Seriously, This Is Serious Business

Do you ever feel like the drama in your life warrants a soundtrack by Metallica? I do. But mostly Metallica of the kazoo band ilk.

Tip o' the Goo to Rababob.

Jingle Jingle Jingle

Last night's We-Can't-Officially-Call-It-the-State-of-the-Union State Of the Union address demonstrated that Barack Obama has mastered the art of speechification. I appreciated how race and socioeconomics played into the evening, subtly and not-so-subtly. First, BaHO slyly called out to engage America's minorities, who make up the overwhelming majority of America's high school drop outs:

Dropping out of high school is no longer an option. It's not just quitting on yourself -- it's quitting on your country. And this country needs and values the talents of every American.

How can you disappoint Barack Obama and America? Eat your heart out, Bill Cosby! Aaaaaaaaaaand then they panned to the room full of old white guys.

I was quite upset that Sasha and Malia were kept at home. This was presumably so that they didn't upstage Ty'Sheoma Bethea, the bell-headed 8th grader who implored Congress to fix her school because in America, we're not quitters. She was heartbreakingly adorable, true, there's only one of her and two of them, so it's an unfair contest. But in the aforementioned room full of half-asleep old white guys helmed by Nancy Pelosi looking like she'd overdosed on her grandkids' Adderall, can you ever really have too many adorable little black girls?

Ah, but then race issues took a not-so-subtle turn when Kenneth the Page Bobby Jingle took to the screen. As Bobby Jingle (also, Bobby Jingo) regaled us with the story of his immigrant-parent youth, the Object and I turned to each other and shouted in unison, "BROWN OFF!" A contest to see which party had the more authentic minority voice as not possible two months ago. I think we all owe a lot to Slumdog Millionaire.

As for Bobby Jingle, well, I'm in utterly love with him. He may have been a little too ham-handed with his childhood story, but he filled the void in the evening's adorability quotient left by the absence of Sasha and Malia. I want the Bobby Jingle Talking Doll to keep in my bag and give me a high school pep talk when I'm feeling blue about the global shitstorm:

• You don't need Barack Obama or your savings account; go buy a house you can't afford, and a puppy to go in it!
• Natural disasters only happen in Louisiana!
• Treat every week like it's shark week!
• You learned everything you need to know in kindergarten, so go ahead and have that nap!

I'm sure the people of Alaska appreciate Bobby Jingle just as much as me. After hearing how Bobby Jingle saved Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina, they can rest assured knowing Bobby Jingle is the kind of guy who will help the Republican party in the face of a natural disaster. Everybody's in a tizzy because he suggested we don't need volcano monitoring. But consider this item of recent news:

The plume of smoke coming from Mount Redoubt near Anchorage is growing daily. The volcano has been showing signs of activity since last fall, but the threat level became increased around January 25.

Conceivably, if you take away volcano monitoring and the thing blows and nobody around has any warning, everybody in the vicinity gets magmaed. And who lives in Alaska? Sarah Palin! So no volcano monitoring=no more Sarah Palin. Alaska wins, GOP wins, and most importantly, America wins.

Bobby Jingle, boy genus.

Can't We Do Better in the Squishy Footwear Department?

Throughout college and several years afterward, I had the perfect pair of bunny slippers. Over the years, they become so decrepit and hole-ridden that they ceased to be functional. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them, but the Object refused to let them come into the apartment when I moved in. I compromised by asking the Object to quietly dispose of them for me when I wasn't around, and never speak of it again. The unintended side effect? Whenever my feet get cold, I look at the Object and a gnawing, resentful voice reminds me, that's the asshole that got rid of my perfect bunny slippers. HE DID THIS TO YOU!!!

I can't replace the slippers, because I feel bad for the ones he threw away. But the Object refuses to "condescend" (his words) to my simple, reasonable request that he assuage my anxiety with some sort of redeeming Velveteen Bunny Slippers story, wherein the bunny slippers come alive and live happily ever after, reveling in what I imagine is the nexus of existence for any urban rodent, namely the dumpsters behind Mixtec. It's a magical place.

Plagued with cold feet and tired of resenting the Object for them, I figured I'd just have to bite the bullet and get new slippers. For a little while, I thought I'd try to replace my old slippers, fairy tales be damned. But alas, replicas are nowhere to be found. In fact, I don't understand how an entire store devoted to bunny apparel has an entire pink ninja bunny outfit, but not one single pair of bunny slippers.

I figured if my bunny slippers were truly irreplaceable, I'd go branch out to other rodent-themed slippers. But , the dead rat slippers nipped that idea in the bud.

I turned my search to non-rodent slippers, and turned up Heelarious, squishy high heels for the infant crowd. It's not often one is faced with a product more appalling than a baby-sized velour track suit with SLUT printed across the but. My search continued, and I learned that interesting slippers are arbitrarily categorized. I'm not sure if Pikachu really warrants consideration in the genre of "wackiest slippers," but I'll definitely grant that penis slippers belong there.

I'm not quite sure what to do anymore about my poor, blue feet. It's a slippery slope from trying to find the perfect pair of slippers to waltzing around town in your Zorro p.j.s. Do I risk it, or just shove my cold feet under the Object whenever I curl into bed?

Is This Real Life?

People always want to know why I don't want to hang out after I go to the dentist. While I love my dentist, I really, really, really hate going to the dentist. I love my dentist because she gives me enough drugs so that I don't have a panic attack, pops a mouth-opening device between my lips, then tells me to lay back, listen to Sigur Ros, and she'll wake me up when I'm done.

I then spend the rest of the evening like this:

(Tip o' the Goo to CariJudy)