There's a lot of things I can't understand. Like how a compass really works. Or how to tie my shoes without using the two bows. And where certain relatives fall on the family tree outside of the core group. Once you start talking about step cousins of in-laws and half grand-nieces, I catch the glossed-over blank stare of Honey Boo Boo's mom. The gnats even circle my face. For me, even the telephone is still crazier technology than any space station or heart surgery robot that's ever been built. Our words, just bouncing around the globe instantaneously through the air and under the oceans? Wow, just wow. I can't ever seem to get anyone quite as excited about intercontinental voice transmission, but I'll keep trying.
Recently what I can't understand involves bumper stickers. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the peculiar subculture of opinionated vehicle decorations, and often find them to be rather amusing. My favorite of all time was a shirtless ASU stoner cruising around Tempe at a dangerously slow speed in a beat-up, wood-paneled, Griswold-style station wagon packed to the gills with what appeared to be Mexican Serape blankets. On the rear window, below a rooftop antenna bent into the shape of a lightning bolt was a lone, faded sticker that stated simply: "I have no idea what I'm doing out of bed." I gave him a thumbs up as I drove by, but obviously he didn't notice it.
What's driving me crazy is not the stickers, but the people who apply them to their cars so sloppily, with seemingly no effort at all to align them correctly. For the love of all things GMO-free, how the hell could you not take the time to make sure it's straight before you just drive off with your new important message to the world right in everybody's face? I'd love to be the type of person who doesn't care about these things because truthfully, the way it disturbs me is often overwhelming. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to vigorously shake some of these people like a Dominican nanny.
*Editor's Note: This column was late this week because Ke$ha did not submit it in time. Her tour manager, Nino Salmonni claims that her bus had mechanical problems just outside of Fresno. Sources close to Insane Italian however, reported witnessing the pop rap sensation being led away in handcuffs after defecating in a McDonald's Playland in Surprise, Arizona early yesterday morning.
Dear Ke$ha,
Recently, both of my parents and all three of my siblings lost their lives in a terrible freak accident in Vail, Colorado. There was a malfunction in the heating system of the mountain cabin they were renting and while they slept, all of them succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. The reason I was not on that trip was because I had VIP seats to your show at Musikfest in Bethlehem, PA. As devastated as I am, I feel that it was the love of your amazing music that literally kept me alive today and I want to thank you for that. I know that it will also be what gets me through the long dark days ahead of me for the rest of my life.
Tess Schoonover, Alquippa, PA
I'm so sorry to hear about your family Tess. Sometimes when I'm sad I make my assistant put on the penis outfit and bounce around my house. I’m not a party girl in the ‘vagina hanging out of my skirt’ kind of way. I like getting drunk and partying but not in a gross way, I’m more like a pimp. More like a dance commander.
-Ke$ha ♥♥♥♥♥
Overview
- Track down debtors using the internet, telephone and mail system. Negotiate settlements and payment arrangements.
Primary Duties
- Call people at weird times with stupid numbers from ridiculous states.
- When they answer, remain silent for several seconds before loudly mispronouncing their names.
- Be comfortable asking a grown man in Philadelphia about what he plans to do about a $17.50 unpaid balance from a 1994 water bill in Phoenix.
- Keep your composure when the man informs you he intends to fill an empty Maglight with 70 quarters and briskly insert the cold, rugged, anodized aluminum device into your wife's large intestine.
CC: Joining me this morning on the Sit Down is actually my Philly limo driver taking me to the airport, Marvin Glasscock. Marv how are ya?
Marvin: Hey I'm alive and my penis still works, so it's a DAMN good day, HAHAHAHA yaknowwhatimsayin?!! Where you headed?
Jersey has always held a special place in my heart. As home to the airport I flew from while growing up, its partially responsible for my childhood love of aviation. Its 100 plus miles of sandy coastline is often where my merry band of misfit friends would recreate, typically preferring them to the tampon and syringe-seasoned beaches of our beleaguered home base, Staten Island. I had a high school crush in the Garden State who I would sneak out in the middle of the night to see, carelessly speeding across bridges and through tunnels in various states of inebriation - risking life and limb, all in the name of fleeting teenage infatuation. Fond memories, intricate and well preserved like ships in a bottle.
New Jersey however has another side to its resume. A darker, more insidious list of traits. Like the fact that it often smells like dead hookers. And if you miss your turn, you have to drive another 30 miles past 300 RadioShacks, Dunkin Donuts and Bed Bath and Beyond-anchored strip malls to turn around. Or that the sports fans of Jersey can't seem to decide if they like the neighboring Eagles, Giants, Jets, Phillies, Yankees or Mets but all miraculously agree on one thing: being a giant pain in the ass.
Due to the situation in Sudan and also escalating tensions at the Great Wall Chinese Buffet in Kankakee, Illinois, today's usual Thursday post will not be seen. It will however be available for viewing in its entirety by Saturday. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope that given the circumstances you can understand. Our hearts and prayers go out to everyone affected by the North African genocide and also the credit card machine malfunction at the Whistling Meadow Shopping Plaza.
