Is It As Softening as Cocoa Butter?

Who doesn't love romance? Karin knows what I'm talking about. After a hard Sunday of making cookies and playing hostess to out-of-town guests, her sweetie decided to repay her efforts with a soothing foot massage. He even used lotion.

Except that the lotion was secretly peanut butter meant for the dog.

And it was all over her feet.

And the dog had to lick it all off, and Karin couldn't go anywhere.

See, that's romance where everyone wins- Karin got a foot massage; Gabe got a chuckle; Jackson the dog got a yummy peanutty snack. Karin called it "immature"; I say it's genius. We could all learn a lesson from Gabe.

As long as we're talking about hiLARious pranks, someone in DC sent out an e-mail advertising that Starbucks would be giving out free iced coffees between noon and 9 p.m. Since I believe Starbucks is part of the evil corporate empire keeping down yeoman coffee farmers in Central America blah blah blah blah, and they make supremely non-tasty coffee (it's a lot easier to boycott when you never really like the product to begin with),I think i'm the only person who didn't print it out and run- I've never seen people move that fast in heels.

I hadn't laughed so hard in a while. Then I laughed even harder when I saw the mascara running down their disappointed, tear-soaked countenances as they returned to the office empty-handed.

Prank.

Brilliant!

Stupid Forest Green Soap.

I am angry at my job today.

First of all, there are no hot people here. That makes me sad and angry (I did not miss the day in first grade when we discussed our feelings, I'm definitely on top of that). Granted, there is a dearth of hot people in DC in general, especially the hot guy to girl ratio, which is disappointing, to say the least- for every hot guy, there are seven hot girls. How is that fair?

Secondly, someone replaced the hand soap with dish soap.

Third- I know someone who is a convicted child molester (and yes, he was guilty, and yes, he is a BAD person) and AFTER he was convicted, some woman married him and had children with him. I'm gonna go out on a limb and call her the dumbest hussy peice of shit ever. So I support Bob and David's innovative policy. Especially the ice cream truck, cuz then you would be aware of pedophiles AND get ice cream.

Did It Dry Up Like A Raisin in the Sun?

Today we celebrate the progress of civil rights and equality in America.

Forty-three years ago, Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his famous "I Have A Dream" speech at the March for Jobs and Freedom, just a mile from where I'm sitting, at the National Mall.

I'd like to focus on one portion of that speech: ""In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked 'insufficient funds.'"

Do you love how he uses a metaphor that would scare The Man? I can just see Whitey, sitting in his office in Chicago, "Lynch mobs, eh, not so bad, none near here. It's all far away. Not my problem. But BAD CHECKS? Not in my backyard!"

SO let's see how we've progressed by playing the "This day in history" game.

2005: Ok, I skipped a few years- there's some othe good stuff in there, like Pigasus getting nominated for president- but last year on this date, New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin ordered a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans. Since New Orleans is full of a lot of poor peopls (most of whom are black), they didn't have the means to get out. Never fear, along comes the federal govenment. YAAAAAAAY! They give out $2,000 debit cards, so that evacuees can have immediate relief. Two days later, they cancel the plan because the recipient controls were so lax and the program was so confusing that it was doing more harm than good.

So, 42 years after King accuse the government of writing lousy checks, they issued lousy check cards.

Who says that's not progress?






Some other notable events on this day:

1968: Riots break out at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, when counterculture anti-war activists started throwing marshmallows and shit (actual feces, seriously, worst s'mores ever) at the police. For their part, the police responded in a manner indicative of the Daley machine's warmth and understanding of its constituency- by beating the crap out of everyone with Gestapo-like brutality and efficiency (fire hoses really, really hurt). The National Comission on The Causes and Prevention of Violence called the whole debacle a "police riot".

Jingle Bells, Batman Smells

It's Christmas at work!

I don't think it was planned, but it MUST be Christmas.

See, my coworker came into work today with newly dyed red hair, bright minty green eye shadow all the way up to her brows, a mint green outfit, and jangly silver jewelry dotting her brown trunk, I mean, body.

You know what I want for Fake Christmas?

You guessed it!

Michael Kors, You're On Notice

So last night, I donned my skimpy black dress (some people wear jerseys to the game, I wear my designer dresses to watch Project Runway), and sat down to the MOST DISAPPOINTING EPISODE EVER.

Even Tim Gunn is unhappy. "Vincent wins (note absence of exclamation point). Huh? I didn’t get it and it certainly wasn’t my taste. Congratulations Vincent, whatever you are."

Wait, as a society, we institutionalize crazies. We don't reward them!

If I had photoshop, I would make a funny picture showing how Michael Kors is freakishly like his mother, and the relate it to Norman Bates in Psycho. But I don't have photoshop. It's a problem. Does anyone know how I could convince my org that our international oureach program needs photoshop? Hematologists in developing countries need funny pictures like the Vanity Fair Morphulation of Michael Chertoff!

Oh, and note to Jeffrey: designing a burqua is soooo four years ago. Like when the Taliban ruled.

When Did Pokemon Become About The Merchandise?

Which Pokemon did Hitler hate? Pikajew.



This is the karmic retribution for having endured 10 years of babysitting Pokefreaks.

Can You Figure Out What's Going On?

It's reassuring to know that the BBC is always there, ready to fan the flames of global conflict.

Touché, Mr. De Rosier

Wild Ponies Couldn't Drag Me Away

I took my first trip to the legendary Assateague Island. Those of you who were properly obsessed with horsies as a little girl will recognize Assateague as the sister beach to Chincoteague, where Misty of Chincoteague lived. For those of you who grew up in a more deprived environment, it's the barrier island on the Maryland shore that offers camping, surfing, glow-in-the-dark wildlife, and wild ponies, all wrapped up into one convenient excursion. Unfortunately, beach rules stipulate that nude metal detecting is not allowed, which really threw off my morning, since I was forced to take my metal detector back to the campsite and throw on some clothes.

While you might have thought the highlight of the trip would have been the wild ponies, they were actually a bit of a disappointment.

As I approached the island, ominous signs flashed dire warnings to approaching tourists, "Wild ponies kick and bite!" "Do not feed the wildlife!" "Wild pony poop piles!" "Keep a safe distance from the wild ponies or you will die in a horrible fashion" "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, save us from the wild ponies!"

What with all the warnings, I fully expected a wild pony to charge me with thundering hooves, eyes wild and nostrils flared, rear up, unleash a stream of projectile pony poop, take a chunk of flesh out of me on the way back down, and then gallop off into the mist.

None of this happened. These ponies didn't even frolic. They just munched grass and unsuspecting campers' foodstuffs, then walked around sniffing piles of pony poop and peeing on them, whcih I thought was very curious and not a little kinky in a vaguely disturbing way.

Also, not to be a know-it-all, but wild ponies on the beach should look like this:

















Assateague ponies looked like this:









That's not a pony! That's just a little horse! And not a very nice one- look how it's kicking over a perfectly nice sandcastle that probably took someone all morning to make.

What is the difference between the two, you wonder? I have no idea why you're asking me, since I thought the difference was that one had rainbow-colored hair, pastel fur, and a precious emblem flanking its hindquarters. Apparently not. Following Droopy's Razor, the most boring explanation is also the most likely explanation: It's mostly just a size thing, but also temperment and thickness of mane and tail.

Snooze.

But wait! Don't sleep just yet, as at the last minute, the wikipedia comes through with the best horse fact ever!

"Breeders have also tried crossing various species of zebra with mares or female asses to produce "zebra mules" (zorses, and zonkeys (also called zedonks))."

Zedonks! Officially my New Favorite Word.

After the no nude metal detecting debacle, The Object and I walked back to the beach to check out the surf. Having read on the interweb that the weekend's surf report was lousy, he had only packed one shortboard and the body board and flippers. When he saw the chest to shoulder high waves, he bolted for them, surfboard in tow, leaving me to fend for myself in the waves with his body board and flippers made for a foot roughly three times the size of my own.

This turned out not to be a problem. In all the hustle and bustle of packing I forgot to pack clothes, inclusing my modest Patagonia swimsuit. This turn of events forced me to go to the surf shop and buy a new swimsuit, where the only suit available in my size covered roughly one third of my ass and had a stringy, padded halter top. I'm pretty sure it was designed either by a frat boys with a subscription to the Girls Gone Wild video of the the month, or a cadre of giggling junior high girls who think there's nothing more totally adorable in the world than to embroider a heart across the minimal ass coverage. Thanks, but the last thing my ass needs is the suggestion of a shape that's round on the edges and split up the middle. Ugh, I hate redundancy.

Surfer dudes are really nice to you when you give them the illusion of having more than an AA cup. Generally, my newbie surfing self is ignored in dude-infested waters, left to my own devices to figure out how to establish enough balance to sit up on the surfboard and actually look at the waves. On this particular session, however, dudes flocked to me, pointed out the best waves for me to catch on the body board, offered to push me in so I wouldn't have to paddle so hard (and thereby obstruct their view of my newly acquired tracts of land), then got up to do fancy surf-y moves in even the paltriest of waves. I've never seen the Object surf so well. Even a pod of dolphins frolicked not ten feet away, jumping out of the water to cath a glimpse. Behold, the magic of the stuffed bra. Had I learned that lesson back in the seventh grade, I might be a professional surfer by now.

Sigh, for now, I'll just have to get my jollies at work by threatening to show my coworkers my sunburned ass, which looks not unlike a candy cane.

Stupid Monday morning at work, forcing me to bend to society's mores, confining me in a shirt and shoes.

I can't wait to retire. By then, no one will be forced into the sadistic pratice of wearing clothes on the beach, and we won't have to have jobs. The hardest decision anyone will have to make will be beach house or mountain house as their primary residence.

I'll be the nastiest-looking old lady on the beach. My leathery tanned skin will resemble a crocodile hide, and my buttcheeks and AA breasts will flap about in the wind, unencumbered by emroidered hearts and stuffed bras, sagging so far that scientific journals will use my picture to demonstarte the principle of gravity. I'll live in a gated treehouse community, a la Swiss Family Robinson. Rufus, my monkey butler, will follow me around to refill my salted maragarita on the rocks whenever my glass is in danger of being half empty. I might even take up smoking, just to complete the look and get the scary gravelly voice. But oh, how the kids will revere me as I regale them with stories of when I was a little girl, the wild ponies all had rainbow colored hair and wings, and we didn't even need a bridge to get to the island, we just rode our periwinkle pony friends, and then left them to frolic with the zedonks. The I'll grab my longboard and ride toes on the nose into the pods of wild dolphins waiting just off the coast play with me.

My God; I'll be beautiful.

Can You Buy This At The Un-Safeway?

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

I may have lost a little faith in television last night.

The way the world looked before Alison got kicked off:














The way the world looks after Alison got kicked off:



















Sigh.

Also, as much as I do not like to coutnenance douchebaggery, Jeffrey should have won. Don't get me wrong, I'll let Michael be my Cap'n Save-a-Ho any day. I just thought that if we were basing this solely on merit, Jeffrey's was the prettiest. Who knew he could do pretty?

Sigh.

Finally, the Object watched Project Runway last week. He's pretty sure that "Bradley Baumkirchner" is a clever cover for ecoterrorist WIlliam C. Rogers, who committed suicide last December. The Object fancies himself a crack journalist, who, despite being an amateur, has got some mad investigative skills. I didn't have the heart to tell him that Bradley is secretly still alive and happily stoned, and looks nothing like this guy, except that they both have a sort of scraggly red beard.

By "I didn't have the heart", I mean that I'm a little scared of this weird conspiracy theory, and don't want to press the issue any further, lest I have to sit through an hour or two of the crazy that fuels these tree-huggers. That's not to say I don't love the trees and plants; I do. It's just more of the feeling a meatatarian feels when he looks at a cow- that would be delicious.

I digress. In conclusion, global warming has been thwarted just a little bit by the cold, cold move of kicking Alison off the show. Bitter cold.

Sigh.

COOL.

Check it.

"One is only micrometers wide. The other is billions of light years across.... Together they suggest the surprisingly similar patterns found in vastly different natural phenomena."

The News Just Came In

Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but here at the Goo, we're on Red Fucking Alert. We are fucking vigilant. We are on the lookout for terrorists.

Kitty has already been rounded up and sent off to Guantanamo. He was looking shifty this morning. And cats= terrorist is as obvious as 9/11/2001=Bomb Iraq. Sorry Kitty!


By the way, Red Alert should totally mean that us Denizens of DC should be issued binoculars and given the day off to watch the sky for terrorists. Does Homeland Security really expect to do this on their own? This is what my 6'x6' backyard is for!

In related news, I'm wholly disappointed that Michael Chertoff does not sound more like Skeletor. However, I'm reassured that the man must be brilliant, as it takes some talent to cover that up.


Finally, I'm most disappointed this morning in the terrorists. Not because they didn't go through with their plan; I'm glad that was foiled. But I'm supremely disappointed that an Al-Quaeda operative didn't seize the airwaves with a sort of Dr. Claw "Muahahahahahaha!" evil terrorist message along the lines of "Next time, Gadget!" Have these terrorists learned nothing froom cartoons?

I always imagined that's what the terrorist training camps looked like: a sandstorm raging in the desert. In the middle of the scene is a big green army surplus tent. Outside the tent, there is an outlet in the sand. you follow the cord inside, to a group of guerillas in fatigues, huddled around a t.v., watching Wile E. Coyote, taking notes. There is a man with a classrom pointer and a remote, highlighting various acts of destruction, pointing out where the coyote was foiled by the evil western oppressor road runner. When a terrorist gets really good, he's allowed to advance to the master terrorist class, where they watch Thundercats, and learn to send anthrax in the mail via the PostMasters of the Universe.

But according to Michael Chertoff, this isn't true. "This was not a situation with a handful of people sitting around dreaming about terrorist plots."

Alas, there was no seizure of the airwaves.

Sigh.

So disillusioned this morning.

Thanks a fucking lot, terrorists. Assholes.

Stay vigilant, peoples. And for God's sake, do NOT go to CVS. Probably just stop showering all together, as you liquids and gels are secretly terrorist explosive devices. Haven't you always kind of suspected that of L.A. Looks?

Surfs Up! (Watch Out for the Killer Tsunami)

For all of you who dream of "surfing at your beach house in upper Newfoundland" in some globally warm future, James S. Robbins has good news for you. The rest of us are still fucked.

I'll give you a Sacajawea gold dollar if you can read through this whole article without freaking out about the flawed logic, the myopic vision, or the blinkered rhetoric.

And before you dear readers point it out, yes, I do know that it is feasible and common to suf in Newfoundland currently. I'm just the messenger of bloggy bullshit.

But never fear, because Bill Clinton is on top of it.

Blogging? Never Heard of It.

Update! Update! Not only is Sasha Frere-Jones a BOY, but ZP, author of I Hate The New Yorker, is a GIRL.

This kind of turns my whole world upside down, as I had very clear mental images of both, and they're clearly all wrong.

Check out this article from 2000 in The New Yorker about this crazy new-fangled blog thing.

Then go read Emdashes, a blog about all things New Yorker.

Then go read I Hate The New Yorker,
a blog by a dude who feels about the New Yorker much the same way I feel about Catholicism- a loyal apostacy.

Finally, read S/FJ, just cuz she rocks. Oh, and she writes for the New Yorker sometimes, too.

What If?

My Panties Are in a Twist

9 Aug 06- UPDATE: on the topic of underoos I would like, pretty much everything from pants. OK, no more about my secret sartorial desires for a bit.


Around 11 a.m., I'm sipping my BURNT iced coffee from au bon pain. Bastards. I hate them for being my only local iced coffee option. And for charging me more for a 2 oz cup of crappity cream cheese than they do for the goddamn bagel it goes on. And yet I keep going there. Poofytool.

Anyhoo, I'm wriggling around in my chair. Something doesn't feel quite right. Itchy. Out of place.

I go to the bathroom and notice that I have put on my underoos not only inside out, but also backwards. Ouchy.

I would like to take this opportunity to state for the record that I am uncomfortable with the term "panties". This is mostly due to the fact that in college, Kyle Simpson would get really stoned and start waxing philosophical about the humor in the phrase "crusty Rainbow Brite panties", which is creepy and gross.

My "panties" aversion may also come from the fact that my mom used to iron my ruffle-butt panties when I was a wee little girl. All I really wanted were some cool underoos-the ones with Snoopy on them- but my mom was adamant about my having the ruffliest little girly panties that existed. I can't begrudge ger that right after suffering through the skid marks of my five older brothers.

Still, I'm going to agree with Calvin on this one, "I hate it when I can't gird my loins with funny animals."

I'm Behind in the News a Bit

Check this item out:

Mel Gibson Holocaust Series Pulled After Anti-Semitic Tirade

Ahahahahaha! Those crazy Kiwis! That's pure satire gold; it puts The Onion to shame! Mel Gibson makes a Holocaust movie, heehee!

Hang on, dear readers. I'm being interrupted by a certain someone who swears it's important.

Fshwfhsffhwhshwfhshwhshshwsh (that's the correct orthography for whipsering you can't hear) fhswh.

WHAT?! Seriously, it's not a joke?

It's not a joke?

Mel Gibson was actually making a Holocaust movie? Was it pro-holocaust? I'm so confused. Isn't this the fifth sign of the apocalypse? How did this ever occur? Can't the snakes on the plane do something about this?

Thw World May Never Know

That the World Adult Kickball Association (WAKA) does not have Fozzie Bear as its mascot deeply disappoints me. I may reconsider my decision to join my work's kickball team. But then again, I'm getting paid to drink. Such a dilemma!

In Lieu of the Goo Report

My new hobby is sleeping. That's apparently what one does with this kissing disease. The sad part is that no one can tell the difference between me sleeping at my desk and working at my desk.

As a peace offering for not giving you the non-news, I offer a conciliatory gesture. Motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane. Now you can be part of the movie that just didn't give a goddamn.

Does That Mean You Don't Have to Pay The Fine?

From a recent convo with the Object:

Goo: Did you know people think you're a bad driver?
Object: Who says that?
Goo: WHOA! Red light! Red Light!!!! (sound of screeching brakes) Um, your mom, your dad, your cousin, your little brother, Ben, Steve, John, Cas...
Object: What? That's so lame. I haven't gotten in an accident or gotten a ticket in three years besides those tickets that I just got.

...

...

...

If they come in the mail, they don't count.

Let's Hear Some Fancy Claps For Him

"My mother used to tell me about vibrations. I didn't really understand too much of what that meant when I was just a boy. To think that invisible feelings, invisible vibrations existed scared me to death. "

--Brian Wilson


So have you ever noticed the Ninja Soundtrack? Look to the right... no, your other right... down...down.... yeah, that's it! Those are my latest most favorite awesomest tunes that RAWK. Sometimes people ask me how I find out about wicked cool new bands, or know which are the most supremely awesomest concerts to rawk out at.

The truth? I have no idea where the music comes from.

It just appears on my iPod. From the Rawk Goblin.

Haven't you heard of the legend of the Rawk Goblin? No wonder your tunes suck. He's a trollish little man, who dresses not unlike Mr. Clean (including the "hairstyle" and earring), wandering the back alleys of DC, humming Brian Wilson tunes off-key, mocking yindies under his breath to their faces, but still bestwoing on them the most supremely awesomest tunes-only if they've got the good vibrations, of course. He's a benevolent but elusive creature; apocryphal sources report sightings of him trawling the aisles of Soundgarden in Baltimore and performing the white boy shuffle at the Black Cat.

I've never seen the Rawk Goblin, but I always know he's there, a stalwart patron of sweet, sweet music. I can feel him. Every time my headphones blast tunes that RAWK,the wind whispers, "Hirsch". Thinking of the Rawk Goblin, I smile and turn up the volume on Petra Hayden in homage to the weird little green man who makes it all possible.

I've Solved the Project Runway Mystery

For those of you who live in a hole, actually work at work, or are too busy playing FIFA 2006
the scandal on Project Runway will be revealed this week, and the conflagration of rumors on the interweb has not yet come to an adequate speculation of who will be kicked off for "being naughty"(Do you think Heidi Klum gets paid extra by the advertisers every time Bravo airs the damn commercial with he cooing about someone being naughty?).

Until now.

Check it- from last week's challenge, wherein the designers had to make up an outfit for a dog and its owner:

"Pattycake" was Angela's dog. Notice the resemblance to a certain oft-blogged muppet?
Let me break it down for you. Crazy Angela, who I really, really, really wanted to like, since she's the happy veggie farmer-designer who had potential to be the cool, quirky, granola-y fashionista, and a complementary point-of-view to Jay, actually seems to be an incompetent snarky whiner. And while the bubble skirt was cute once¹, she needs to come up with something that wasn't featured in the Delia's Spring 2005 catalogue. As it turns out, in last week's episode, she traded out her little accessory² doggie with a muppet to sway the judges. Conniving, n'est pas? The worst part? Neither Nina Garcia nor Ivanka Trump were ever children, so it was totally lost on them.



I nicked the Pattycake pic from Fourfour. Even if you don't watch Project Runway, you need to read the blog to understand why the peeps love the show. Unicorn parking!




1 That time was 1987, three months before my First Communion. Our school sent us home with a catalogue of the latest First Communion styles- 47 glossy color pages of seven year-old girls pretending to be brides, two paper black-and-white pages of boys- and the fashion for holy little girls everywhere that year was definitely the bubble skirt. Too bad that, unbeknownst to me, shortly after my birth, my mother had arranged for a convent in Ireland to handmake my First Communion dress out of antique lace from my great-grandmother's wedding dress. I was so pissed off. Stupid Amber Silva had the bubble dress AND crimped hair. I hope she works at Hooters now.


2 I would like to see other animal accessories on fashion icons- I think a wisecracking parrot, a la Iago in Aladdin would add a je ne sais quoi to the image of someone like Vera Wang- just a little extra touch of class.