Let's Talk About How the 2013 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show is Basically the 1980 Film "Flash Gordon"

The Victoria's Secret Fashion Show happened last night. Some people have noted that it was ridiculous for this show to feature a $10m bra. Some people have commented that using emojis for underwear is bizarre. Still others are focused on the amount of underboob shown at the after party. But no one has addressed the biggest and most obvious issue with this year's show: it was Flash Gordon regurgitated onto a runway with Taylor Swift singing in the background. Seriously. Check it out.

First, from their Naughty Savior of the Universe Collection, Victoria's Secret gives us Flash:

In all his various costumes:

And, of course, we have Dale:

And the great Prince Barin:

And much to Flash's dismay, there's Aura, modeling the Neurotic Space Princess Bombshell collection:

But the greatest of these, my friends, is Prince Vultan, coming straight from the Victoria's Secret Sexy Little Hawkman collection:

When I grow up....

Today I learned there is an actual job with an actual title... and salary... and benefits package... where one is paid to talk about video games on social networking sites... in German... which is pretty much what I already do when I'm supposed to doing my job. This leaves me with one burning question, what the hell kind of f*ck off career counselor did I have that I didn't know about this? Seriously. You had one job, career counselor. One job. Where the hell were you when I was all "I think I'm going to go to law school and be a lawyer"? Why weren't you there telling me, "Really? You want to do that? Because you could talk about video games on the internet for a living and probably get paid a lot more."

Because now I know anything is possible, here's a list of my top four dream jobs. Feel free to send any leads on any of them, since I've obviously been failed by my career advisor.

4. Professional Bioshock Player

I will play Bioshock for a living. People will watch me with rapt fascination and some may even bet on me, just as they do people who choose to play with balls or pucks for a living.

3. Internet Spelling/Grammar Police

I will be paid to issue citations to users of Facebook, twitter, reddit, youtube, assorted forums and comment sections, and other web media who screw up English spelling and grammar. I will also be in charge of banning repeat offenders on a multi-strike system. Native English speakers will be banned from the entire internet after three strikes not reasonably attributed to autocorrect or intoxication or seven strikes including autocorrect mishaps and wastey-face fails. Non-native speakers will be banned from interneting in English after twenty strikes not  reasonably attributed to intoxication or autocorrect or fifty strikes including autocorrect mishaps and wastey-face fails.

2. Professional Con & Music Festival Attendee

I will go to cons and music festivals for a living. When I have time while I'm living it up at the various events, I will tweet about what an awesome time I'm having, diss crappy cosplayers, and gush about all the cool celebrities I've met and amazing bands I've seen. I'll also post photos on various social media outlets to make others jealous.  The benefits package will include a wardrobe stipend and food allowance for each event.


1.  Poutine Critic

I will be paid to travel the world sampling poutine at various restaurants and food trucks and rating the product. As I will too frequently be in a food coma to be expected to write an actual article critiquing the nuances of each poutine, my ratings will simply be on a scale of one to ten, held up on a giant card Olympics-style at the conclusion of my meal. A minion will photograph the same and upload them to a blog or submit them to a food magazine. At the end of each calendar year I will revisit each establishment earning a "10" and crown one poutine champion.

It's No Wonder I Turned Out the Way I Did

I was thinking today about the old Apple ][ games I used to play when I was a young, impressionable kid. This is possibly definitely not because I've been playing a lot of Face Maker and Oregon Trail on the Apple ][ emulator while stuck on the phone with difficult clients. Yeaaah. It happens. Your doctor probably does it to you, too.

Anyway, I played a lot of video games as a kid. In fact, I would say that video games played a pretty substantial role in my development. No one really seemed concerned about my video game playing growing up... much to my dismay, actually, as that also meant no one was concerned when my joystick started systematically giving me electric shocks on a daily basis. That's probably why I have such poor dexterity to this day. But, I digress. Point I'm trying to get to is, nowadays people are up in a dizzy whizzy about the deleterious effects video games are having on kids as if video games suddenly turned into these wicked creations that exist solely to corrupt the youth of America. But the fact of the matter is, video games have been effed up for a long time. Looking back as an almost 30 year old woman, I can, without question, say there were some seriously messed up games that I played as a kid.

Let's take a look, shall we? For brevity's sake, we'll only look at Apple ][ games. We'd be here all year if I started talking Nintendo, SNES, or Genesis.

1. ZooMaster -  This was an action game released in 1983, in which the player plays a character who basically crashes a zoo and starts shooting all the animals. In case you didn't get that, this is not a hunting game and you're not shooting bison to feed your family like in Oregon Trail. Oh no, you play a dude who rolls up in the zoo, in his little car and just starts dropping all the animals like it's the streets of West Compton and they're all a buncha crips on the wrong side of the Tupac/Biggie Smalls feud. What. The. Hell? Why? Why would you put out a game that consisted of perpetrating a drive by on frickin' zoo animals?

2. Stickybear Bop - Stickybear had a franchise of educational games released in the 1980s. Stickybear could teach you the alphabet, fractions, or shapes or simply assist you in dropping napalm out of a hot air balloon in a game called Sticky-bear Bop (which Cyndi Lauper did not do the soundtrack for. Most unfortunate).  As gameplay went, Stickybear Bop wasn't all that effed up. But let's address the elephant in the 5 1/2" disk drive, shall we? What the hell kind of a name is Stickybear for your titular character? And what the hell kind of a name for a children's game is Stickybear Bop? Think about it. Stickybear Bop was released in 1986. We learned from Cyndi Lauper in 1984 that "bop" means masturbate. So what the creators of Stickybear Bop have essentially done is given us a masturbating bear that has, through his depraved, blindness-inducing acts, gotten himself all sticky and would like to take yo' kids for a ride in a hot air balloon.  Awesome. Stickybear is Pedobear's dad. I have no doubt.



3. Paperboy - Paperboy was an Atari arcade game released in 1984 and ported to the Apple ][ and other game systems in the later 80s, in which the player is a paperboy delivering newspapers to his faithful subscribers. Sounds legit enough, right? Hell, it might even teach us something about responsibility and having a job.  Except that's only one third of Paperboy's objective. The others: eff stuff up for people who don't subscribe to your paper and hit people and animals who annoy you in the face with a newspaper. Essentially, Paperboy was an economic terrorist, breaking the windows, tombstones, and lawnmowers and killing the dogs of those who didn't purchase his wares and instigating class warfare by effing with blue collar workers repairing automobiles or working on roadside drains. Now of course, I didn't understand economic terrorism as a child, so primarily what I got out of Paperboy was the main goal was to piss as many people off as possible, so they would stop subscribing and I could vandalize the hell out of their stuff and knock them off of ladders. Which really isn't that bad of a way of life, except, jail.


4. MoneyMunchers - This is a 1982 maze game. The character would navigate his way through a maze, in which someone had made it rain, picking up the discarded cash money and avoiding the "money munchers" which were big creepy insect bastards that would eat your money and kill you. This is effed up for two reasons. One, it's essentially Patrick Bateman versus the giant bugs, sans Huey Lewis music, which means it's just a lame yuppie exterminator, and two, I firmly believe it and it alone led to the inspiration for and creation of 50 Cent's "Get Rich or Die Tryin'" which we can all agree is not a stellar piece of music.






5. The Oregon Trail - I'm not going to bother with a description because if you don't know what The Oregon Trail is, get the hell off my blog. Anyway, The Oregon Trail earns a spot on this list solely because it came with an educational label. Hear me out. I know we all played it at school so it seems like it was educational, right? But think about it. What did you actually learn?  I learned two things.
First, I learned people on the Oregon Trail were weak ass bitches who should have been going to the gym before hitting the trail. Why? Because "You killed 972 pounds of meat, but you were only able to carry 100 pounds back to the wagon."  Now really, if you can't lift more than 100 pounds, you probably should've stayed on the east coast and applied for some sort of 19th century disability. Seriously. Not to mention holy illogical, Batman. My family is starving and we need to get across the country before the weather turns bad, but hey let me take time to carve out exactly one-hundred pounds of meat off this bison before I head back from this hunt. And how the hell was it always exactly 100 pounds that he carried back? Did he take a scale out there on the hunt? Because I don't remember buying a meat scale at Matt's General Store when we embarked on this endeavor.
And second, schadenfreude. I learned schadenfreude. You show me the person who didn't think it was hilarious that their little cousin, the neighbor kid, and their BFF got cholera and dysentery. You can't. Because they don't exist. Oregon Trail bred a whole generation of little schadenfreudy sociopaths.  "Hahaha! Jen's got cholera again. Let's pick up the pace and cut back her food!" Oh stop judging me. You did it, too.

Things You May Overhear During a Game of Sonic Spinball with Kathy and Rach

Last weekend I bought a Sega Genesis, complete with Sonic Spinball. And then Kathy and I ate Po' Boys and had a Spinball playoff. It sounded like a deranged, vaguely pornographic Tourette's convention came to town. It was awesome. And because I believe sharing is caring, here are the evening's best quotes, compiled for your reading pleasure.

The following quotes are real. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (NB: there is no innocent; no names have actually been changed).

• "Where's my sh*tf*cksgiving?!"
 
• "No. Nonono! You get in there! You. Get. Up. In. There. Good boy!"
   
• "Bahnurrrt. I like when it sounds like a fart."
   
• "Noooo you dumb*ss, get out of his mouth!!"
   
• "I'll bag your worm, baby."
 

• "Come on b*tch, come onnn b*tch! Oh, thank you."
   
• "Loooooooop de forrrrce!"
   
• "Arggghh. Why do you gotta make it all long and drawn out and I gotta thrust into his mouth til I'm dead?!"
 

• "Sh*tter!"
   
• Sang: "F*ckkkk my f*ckkkking liiiiiife!"
   
• "Sploooooge! Nooooooo!"
   
• "You're supposed to go in the hole!"
   
• Sang (to the tune of It Must Have Been Love): "I don't wannna be herrrre, especially not with that dude's mouuuuthhh."
   
• "Now I got two mother effin' birds!"
   
• "How 'bout a ride?! Wtf?! Are you hitting on me?!"
   
• "This level is a terrible thing of....terrible-ness. "
   
• "Gahhh...ahhh...ahhh. Oh! I got out of his mouth! Oh yes!"
   
• "Turn. Turn you stupid whore!"
   
• "Nice heaving. Now actually do something!"
   
• "Domo arigato, *sshole!"

A Pictorial Letter to a Snake

Dear Snake-Lady,

We've known each other a while now. We've had some good times bad times and some bad times along the way and I feel the time is come for me to tell you how I feel.

Snake-Lady, I confess. The first time you came into my office, I was moved. My stomach flittered and I could feel the bile rising into my throat. I'm not sure if it was your horrifyingly small mouth that reminds me of an anus:

Or your creepy triangle of hair that spews forth in all directions at jagged 30 degree angles:

Or those Thick-As-A-Mexican-Coke-Bottle Math-Teacher glasses:

with those crazy googly eyes of yours coyly peeking out from behind:

Or perhaps it was the sheer bat-shit insanity radiating off of you. But whatever it was, I could barely contain my excitement vomit. I knew from then on my life would never be the same. And I was right. 

You're always with me now. You call me just to chat about your landlord's conspiracy with a university to bring you down. You show up unannounced to tell me about your neighbors having sex with their cousin. You curse incoherently for hours on in, and all I can do is nod and smile. It's touching. It touches me right in my feels (the negative ones and the ones associated with regurgitation, to be specific).

But I knew things were special the day you barged in to bare your soul shirtless torso to me, 

and confess to me your deepest secret - that it was the year of the snake, and you were in fact a snake,

so I had best watch my back or perhaps put a gun to my head. Oh, I knew things were special for sure then. Real special. More special than I could ever ask for. 

I tried to run. But you, you sneaky snake, you wouldn't take no for an answer. Day in and day out you begged the receptionist, the accountant, the other lawyers, the copy machine to make me take you back telling them that I had asked God to send you to me. Until finally one day someone said yes (it wasn't me, just so we're clear).

And so here we are, Snake-Lady. Together again. You coiled up in the parking lot waiting to ambush me as I walk to my car and me slaving away trying to make sense of your incoherent case file. 

It's beautiful, my dearest Snake-Lady. The truth is, it's so beautiful, that working on your files, or listening to you tell me about the bird that hacks into your Facebook, or seeing your crazy eyes, anus-mouth, and triangle hair makes me want to hang myself...

... with piano wire...

...whilst Billy Joel's Piano Man plays on infinite loop in the background.

And maybe I could overlook everything up until this point - all the times you've ambushed me at my car, all the times you've cursed at me and spittle flew at my face, all the times you've told me about being a reptile, all the times you've stripped in my office, but enough is enough, Snake-Lady. Piano Man is a terrible song. And you've made me daydream about it. Do you know what that does to a person?! Probably not. You're nuts. And so it is from the bottom of my hear that I say this to you, my dearest Snake-Lady, I hope Billy Joel makes you into a pair of snakeskin pants, that he wears every time he plays Piano Man. 

Not Billy Joel

Forever and ever. For all eternity.

Yours truly,

R aka the Mongoose. 

Remember that time...

Remember that time I went hiking and tripped over someone's discarded dentures just hanging out on the ground and it was disgusting and creepy but also kind of hilarious and rad? Yeahhhhhhh.

Failcation in the Windy City

Four years ago this day, March 22, 2009 - a date which will live in infamy - a group of friends was suddenly and deliberately attacked by the combined forces of the City of Chicago.

Four years ago this day, a group of friends was on vacation in the Windy City. The friends were having an awesome time and being general rockstars. They ate delicious pizza. They celebrated the glory that was an Einstein’s bagel; they shopped and scored 90% off designer clothes. They drank bubble tea and laughed and laughed and laughed the nights away. But then, as their last night in the city drew to a close, quickly and silently the fail monster came all up in their hotel room and raped them in the face.

Sunday morning, the hungover friends depart their hotel for delicious bagels to help them cope with their rough last-night-in-the-city throwdown. They squeeze into a taxi like an accordion and direct the driver to the nearest Einstein’s. The friends arrive in the financial district only to find that Einsteins doesn’t open on Sunday. The friends are devastated and move to a café where they are not able to eat bagels. One friend is so distraught that he falls out of the booth and busts face.

The friends decide to move on and make the most of their last few hours in the city. They meander down Michigan Avenue with minimal success at finding anything purchase worthy. Then the friends decide to get some of that fancy Chicago popcorn. The friends pull out the iPhone GPS and set off for a popcorn adventure. The friends arrive to a 60% demolished popcorn shop. The friends will not partake in any popcorn this day.

The friends then decide its time to cut their losses and go home. The friends taxi back to their hotel, check out, lug their bags down the street and onto the train, and call a crazy Russian to take them to their car parked out in the ghetto. The crazy Russian spends the car ride telling them all about his super rad boost mobile phone. The friends are simultaneously amused and scared by crazy Russian. Crazy Russian drops the friends off at their car with a wave and a creepy "Bye byyyyyye."

The friends load into their car nicknamed the pussy wagon and boasting a giant "batman for president" decal in the back window to set sail for home. The friends drive approximately 700 feet. The pussy wagon starts to sputter. Then the pussy wagon convulses. Then the pussy wagon’s malfunction light starts flashing. The friends limp along to the nearest gas station and attempt to look under the hood. The friends can’t find the hood pop latch thingamabob. At all. The friends call roadside assistance.

Roadside assistance takes forever and requires an egregious amount of over the phone paperwork, but finally the friends are about to be hooked up with a tow truck. Roadside assistance suffers a computer glitch and the friends must start all over. One hour later a tow truck arrives. Tow Truck Man is also unable to locate the hood pop latch thingamabob. So Tow Truck Man loads the pussy wagon onto his truck and ships it off to the closed VW dealership.

The friends remain at the Subway attached to the Citgo in the ghetto. The friends attempt to formulate a plan while eating $5 Footlongs and cookies. They will ride a cab to the airport where they will rent a car with their roadside assistance allowance. Sandwiches finished and plan formulated, one friend steps out into the ghetto to hail a taxi. A taxi pulls up and pops the trunk. The friend walks to the trunk to start loading bags. The taxi peels out and drives away. The friend tries again. Another taxi stops. The friend approaches the trunk. Taxi number two does the EXACT. SAME. THING. The friends hail a third taxi and jump in that ish with the quickness of the Flash and are off to the airport to find a rental car.

The taxi driver takes the friends to the lot where the rental cars are stored and dumps them off. The friends do not need to be in the rental car storage lot. The friends need to be at the checkout counter way up in the airport. The friends pretend to have just dropped off their car and board the shuttle from the lot to the airport.

In the airport the friends attempt to secure a one way rental car. They stop at the National counter. They are rejected. They mosey off to the Avis counter; rejected. They skiddadle to the enterprise counter; rejected. They try their luck at the Alamo counter; rejected, twice. They cry for the woman at the Thrifty counter; still rejected. They drag themselves to the Dollar counter; rejected. They throw themselves at the mercy of the Budget counter; they are offered an Impala for $250 plus 80 cents per mile = rejected.

The friends now decide that since they are at an airport and it is 6pm and they can’t get a car they should attempt to fly. The friends make a mad dash to the Southwest counter upstairs. The friends wait in a Disneyland length line and finally approach the ticket counter to beg for a plane ticket. Dena, the sales woman, informs the friends that the flight is full but invites them to buy standby tickets. This, she tells them, will entitle them to get on the plane if someone bails or to be shit out of luck if someone doesn’t. The friends look at each other with nervousness and exhaustion and throw down their $130.

The friends realize they must check at least one bag or lose $100 worth of liquidy beauty products. They rearrange and get it checked. The bag is loaded up on the plane to Louisville. The friends head off to find some caffeine and check in at the standby counter. At the standby counter the friends are told that everything is golden. There are still seven people who haven’t checked in so they should be good to go. The friends kick back with some coke zeros and breathe a sigh of relief that they will be in Kentucky in two hours.

The plane boards and the friends are informed by the uppity standby lady that it is full. The friends aren’t going to be home until tomorrow. The friends’ checked bag will be home tonight. The friends plop down at the food court to search for a hotel. They rock out a Priceline special – Doubletree Midway Airport. The friends are sad that they don’t get to go home yet, but take solace in the fact that they’re gonna go get a fancy ass dinner with their roadside assistance food allowance and will get to rest soon.

The friends head off back to the Southwest counter and get Dena to trade their standby tickets for real ones on the 6:30 flight the following morning. Dena instructs them that they can catch a shuttle to their hotel by stepping outside door #2. The friends step outside door number 2 and proceed to wait 35 minutes. Finally the friends say eff the shuttle and hail a taxi. The friends begin loading their luggage in the trunk. The cabbie freaks out and tells the friends to get it out. The friends are informed that no pickups can be made at this platform. The friends need to go to the downstairs door number 2. The friends have been waiting 35 minutes at the wrong platform.

The friends grab the escalator and meander downstairs to the correct platform. They make their way through the plethora of shuttles, limos and taxis until they find the red shuttle that Dena told them they needed. They ask the shuttle driver to take them to their Doubletree hotel. The shuttle driver declines saying he doesn’t actually go there and instructs them to call the hotel to secure a shuttle. It is now 8:45 and the friends are wrecked up tired so they decide to just pay for a taxi. They hail one and jump in.

The friends are greeted by Crazy Willie, the taxi driver with the purple James Brown wig. The friends tell Crazy Willie to take them to the airport Doubletree. Crazy Willie tells the friends about how he was a Motown singer with Marvin Gaye, is a professor at two universities, and has eight adopted daughters who are attorney anesthesiologists. The friends quickly realize Crazy Willie is completely frigging nuts. Suddenly, the friends also realize they are on northbound I-95. The friends begin to suspect Crazy Willie is not taking them the right way. Crazy Willie tells them to calm down. The friends explain that they have just had a bad day and are tired. Crazy Willie informs them that they don’t yet know what a bad day is and proceeds to sing an improvised song about the friends. The friends beg Crazy Willie to just let them out and so that they may take the train. Crazy Willie informs them that he cannot let them do that. Crazy Willie keeps on trucking. Crazy Willie is now winding the friends through Wicker Park (which is on the opposite end of the city from the airport and airport hotels). The friends tell Crazy Willie again to let them out and instruct him to stop at Damen Avenue (in Wicker Park). Crazy Willie gets back on I-95 and heads toward downtown, all the while telling the friends about the importance of education. One friend is now crying. Another is a half a breath away from strangling Crazy Willie. The friends spot the Hilton where they had been staying up ahead. One friend finally yells at Crazy Willie to let them out at that hotel. Crazy Willie tells the friends they need to chill out. They scream at Crazy Willie that they are tired, he’s taken them away from where they need to be, he's freaking them the hell out, and they just want out. Crazy Willie finally dumps the friends off at the Hilton after taking their money from them.

The friends are now right back where they started. The friends flop down in the lobby and cry and swear. It is 10:50. They are back in the city. They have had no food and have slept 3 hours in the past 48. The friends decide to form a plan. They pull out the iPhone GPS and realize they are thirtysomeodd miles from the hotel where they’re supposed to be. The friends decide they will cancel the reservation at the airport hotel and just stay at the Hilton again. The friends call Priceline to cancel the hotel; rejected. The friends call the hotel to cancel the reservation; rejected. The friends decide to make the cab company come back and take them to their hotel for free for screwing up so bad with Crazy Willie. The friends are informed that there is only Crazy Willie and one other cabbie at the whole company. The friends are too scared to ask one of them to come back and take them where they need to be. The friends are not fans of disembowelment. The friends then make a new plan. They will just stay at the Hilton and eat the cost of the Doubletree reservation. The friends are informed there is a housewares convention that just came to town and all 1800 rooms are full.

The friends resign themselves to taking another cab back to the airport to get on the right shuttle. It is now 11:30. The friends still haven’t eaten or slept. They decide they will eat some sugar at Fat Girl’s Christmas (that's Dunkin Donuts for those of you not in the know) when they arrive at the airport. Fat Girl’s Christmas closed at 10. The friends stand there dejected, hungry, and exhausted and anticipate their next fail.

Unbeknownst to the friends, salvation was at that moment pulling into the "kiss and ride " lot (Seriously could they have possibly come up with a more sexual sounding term for the drop off lot? I'll kiss and ride ya, babe). The friends spot Doubletree bus rolling in. It is the correct bus. The friends board the bus and tell the driver all about their woes. He laughs and is sympathetic to the friends, telling him that after hearing their story he never wants to travel again. He then offers to get the friends some food. The friends proceed through the Wendy’s drive through in the Doubletree bus and purchase Frosties and fries that they finally eat on their beds at 12:45am. The friends indulge in a whopping four hours of sleep, then load up on a plane. One friend has a planeaphobia meltdown. The friends cry down the runway and safely land in Kentucky an hour later. Failcation is over and they have survived.

And that, friends, is the story of my last ever spring break. All 100% unembellished truth.

A Compilation of the 15 Greatest Text Messages I've Ever Sent / Received

Yesterday I upgraded my phone to iOS 6. As usual, it taunted me and pretended to get rid of a bunch of my stuff until I was able to get icloud to make it rain or whatever it is that clouds do to make your stuff magically reappear. Also as usual, this sent me into a dead panic thinking I'd lost some important stuff. Like my text history. 

Once upon a time I used to think of texting only as a means to tell someone I was running late or in a meeting with my boss so stop freaking calling me. But somewhere along the way, texts between my friends and me devolved into the same ridiculousness that the rest of my life is. And thus, some little conversational gems were born. They're beautiful and, much like Rose with Jack, I'll never let go of them. So just in case the day comes when I really do lose my text history, I'm memorializing them here. Enjoy. 

• "Yes. Exactly. I ordered them from his home. He's delivering them personally. In an ice cream truck. Called Dre Treats. Ba-duhn-chiii."


• "Get in the TARDIS now, Gladys!"


• "Last night I decided I need one of those beer hats for when I crochet."


• "I may have just littered a giant rotten carrot on the sidewalk. Because, you know, that's normal and something that people do. Host an intervention?"


• "OMG! Let's get 'em. And then go back that place with the sunken cop car and ride around in our floating Obamas."


• "We'll be late. We were sabotaged in the elevator by Maurice Moss."


• "Geez, free beer?! I just turned around and was face to face with an obscene watermelon. Similar." 


• "Someone just threw a friggin' chicken leg at me. Seriously?! Bitch, do I look like a voodoo priestess? No. Keep yo' chicken bones to yourself." 


• "Oh! Baaaaaaadass (said like a goat... I guess)."


• "Sweet! So can I get some high fives for luck? Or Jews for Jesus?"


• "F*ck yes! And then I'll phone some one and ride a bicycle over the moon. Boom."


• "That place has the BEST selection of dead babies."


• "I really don't understand why Jewish males aren't called Judes."


• "Maybe it's not a girl. Sometimes it looks like a potato."


• "I'm at a place where there are 12 different home brews brewing. And the bathroom is clean! And there are three dogs!! What a wonderful world. I hope you're getting raped by a lizard or something."

Your Tax Dollars At Work, Or: Prosecution is Serious Business

Watch out, boys.

Once upon a time I was a prosecutor. Prosecuting had been my dream job since I was a child. I'd always dreamt of pursuing justice and making the bad guys pay. I thought it would feel very Wonder Woman. The reality, however, was not very Justice League. Sure, sometimes I did big deal stuff like put pedophiles on the sex offender registry for the rest of their lives  and imprison crackheads who beat up elderly men with a shovel. Mostly, though, I did not. Mostly, I just spent my days helping no-one, trapped in a haze of craziness that made me question if I had accidentally eaten LSD for breakfast and that made me want to jump out the window... in front of an oncoming bus... during a blitzkrieg. Most days were like these:



It is a quiet Friday morning.  I'm in my office pulling warrant duty, which means that anyone who comes to the office to take out a criminal complaint must go through me.  I'm playing Call of Duty on my iPhone diligently working on important business. Suddenly a very redneck, straight out of a TLC special, woman bursts in all crazy eyed. I am sore afraid. I drop my iPhone business papers and immediately get killed by a nazi zombie mess up my, um, important business. I am displeased before this encounter even properly begins.

Woman: I need to get a warrant.
Me: What's the situation?
Woman: Well, see, I let my neighbor use my warshing machine on account of he don't have one.
Me: That was very neighborly of you.
Woman: *snorts* Yeah. But I'll be damned if he didn't steal my painties (if the inclusion of the "i" didn't make it clear, panties here is said with a long a)
Me: He stole your underwear?
Woman: Yeah. Stole it right out the warsher. See he's one of them transvites (NB: not a typo, she actually said transvites)
Me: So you want a warrant because your undergarments were stolen?
Woman: Oh naw. That ain't it.
Me: Ok, then what is it?
Woman: Well see then this weekend we was down to the trailer park at a party. Well, I saw him. I couldn't help myself. So I yelled, "Ay, you f#@kin painty theivin' transvite, give me my damn painties back." Well he didn't do nuthin' but flip me right off.  And then when I came outta the party all my tires was slashed. I knowed it was that transvite bastard that did it. I want you to arrest him.


_______________

I'm in the courtroom on a Thursday morning. It is child support day. I am prosecuting deadbeat mothers and fathers. I am superbly busy and overwhelmed. My paralegal and I must meet with 114 people in a span of two hours and determine who has simply fallen upon hard times but is doing the best they can and who's just a dickbag who doesn't care if their child eats. Most everyone we encounter smells like a grain-alcohol, marijuana, body-odor cocktail. But then, as the long morning is about to come to an end, my paralegal calls out for the next person. A dapper young gentlemen enters. He does not stink. He is not wearing pajamas. It is an anomaly.

Him: Hey gurrrrls. I'm John Doe of Louisville. How you doin'?
Me: Great. First, do not call us "girls." You may call me by name or you may call me ma'am, but you will not refer to me as "hey gurl." Second, you haven't paid your child support in a very long time.
Him: Yep.
Me: That's unacceptable. Are you working?
Him: I gots my own company. I'm a producer. You may of heard of me. John Doe of Louisville.
Me: Yeah, I got that the first time around. Producer of what? And does your business have any income?
Him: Videos. Different types. *pregnant pause* You know, maybe you oughts to just be in one of my videos.
Me: That's all sorts of inappropriate and it's not going to happen. Now, back to my question. Do you have any income?
Him (gesturing to my paralegal): Well then mayhaps the help wantsta star in my videos.
Me: You will not refer to her as the help. She is a paralegal. She has a name. It is _________. Neither ______ nor I will be performing in your videos. Now answer my question.
Him: Well that's fine then. But you should check 'em out anyway. I just released a new one. Music video. It's good. *hands me a card with his youtube channel's url*
Me: Do you have any income or not? Why aren't you paying your child support?
Him: I mean, some. I don't make a lot producing. But, yeah I gots income.
Me: Then why aren't you making any payments?
Him: I gots bills. Things to pay. I hadsta get me a car.
Me: You thought getting a new vehicle was more important than making sure your sons had food on the table and shoes to wear?
Him: Nah, you ain't understand Miss Rachel. It ain't like that. It's rough. I hadsta ride the TARC to get groceries. You hear me? The TARC bus!
Me: Fine. So now you've got a vehicle and you can drive yourself to Walmart. I expect to see a payment next month or you'll be looking at time.
Him: Well, now I can't do that. My car's got a hole in the floorboard. I gotsta get that fixed! It's dangerous! You don't want me to get hurt, do you, Miss Rachel?

______________



It is a Tuesday afternoon. I'm back on warrant duty. I've just opened a delicious container of blueberry Skyr when my door opens and a well-groomed, conservative-looking, middle-aged couple walks in. After the barrage of crack addicts and baby mama drama I've dealt with all morning, seeing some normal looking people is refreshing. In fact, it's encouraging. Here, I think, is my chance to be Wonder Woman. Here is my chance to pursue justice, peace, truth, and right.  Wrong.

Me: Hi. What can I help you with?
Them: We need to get a warrant.
Me: What's the situation? 

Them: Well, you see, there's this girl we've done volunteer work with. Real nice little gal. But we need to get a warrant on her.
Me: Well, why? What did she do?
Them: You see, she invited us over for dinner. We thought it was nice that this young girl was going to make dinner for us. Only it wasn't really. See, it turns out she's into that S&M.

Me: Um, ok. 

Them: Yeah. She showed us pictures. Right there at the dinner table. Pictures of her. And then she offered to mentor us in all that S&M stuff. So we want a warrant.

Me: Well, I understand you're offended, but that's not really a crime.

Them (in absolute horror): Ma'am! I don't think you understand! We saw a photograph of her spanking a gentleman with a cutting board! That type of thing just can't be unseen.

And that's what being a prosecutor is like, kids. Thanks for inviting me to speak at your career day.

Memories, Pressed Between The Pages of My Mind

I was driving home the other day through awful traffic listening to the ridiculous retro nostalgic playlist that I made for my 26th birthday, when a particular nostalgic gem began to play. I had a memory. And now I'm treating you to it. Enjoy.

The year is 1988. My school is having its first ever Valentine's dance. We are not allowed to wear shoes, for fear that we will soil the ultra-nice 70 year old gymnasium floor. I know this in advance and get my mother to purchase me some brand new neon pink socks, which I wear scrunched down, like so. I am stylin' and profilin' as I enter the gymnasium for a night of fun. Turns out, I guess, that school dances aren't that hip to kindergartners - only 5 kids from my class have shown up for this monumental event. One of them pisses his pants and tries to pass it off as Mountain Dew on a regular basis. One of them is the total stud who sits across the table from me. To give you an indication of his studliness, I will tell you that I am only child, yet I willingly shared my chunky crayons with him. Everyday.  

Anyway, I spend most of the evening standing awkwardly against the back wall of the gymnasium with the object of my affection and the other kids from my class, trying our best to ignore Stinky McPisspants and the trail of Mountain Dew (the Trail of Mountain Dew is akin to the Trail of Tears, but stinkier and with fewer deaths and dislocations). Suddenly, a beautifully romantic song comes on and I decide to seize the moment. Perhaps inspired by Angus Young's sultry crooning about being shaken all night long, I grabbed Mr. Stud and insisted we dance. He accepts. This is probably one of the happiest moments in my young life, as I won't be treated to cake with Mickey Mouse at Disneyworld until later that summer. Mr. Stud and I are really throwin' down. Now, since it is the 80s and no one can dance and we are 5 & 6 and realllly can't dance, this means we are failing about like two midget chimpanzees. Caught up in the throes of my dancing bliss I fail to notice that things are about to turn tragic. I'm doing this flailing back and forth move that looks less like anything close to dancing and more like a holy roller church service. So naturally this means at various points in my Flailing-Pentacostal on Sunday Morning Dance™ I lean in toward Mr. Stud.  On one such occurrence Mr. Stud begins to do the cabbage patch (you know what I'm talking about). The combination of our two dance moves results in him punching me square in the nose. I bleed all over my white and pink glitter paint sweat shirt. Stinky McPisspants laughs at us. Mr. Stud starts crying. Unable to handle this combination of emotional stress, the ruination of my stylish outfit, and my aching nose I run in tears through a crowd of 8th graders to my chaperon-mother. And thus ended my first Valentine's dance. I never again shared my chunky crayons with Mr. Stud.

Unanswered Questions After (Sort of) Watching My First Super Bowl

Testify.

Last night, the Super Bowl was on the television in my house. I watched approximately 33 minutes of it (which is roughly equal to 10 seconds on the game clock) when it didn't interfere with more important business like Cards Against Humanity. I guess it was a rite of passage of sorts, watching this event of huge cultural signifigance for the first time. I thought maybe after watching it I'd understand some things, like why it's such a big hullabaloo. But as it turns out there's no sense to be made of the Super Bowl. No logic to be found anywhere. Watching it only makes things worse. There's a reason why people are typically intoxicated when they watch this thing, I guess. And that reason is probably to avoid getting bogged down in a slurry of unanswered questions, like these:


Why is it called a "flag on the play"?

Seriously. I know my geography. And that ain't no flag. That doesn't even pass as a flag from one of those tiny insignificant countries. More like a rag on the play. Throw down a hankie, Hairball's bitten someone and run off onto the field doing Gangnam Style!

What's with this bus full of showgirls being chased by dudes on camels?

And why do I get to decide their fate? And if I get to decide their fate, why is there no option for one of the camel guys to offer them an ether rag to wipe the desert dust off their faces? I mean, if we're gonna have dudes on camels chasing showgirls, let's do it up right. 

Do those coaches have the same name? And is that name Hairball?

It sounds like hairball. I tried repeatedly to make it sound like something legit, but it just sounds like hairball. Is that a nickname? And if so, who on earth would allow someone to call him hairball? And if not, who the hell names their kid hairball?  Come meet my little bundle of joy. His name is hairball. We just love him so much it chokes us. 

Does Dodge think they give out Oscars for Super Bowl Commercials? 

Was this some Dodge Exec's kid's film school project? It kept sapping on for so long that I actually tried to figure out how to key in "tl;dr" into my television remote.

Why does Ray Lewis wear blackface? 

No really. It's kind of mind blowing.  Think about it.  1. I'm pretty sure blackface stopped being acceptable sometime early on in the Civil Rights Movement some fiftyodd years ago. And 2. He's already black. I would think maybe he's trying to make some sort of political statement, but I've heard the man speak. He's had far too many head injuries to be that clever. 

Why is there a koi singing "No Diggity" to a beer?

Is that a thing now? Fish seducing beers with R&B songs from 17 years ago? I feel so inspired. Can I teach my dog to mac up on a bottle of vodka by singing "Purple Rain"? 

Why even have a time clock in this game at all?

As best I can tell, they get to stop it every 3 seconds to have a nap, or ponder their existance, or slap each other on the ass. And apparently the rule is they get to completely ignore when the time runs out at the end and play 'til they're done. So why do we even have a time clock? Seriously, boys, just do what you want. Kick the ball for a while. Take a nap. Eat a sandwich. Run a little bit. Call it quits whenever you feel like it. No one cares. 

Is Benedict Cumberbatch supposed to be Khan? 

Well, is he?

Is the halftime show audience made up of regular Super Bowl goers or do those people have seperate tickets and spend the entire game cuddled around the halftime show stage?

Seems like you'd just let the regular crowd partake in the halftime enjoyment, since I'm pretty sure they all had to mortgage their homes and sell their children and kidneys to get a ticket to be there, but that area is pretty full and it doesn't seem like there was time for an exodus down to the halftime stage. So do you have to buy a seperate ticket for that? How many organs does that cost?

Why did we need to stop the game for the power / lights outage?

It's not like they're out there reading a book or threading a needle. How much light do you really need to run headfirst into someone? 

Does anyone actually kiss that loudly?

Please let me know if so, so I can be sure to never get anywhere near them. Vom.

Do the 49ers always look like Iron Man or is that because they premeired the Iron Man trailer?

I prefer to think it's the latter. Actually, I think they should have ditched their cheerleaders entirely this year and just had RDJ as their mascot. Boom, Beyonce, top that. You can't.

Does the fact that people are calling the Oreo commercial "The Whisper Commercial" make anyone else think of that Ying Yang Twins song? 

No, just me? Okay then.  

What in the hell is a safety?

I'll admit it. I got all excited at that point near the end of the game when someone exclaimed one or the other of the teams was going to "use the safety" thinking maybe the players would bound onto the field and perform the Safety Dance. But no. Apparently someone just gets two extra points for no discernible reason. Rubbish. 

Vintage Hilarity: *Insert The Soulful Sounds of Dueling Banjo Music Here*

Today I went to court in what the Census reports is the "poorest county in the United States." It is a thriving metropolitan area with a staggering population of 111 located in what is known by geographers as überrural Kentucky.

I enter the court room to find a host of pro se (for non-law dorks this means people who represent themselves) litigants smoking openly in court. A woman with dreadful halitosis and an improperly placed nose piercing approaches and immediately begins trying to tell me all about her car accident that happened 6 years ago. After she tells me all about her back pain, she fires up a cigarette and takes a seat. I make my way to the other side of the courtroom to sit with the other out of town attorneys (who are not smoking). When my case is finally called opposing counsel attempts to defeat my summary judgment motion pulling a surprise witness out of his hat like that magician dude on Frosty the Snowman (who, incidentally, always reminded me of my Uncle Boone). The judge is halfway pursuaded and opts not to rule on the motion until after we've deposed the witness. I leave the courtroom, pleased with my half-win and thrilled to be able to breathe again. I crank up my iPod and begin to celebrate.

But then I realize I must now deal with Surprisewitness. My boss agrees to accompany me to Surprisewitness's house so that we can interview him. I park my car in a super muddy holler and approach a dilapidated wooden house with too many Christmas lights on the front porch. Immediately upon stepping into the grassless yard I sense that the sewer runs straight out of the back of the house and into the yard because the smell instantly makes me want to puke in a sink. I look down with pity at my Kate Spade shoes that are now marred up in the poo-mud. Then I realize that my shoes are probably worth more than Surprisewitness's house and I feel like a terrible dickbag for being so concerned with my footwear. Luckily, shock would soon pull me out of that guilt riddled funk.

We approach the front door. 6 cats swarm me. The door is barricaded with plywood. This serves little purpose as a burglar deterrence mechanism, though, because there is a gaping hole in the side of the house. Nevertheless, I opt to make my way around to the side door, which does not appear to be barricaded. I knock and stand waiting in the poo-mud. A minute or so later a toothless Mrs. Surprisewitness opens the door in an oversized t-shirt. And only an oversized t-shirt. My boss introduces us and Mrs. Surprisewitness invites us in. 

Mr. and Mrs. Surprisewitness's house is one huge room. The stove, furnace, toilet (yes, toilet), bed and couch are all right in the same area. This immediately sent me into a panic, fearing that Mrs. Suprisewitness who apparently has no modesty would attempt to make use of the open-air toilet while we were there. There are no lights. But for the tiny tiny tv playing Spongebob Squarepants re-runs, I would have thought the house had no electricity. The walls are unpainted, mostly rotten wood and covered from floor to ceiling in 3X5 photos, posters of Elvis and Native Americans, and random pieces of costume jewlery. I wonder how exactly it came to be that I had stepped into a Rob Zombie movie.

Surprisewitness invites us to take a seat. I didn't realize this, however, as Suprisewitness talks a lot like Farmer Fran from Waterboy. Even after Mrs. Suprisewitness translates and I understand there's been an invitation to sit, I still find myself completely unable to take a seat. As I begin to make my way to a chair, I cannot avoid picturing Mrs. Suprisewitness's pantsless ass in it and I become overwhelmingly afraid of contracting swine AIDS. I move over to stand next to the furnace and suddenly more cats than I can count swarm me. I comment on a cute calico kitten. Mrs. Surprisewitness says, "Yeah I got 20 of 'em. Go through 10 bags of catfood a month." 

My boss and I ask Surprisewitness some questions with Mrs. Surprisewitness translating. As we explain to Suprisewitness the deposition process and that he will be receiving a subpoena, a cute pomerainian emerges from behind the silver Christmas tree and jumps into Mrs. Suprisewitness's bare lap. Mrs. Surprisewitness begins snuggling the dog and I hear her say, "You won ye chew tabacky?" I am certain that I have now become unable to understand her, too, since it sounded like she just asked her dog if she wanted to gnaw on some Copenhagen. Then Mrs. Surprisewitness turns to my boss, "She chews tobacker. You ever see a dog chew backer? Hey D, get her some chew." Surprisewitness brings a few strings of tobacco to the dog. The dog proceeds to gnaw on them as if they were a chew toy. Mrs. Suprrisewitness says, "See? Aw, she looooves her tabacky."

So the moral of the story - A. You can at least sort of win hopeless motions. B. People really live in some horrifying and heartbreaking conditions. C. Kate Spade shoes and poo-mud don't mix. D. Dogs have vices, too.

*Originally written 12/08/2009

An Open Letter to a Soda Pop (or more accurately, a soda pop maker)

Dear Coca-Cola Company/Makers of Fanta
I grew up in rural Kentucky drinking Nehi soda and Kool-Aid. Needless to say, from an early age, I formed the opinion that orange beverages were indeed not supposed to taste like oranges. As I grew older, I abandoned Nehi for Fanta, which still did not taste like oranges, but seemed less ghetto than Nehi and led to me getting made fun of far less often. I didn't really care for either. I didn't dislike Fanta, or orange soda in general for that matter, I'd drink it on occaison for a welcome change from cola, but alas, it's un-orange taste wasn't something I really desired. 

That is until the summer I went to Iceland. One bright July night, I dropped into a 10-11 parched, dehydrated, and desperately seeking a cold beverage. I paid an exorbient amount for a Fanta, unscrewed the cap, placed the bottle to my lips and quickly exclaimed loudly to the streets of Reykjavik, "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD IT TASTES LIKE ORANGE JUICE!!"

I became obsessed with this near-orgasmic liquid. I couldn't get enough of it. I consumed at least 4-6 Fantas a day. Fanta replaced my juice at breakfast. It quenched my thrists after long days of rafting or missing the ferry. I paired it with 2am hot dogs for a heavenly, but wholy unhealthy "4th meal." I even mixed it with vodka for the most divine of cocktails. Indeed, I was in love.

I returned to the United States with the hope that orange soda was changed for the good, that there had been some change in the un-orange soda recipe of yesteryear. I stopped in at my local gas station, bought a Fanta and was sadly met, yet again, with the disapointing un-orange taste I'd grown up with. So, Coca-Cola Company/Makers of Fanta, my question to you is this: Why it gotta be like that?

Seriously, I realize that Fanta is a European creation and that this probably earns the Europeans some higher status in the Fanta heirarchy, and moreover the majority of Americans are slobs that have no sense of taste and will eat anything and everything put in front of them. But really, it's just not fair to the rest of us Americans who know better, who've tasted better. We're left scouring desperately for something, anything, remotely like the carbonated orange bliss we once came to love in the EU. We spend long days at natural markets buying overpriced bottles of sparkling clementine juice (which, I might add, does NOT compare to the exquisite bubbly flavor of Fanta) and make 2 hour road trips to international markets to pay $3.79 for a mere 1 liter of Fanta imported from Ireland. But it could be so simple. If only you'd bottle the flavor sensation that our European comrades enjoy with such ease, for sale here in the US. So, really, Coca-Cola/Makers of Fanta, what's the deal? What's the problem? Why can't I have the carbonated delicacy I crave? Why do you discriminate against us 'Mercans? Why it gotta be like that?
Sincerly,
Rachel C.