salomone is the Godfather and not a lawyer at all. I also believe that the methods he uses ’settling my case’, as he calls it, is anything but legal.

Here’s my thought process. Mark E. Salomone rarely appears in his own commercials. When he does, you know something is definitely up. Seeing him on your screen would be like opening your front door and finding Tom Cruise, Whitney Houston and a handful of Jehovah’s Witnesses. You don’t know why, but you know you should be worried.

The man never smiles or reaches above a certain octave, which only adds to the grave effect of what he says. My name is Mark E. Salomone. Have you suffered from medical malpractice or any other type of personal injury? Then call me–right now. I fix problems. Then, there is the Law & Order BUM BUM and the commercial is over, and before you know it you’re calling the nice hitman you just saw on TV to see if he can ‘fix’ your ‘problem’ with that kid who pushed you down in 4th grade and took your milk money [watch your back, Joe Cobb].

When Mark E. Salomone doesn’t appear himself, then he uses his considerably expansive power to have others deliver the message. There’s nothing more intimidating than knowing there is a man out there with enough power to get Erik Estrada and William Shatner to deliver your message of Jewish Mafia violence.

While writing this post, I most certainly thought about my safety. Will Mr. Oreck arrive at my house, vacuum in hand, to torture me with information about all the airborne dust particles in my room? Or will Mark E. Salomone send over ‘The Boys’ to take care of me, only to later deny me their services for a personal injury lawyer? It gave me a bit of comfort to know that others have written about similar subjects…

Springfield lawyer Mark E. Salomone’s television ads long have featured the urgent, almost menacing tones of actor Robert Vaughn, who played Napoleon Solo on TV’s “Man from U.N.C.L.E.” in the 1960s. Vaughn’s breathy exhoration to “call the law offices of Mark E. Salomone – right now” has been a staple of the personal injury lawyer’s commercials for years. While those ads are still running, Salomone has enlisted a new pitchman who may seem like an odd choice for a lawyer’s commercials: William Shatner.

I also decided that if I am not going to deliver this message and try to help make the rest of the world aware, then who will?

But if I you don’t hear from me in the next few days, assume that a cadre of C-List celebrities have taken out their feelings of failure and abandonment on me, leaving me personally injured without a proper lawyer to get me the money I deserve or the right vacuum to clean up my blood and knocked out teeth.

It’s All In The Family

I’m a horrible person. I KNOW. I don’t need to hear it from you all because I’ve been torturing myself about it all this time. I’ll do better, I promise. Things have just been so hectic with my work schedule, I don’t have the energy to try to be creative. Or even to sit down and look at a computer screen.

So that being said, read this. Recently, my mother has been transcribing notes taken by older relatives during their meetings. Apparently, back in 1975 or so, all the married women in the family got together once a month for the ‘Godmother Club’. They spoke about everything from house happenings to politics [one of my great aunts was furious over the bussing issue with the schools and the poor education some children were receiving because they were black. She argued for the bussing of teachers]. Here is a reading.

In lieu of our regular, not so regular, meeting in December, we had our Xmas party at Romi’s Restaurant in Danvers. However, we all met at Sister Chicky’s home to open our surprise packages and have a little Xmas drinky–before we went up to Romi’s.

I rode up to Chicky’s with Sister Tess [remember her?]–who picked me up a half hour late. However, I rode from Chicky’s with Kay B., as I certainly didn’t want to be hauled into the police barracks in my gown as I was riding in a stolen car [my mother has a footnote on this, saying that Aunt Tess had stolen a car?!].

Really. Now things are just getting out of hand. Can you imagine the poor guy–whoever he was–coming out of Church and finding his car gone? Imagine if he had offered to drive some other prayer home? How embarrassing.

Well, enough about crime and punishment. On to Komi’s where we had a great time. The food was excellent and the entertainment was just marvelous. Our waiter, Richard, was the best. Naturally [I wonder if this was a relative of ours?]. The Godmothers out did themselves in the sing-along. I think I can speak for the club and say we all had a very good time–I vote ALL UP TO ROMI’S AGAIN AND SOON!

Incidentally, I had to ride home in the stolen car. And believe me, I was a wreck.

It’s hard to imagine my aunts and cousins, all 30 years younger and out drinking and having the time of their lives. What a shock, no? Can you even picture some of the situations they got into, drunken times they’ve had and [apparently] the number of cars they’ve stolen?

They’re supposed to be cute, little old ladies. Not a bunch of loose lipped boozers into grand theft auto.

On a more personal note, I really enjoyed reading through some of the notes. It makes me realize where some of my love for writing and knack for a good time came from. It’s like my aunts were the first bloggers, and I think that’s a legacy I want to continue. And it makes me feel a bit closer and have more in common with them. And I like that.

Now, I just need to start blogging again.

One Thing I Can Check Off On My ‘Things To Do Before I Die’ List

Background: Every so often at work, you come across a garment of some sorts that has been ripped, torn, dirtied or sullied. When this happens, you have to get permission from your manager to ‘damage out’ the item, which entails filling out a piece of paper and having them sign it.

Um…I have a pair of jeans that we need to damage out.

Why? What’s wrong with them?

[Manager proceeds to look them over]

I don’t see any tears or rips anywhere.

Uh…

What?

It’s um…not so much a rip in the jeans as it is…uh…the menstrual fluids staining them.

Words can’t describe how I feel right now.