March 31, 2010

Talk about full circle.

I wrote this post some time ago, so I realize it might be old news for a few. However, any chance to follow in Nancy Grace's footsteps, in addition to the opportunity to showcase a truly great movie, song and story - well, we all know I'd be cruel to keep it from you.

I'd like to first and foremost take a moment to thank each and every one of you who have checked in on me and my well-being as of late. My disappearance over the course of these past few weeks was unintentional, of course, and I appreciate your concern. Pretty sure you'd know if something was wrong, though, my budding best friendship with Nancy Grace isn't for nothing, friend. Anyway, we should just get back to it, shan't we? It being the business of us, spending quality mornings, afternoons and evenings together; lounging in the presence of each other, right? Good. Second and second most, I have disgusting news. Let me preface this bulletin by reminding you all what a fucking great cold case detective I am. I've already solved the Black Dahlia case and pretty much know the ending of every "Criminal Minds" that's on prime time and syndication (I conquered Law & Order years ago). I'll also bolster my crime-fighting resume by referring back to a conversation you and I had in July of 2009, where I single-handedly stopped some hobo from caning his wife to death after she refused to answer any of his calls and cheated on him. Anyway, I'm starting to digress, and that could be because I have no fucking idea where I'm going with this, but, alas, I'll leave you to wonder.

Oh yes! Crime. I know you guys aren't on the inside beat, so you don't know what I'm about to tell you (i.e. get those children you're supposed to be exploiting [nannying] away from the computer and back to making me a sandwich) but a terrible tragedy has occurred at one of America's most notable landmarks. A few days ago (a week? a month? I've lost all track of time, by the way) a trainer was killed, nay, murdered by a large gentleman by the name of Tilicum. No, before you get our your tomahawks, he wasn't Native American, or even Aleutian, but he does like fish, and apparently human.

Now that you're up to speed, yes, I'm referring to the serial killer whale of Florida. (Side Note - ever notice how all serial killers either come from Indiana, California, Florida, or the made up states in the "Midwest" . . . ? I'm not sayin' but I'm just saying, think about it.) Everyone is all up in arms about "Whale Rights" and freeing Tilicum and to be honest, I don't give a shit. Do what you want to with that serial killer whale - it won't matter! Save your breath! I'm pretty sure science has figured out that its nature, not nurture, that leads to psychosis this serious. I hope these activists don't mean to tell me that if they'd put Jeffrey Dahmer in an after school program he wouldn't have ended up performing lobotomies out of the back of his trunk (by trunk, I, of course, mean fridge. Whatever). Some people are just bad people - and we need to leave it at that.

Before you all start bitching, let me take one second to say that if there is anyone around to speak on the fact that people . . . well, mammals can and will change, its me. I've gone through numerous evolutions and will continue to grow as a human, and all that bullshit. Furthermore, this post is painful to write - up until the Brontosaurus took over, the Killer Whale was my second favorite animal only to the American sea turtle. Even more to the point, "Free Willy" was my fucking favorite movie in 1993 - I still think that shit was overlooked come Oscar season. For each of you that chose to see "Free Willy" over "Sleepless in Seattle" with your Mom one Saturday afternoon, raise yo' hand. And now, with me, remember the cinematic brilliance that was "Free Willy" itself. That movie alone showed that if anyone can change, its a killer whale.

Tilicum though, he's no Willy! As more information comes out that it was the trainer's ponytail set homeboy off - I can't say I blame him. The lack of body and volume in her locks was atrocious - and she was an adult - unless, of course, she was a lesbian. If she was, that gives her a free pass . . . (as long as she let's me borrow her Subaru to drive to work tomorrow - and yes, I'll ride-share!!)

Anyway, I vote to let Willicum (its a combination of Willy & Tilicum, get it?) ride off into the sunset and I will leave you with the best part of the 1993 film - the theme song.

You're welcome in advance.

You know what happens when you assume.

Well, hello, there. I hate to prove you bitches wrong, but no, I haven't removed myself entirely from the blogging world. I wish I could sit here and regale you with a story involving me, a stalker/reader, a near death experience, a dungeon chamber and Raven Symone, but sadly, I can't, and we wouldn't want to lie, would we? Anyway, I'm here to report that I'm back - well fuck that, I'll save my breath. I know that I come to each of you all the time promising that I'll never leave your side again, not even for a second, and then before I know it, I find myself yearning to head to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes and a gallon of milk (Call me, Dad!). I know, terrible, but trust me, its not me, its you.

Speaking of not giving a shit about your family, I guess I'll start with the obvious, and get that out of the way. Let's talk Tiger and Kate Gosselin. They make it too fucking easy. Well, to be honest, I could give a shit about Tiger - he's b(l)ack from sex addiction rehab (I'm sure the 12 steps were a big hurdle for homeboy) and yet, more ho's continue to come out from the woodwork - big deal. I'm way over it and if there is one thing I know, its that ho's will always be after a man's money. Life lesson, and you're welcome for putting it in print.

So, Kate Gosselin is all up on Dancing With the Stars and I did happen to catch her performance this week. The bitch is horrible. And the promo reel or footage or whatever-the-fuck its called . . . did her publicist leave her? Just like her husband . . and now, her dance partner. Homegirl, take it from me, its called editing. Whatever, I'm not nagging the life out of everyone around me with horrible extensions. You just do you, girl. I would suggest that the next time you're on the dance floor and you're supposed to be doing the foxtrot but you have no fucking idea where you are - bust out into the MC Hammer or an interpretive dance of any kind - trust me, it will get you far in life. Much further than those 8 children will, believe that. I mean mother of God, Buzz Aldrin looked better than K8 - and he's been to the goddamn moon and back. Take the hint, K8.

Okay, enough of this mixed race bullshit for today. I've got to go work (on my tan) and get ready for a meeting (with a new stylist) this morning. Don't fret though, I promise I'll be back. Don't scoff, its not a good look for you darling.

And good day.