September 22, 2010

Let's keep it below 451 degrees.

Ah, hello you. I hope you're doing well and that your Fall season (fall season? Fall Season? FaLL SeAzOn? Whatever, fuck it.) is really getting off to a glorious start. Its been an incredibly hectic few weeks over here, and I'm just now able to catch my breath and realize how much we need to catch up on. Yes, of course, I missed you as much as you missed me.**

I will tell you, first off, that I am so relieved that that crazy group in Florida decided to hold off on their Koran-burning for a more special occasion. Although, since I didn't really pay too much attention to it (I like to fill my days reading and surrounding myself with credible characters -- like Judge Greg Mathis, obvs.) I never caught the name of that old mustached fellow who was behind the whole thing. I know there was a shortage of media coverage surrounding the whole almost-event, but in the six or so hours between the time I learned of their ill-fated (is "ill-fated" a suitable stand-in phrase for "fucking ridiculous" . . . ? Let's hope so.) and the time they were appropriately re-medicated I had come up with quite a response. I'd like to take a few moments to discuss it with y'all -- just in case any of you have a lot of extra time on your hands and don't have enough experience with "To Do" lists to come up with another activity than lighting fire to a holy text -- (ir)regardless of its it happens to be your sacred text or not.

Religious reasons aside, I knew that, as soon as I heard of the book-burning plans of those Floridians, I had to put a stop to it. We all know that, if I am anything, its an environmentalist. I don't even want to think about the carbon dioxide (or whatever variant of disastrous chemical, keep in mind, I was an English major) that would have been released into our atmosphere had they gone through with their event as scheduled. Plus, can you imagine the intense, emotional reaction it would have garnered from Mother Earth himself, Al Gore? I mean, yeah, you're right, homeboy is known for emotional outbursts and all kinds of feelings and intonation in his voice, but methinks the world was far too unprepped for a response of those proportions.

And even before thinking of the environment (which, what comes before the environment? nothing, you're right) . . .  where am I? In the middle of a shitty plot-line with sub-par (and relentless) figurative language? Haven't we already "read" Bradbury in fifth grade? Who the hell burns books? Nazis, uptight parents and clerics (well, we might be on to something there) or worse (kidding?) Martin Luther? Last I checked this isn't the middle ages and you can read any version of the New Testament you please. I don't even have time to address the Inquisition.

More importantly, I've got a fucking huge list of things that would be immediately more beneficial to all of humankind, and most of all, myself, than showing a few Korans the Joan of Arc treatment. To name a few? Well damnit, I have shoes that have needed cobbling for weeks! Socks that need darning, buttons that need sewing and hospital corners on the bed in my guest room need major attention. And when those chores are finished, I've got two loads of darks my roommate has been purposefully neglecting for ages. And of course, don't forget my unmentionables that need to be delicately hand-washed. More to the point, why don't you silly motherfuckers go in the kitchen and make me a sandwich! Mama hasn't had lunch yet (don't even try to present me with anything less than artisan-sugar-free bread with the crusts neatly -- I said neatly -- trimmed!) I could really go on for days (dayz). Call me Albert Einstein or Mother Theresa, but I'm sure those zealots just didn't have anything to do that Saturday, and who would I be -- what kind of person would I be, nay, what kind of American would I be to deny them some of my burdens to bear? Idle hands (or is it idle minds . . . or both?) are certainly the devil's plaything - and my "To Do" list has more than enough tasks for everyone but me.

To bring this home (or maybe not) -- let's all gather around a campfire that consists of books that the majority of Americans hate with a passion. The more the merrier, right? I'm pretty sure that a larger selection of manuscripts, encyclopedias and required readings would make the blaze even better -- plus, s'mores are my seventh favorite food, and just like my sandwiches, I'm not putting anything in my mouth that's been half-assed. (Hold your jokes, I obvi have anticipated them already.) As previously mentioned, my liberal arts English education had me reading, and only reading, my entire scholastic career. It doesn't necessarily matter that I can only name three novels which I've read completely (for the most part) -- what matters is that I've read the first sentences of at least, like, a million books. Let's reminisce.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst . . . " 
(sounds like its the best of times to light that bitch up, sorry Dickens, but I'm not sorry.)

"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
(there'd be a hell of a lot less unhappiness if students didn't have to pretend to stumble their way through Tolstoy's long-winded prose, am I right?)

"Who is John Galt?" 
(hopefully the bitch smart enough to toss every single Ayn Rand book into the flames, don't even get me started.)

Again, I could go on forever. The sheer amount of sub-par, burnable literature published would have keep us here forever! And I've got so much "Rachel Zoe Project" to catch up on! Damnit to hell! I'm just saying that, if those jackasses down in Florida want to burn some books, I'm in it to burn some fucking books, but really disgusting ones of course -- ya dig?

Anyway, I'm starting to get far too heated regarding this (hopefully) moot point. Let's just keep it PC, y'all -- I mean really. And please don't forget, if you ever get an outlandish idea like this again, I will absolutely trade you some Proust and Shakespeare for a well re-heeled sole any day.

September 9, 2010

"Who shot ya?" (R.I.P. Biggie, obvi.)

     First of all – you’re right, karma is a bitch. Despite the fact that 90% of the time I’m a bitch, too – that last post about that crazy serial killer fucked with my sleep for days (really just one) – which, for those of you that know my exhausting work schedule, can be extremely risky! It wasn’t that I wasn’t tired or anything – heavens knows working a 50 hour work week is draining as all get out, it was the dreams, or rather, the nightmares. Yes, you heard me. Looking back on that night, I’m pretty sure the P.D.R. would classify it as a night terror – let’s go with that.

     Normally, being such a good fucking amazing cold-case solver (currently writing to the L.A.P.D. about Biggie – wait for that one, readers . . .) things like Law & Order: SVU, Criminal Minds, a daily skimming of the CNN “Justice” section or “Deadly Women” on Discovery ID never affect me. However, something's different with that pesky “Grim Sleeper” – or whatever the fuck homeboy’s name is, alas, continuing on. Let's be honest, I didn’t really read the article in any depth or look at any of the pictures on CNN or Headline News of the G.S. and I guess my brilliant mind just was unable to put a name with that tackily clever moniker because the moment I fell asleep that evening, I had the worst possible dreams ever, ever, ever! And, to top it off, about Richard fucking Ramirez – the Nightstalker! What a jackass – ruining my 14 to 16 hours of refreshing shuteye. Damnit to hell!

     Furthermore, who the fuck has nightmares terrors about serial killers? I immediately asked this exact question to several experts on the matter. Benson and Stabler got voicemails, and Ice-T was already on a case (natch). Thank God Agent Morgan and Dr. Spencer Reid had time for a nite-cap last night! Apparently, only serial killers dream about serial killers - well and people that blog right before an Ambien and bedtime. T-r-o-u-b-l-i-n-g. Just to clarify, and last time I checked (three seconds ago) I 've never tortured or killed any animals, don’t sneak around stealing ladies’ underpinnings (g-ross), don’t listen to shitty death metal (or whatever the fuck it’s called . . . ), don’t go by all three parts of my given name (let alone have any creepy aliases – or a cargo van, for that matter), nor do I live near any drainage ponds! And most importantly, I do not, and have never lived in California or Florida! I don’t get it. I guess it’s just my mind telling me to take a break from cases the fuzz has fucked. Ah, c’est la vie, I suppose.
     So for now, with the exception of Biggie Smallz (R.I.P.) I’ve got to put my detecting activities on hold. I offer the sincerest of apologies to each of you, for I know that with my time off, the world is going to be even more treacherous. In my absence, however, I do offer you the resource below, in a strictly conciliatory manner. (And also a question of WTF happened to these Minnesotan prodigies?) Yes, you’re welcome in advance, for keeping you alive.