No Bones About It . . . (too much?)

Hey y’all hey (OMFG – is that shit my tagline? Fuck it, I guess there are worse things, right? Yes, thank you. Moving on . . . ) How have you been? I hope this summer and our rapidly depleting Ozone (is that shit capitalized – pretty sure Al Gore’s infatuation with the Ozone warrants it to be a proper noun at this point) layer is getting you all good and bronze. Skin cancer? One word, two syllables: mys-tic. Nothing is more offensive than parading around porcelain white skin during my birthday season.

So, by now, we’ve come to know each other rather intimately (for those of you I don’t know intimately enough, i.e. “biblically” – shoot me a text or set off some smoke signals after 2AM EST, and I’ll take care of that for you, truth.) and to be honest, I like it. A lot. As is the case with any good friendship, we know a whole hell of a lot about each other, and yes, you’re welcome for that electronic birthday card that was less than fourteen days late. Just like I know your birthday (sort-of) by heart (we should both know that “heart” means “Facebook Reminders,” obvi – I’m only human, don’t judge!) each of you is well aware that I have based, currently model and will continue to form most of my sentiments, morals and thoughts about life on really fucking amazing songs (Grammy-winning and otherwise). When you’ve seen what I’ve seen and been where I’ve been, you know that not ever singer/songwriter is going to knock it out of the park with every single they release (or, if you’re “urban” substitute the word ‘drop’) – by now I’ve learned that not every tune is going to hit me like Britney Spears’ “Toxic” or touch my soul like any- and everything Michael Jackson ever put out. That’s fine – I get it. To make a long story longer – and hopefully bring this shit full circle (because I have no intention of trying to free Weezy – in this post, at least) – Sting is a motherfucking . . . oracle (does that word make sense there? I sure hope so – my editor is pussyfooting around in America’s heartland). In one of his chart-topping hits (can’t remember the name and I sure as fuck don’t have the album in my compact disc collection . . . for some reason “Fields of Gold” rings a bell . . .) he sings about loving something and letting it go and if it comes back its yours and all that ridiculous bullshit. The point is – although I don’t really follow that mantra in my real life – I do with blog topics, which brings us to where we are currently. I first read about this whole concept of “familial DNA” like a month ago and for some reason (probably because I’ve spent the majority of my time laying out and trying to find the perfect lip-stain, believe it or not, those things aren’t as mentally taxing for me as they would be for someone like . . . well, you, offense.) I keep coming back to it. So, let’s discuss.

At this point, y’all also know how good of a detective I’ve become. I’ve solved the Black Dahlia case, fight crime in the slums of North Carolina (also known as “Durham”), and am so fucking good at solving SVU episodes its scary (in an amazing way, duh). In addition, I know we share a moral concern for ridding the world of any form of racism or racial profiling or __________ (fill in that blank for me – I’m in a rush). Now, before we go too much further, please realize that I fucking hate serial killers – I mean who doesn’t (those of you that don’t probably are on my “watch list” of people who would love to make me into a skin coat on a shitty plastic hanger – creepy.) Now that we are definitely on the same page – you all probably haven’t heard that the “Grim Sleeper” was apprehended in California (big fucking surprise there – we all know Cali is home of society greats, like Snoop Dogg, and pretty much every criminal ever – at least, it is for the intents and purposes of this post). Anyway, like me, I know now that you’ve heard that news you’re placing an immediate call to the Govenator and joining me in a resounding “You Go Girl!” However – as I kind of read the nitty-gritty on CNN.com, methinks I smell a rat. Allow me to go on. Turns out the only reason they got this guy was by matching his son’s genetic material left in an interview room to DNA from cold cases (or where ever it was – IDK, I haven’t had time to read the whole article, so sue me!). The fuzz elaborated by saying they took DNA from a pizza crust, fork and napkin left by homeboy’s son – who OF COURSE was in the clink being investigated for smoking pot or gangbanging or some shit – typical. I mean, let’s just take a second here – a pizza crust? A napkin? A motherfucking fork? Are they describing the arrest of Joe Pesci or any of the cast memmmbahhhhhs of the shit-TV show “Jersey Shore”? Give me a fucking break, LAPD (or where ever in that state you’re located – LAPD just sounds way better, right?) if you had taken the DNA off a chicken wing (or “chicken whaaaaaaang” if you must) you might have be in a more believing position. First off, I can say black people don’t even like pizza, let alone use a fork and napkin. Get real. Something isn’t right about this apprehension and I sure as hell hope that Jesse Jackson or some other champion of equality takes this cause up – it’s all way too ridic. I’m going to continue to delve into this business and will hopefully be able to bring you some sunshine next time we speak. I’m not making any promises though, that’s for sure. Something about this whole “familial DNA” just isn’t right – it doesn’t sit well with me. It’s certainly fishy at best - and not deep fried and served with a side of greenz (which would obvi make it totes okay) . . . don’t fret – I’ll be the first to keep you abreast (I could obvi do another chicken bit – but it’s time to start icing – apologies in advance!).

I'm so scared . . of oil? Hell no.

Hey y'all hey - I hope this . . . message finds you well - it is a message of sorts, isn't it? I guess that's neither here nor there . . . anyway, I know it’s been a while and I'm sorry I haven't called. I've been so busy lately . . . with what? Well, you should’ve already known, but I’ll make you feel like a jackass and catch you up to speed. First and (not) foremost, those quakes in the Caribbean, then Nashville flooding (or was it Memphis? . . .) - not to mention the shit-tuation happening in/on the Dirty Third (for those of you who couldn't get in to the public ivy that is The University of Texas at Austin, the "Dirty Third" is, of course, the third coast of America - obvi the Gulf of Mexico - shout out to Padre and Spring Break (for all 3 of my) Senior Year(s)!) Oh volunteering? Give m e a fucking break – I turned down Peace Corps because I’ve already have a favorite illegal for my manicures – and volunteering like in America’s disasters? Bitch please, isn’t that why our Border Patrol fucking sucks – someone give Cesar Chavez a call. To be serious, it’s the flipping and scrolling past pages and pages of downer headlines that’s been keeping me too damn busy – but when I get to the good stuff – well you had to assume I’d be back. And trust – a lot of good shit has been going on.

Let me go ahead and get the most pressing “real” news – by which I mean, allow me to give you my opinion – out of the way. This crazy oil spill or un-capped well or rig-gone-wild. Call it what you will – but apparently its ruining the summer vacays/life’s work/entire ecosystems for like thousands of things (pretty sure I can combine (1) Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, (2) egrets (I fucking hate those birds, by the way.), and/and (3) anyone who was born or resides in the state(s) of Louisiana, Mississippi or Alabama – and Florida too, if we’re counting, in the same group titled “Things”). This is an obvious problem. I know real Americans don’t like seafood, so don’t start giving me shit because you think I’m bitching because I can’t get my Oysters Rockefeller (you’re welcome for that bulimia assistance). Quite simply – all the moaning everyone is doing about the whole occurrence – whether its Rachel Carson (are there other environmentalists besides Rachel Carson? . . . okay, you’re right, you may add Al Gore with an asterisk) or that flashy looking former BP chap in charge of the whole deal – just . . . shut the fuck up. You all nearly caused me to miss an advertisement on ABC Family for the upcoming Emmy-winning series with my best friend, Raven Symone: "Revenge of The Bridesmaids" – not to mention I very nearly missed Lindsay Lohan’s Lo-Hands (please know that I copyrighted that shit circa August 1, 2007). We can obviously address the former, and the latter, in an upcoming post – but before you say it – I’ll agree with you on Lohan – as if her freckled, pastiness wasn’t offensive enough . . . but coupled with a tie-dye manicure? Insult to injury!

I’d like to solve this whole BP Oil: Crisis in the Gulf shit like 10 minutes ago – just so I can save myself the trouble of having to hear about something that has no negative ramification for any aspect of my life at all. Obvi the caps aren’t working and despite their best efforts – the US government and/or British Petroleum execs (as if we needed another reason – besides “Taxation Without Representation” to h8 those conniving Red Coats . . . ) cannot seem to figure out a way to put a finger in the dyke (figuratively speaking, naturally.) I always get tired of people talking about “learning from history” and all that – except of course when that crazy house elf uses the phrase in Harry Potter: The Chamber of Secrets, obvi – but in this situation – we need to go back – go way back. No, not to the Exxon Valdez or . . . Well, I think that’s the only oil spill I can mention off the top of my head . . . we need to go back to October 21, 1991. Why?

October 21, 1991 was the day, my fellow Earth Day non-celebrators- that is the day that the “Pipe Dream” episode of “Saved by the Bell” aired. If you haven’t seen it – the basic plot is as follows: oil is found on the grounds of Bayside High School (and after seeing this episode – I always played baseball by any pond within walking distance), Bayside’s gonna be rich!, Jessie protests and chains herself to an oil well in front of Belding’s office, the oil well or pipe or whatever bursts, the gang (most notably Slater) gets covered in oil (don’t mind if I do!) and their pet duck (along with tons of other pond wildlife) nearly dies! OMG! You’re welcome for the recap. And yes, that shit was tragic when I was seven – and I didn’t even have a pet duck! Anyway – bottom line – we need to call Jessie-fucking-Spano. Yes, for those of you that saw the episode- you’re right, Jessie’s earrings were made with petroleum which Slater and Lisa bring to our attention – but that’s neither here nor there. A quick-thinker like Spano would fix this shit – didn’t she go to Yale or Princeton or some shit? And you know what? Homegirl wouldn’t stop until the oil-filled waters of the Gulf were returned back to the disgusting muddy brown they were before. And if she couldn’t (in like . . . a day) . . . ? Throw some No-Doz in her Jansport (to replace what Zach and Slater yanked, of course) and J. Spano will be good to go, pulling a page out of MJ’s book, I’d bet money she wouldn’t stop ‘til (we) got enough – or whatever. In summation, IDFK about y’all – but I’m so excited, I’m so excited, I’m so excited for Jessie to fix this fucking leak – so I can get on with some real news.

Cowardly lion jokes aside, Sir Elton's latest snafu confirms my belief in spooks. Wait for it, wait for it . . .