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Had some major computer issues this week.  Fortunately, everything has been ironed out.  More to write on soon.  I have some major ranting to do: rats, psychotic crayfish, exposed underwear, and bigots .  Until then, enjoy this little piece: Irony thy name is Al Gore.

Work Smarter, Not Harder! or Why Motivational Posters Never Work

I've hit a wall tonight.  I spent over 6 hrs on the computer this afternoon working on a test for a consulting firm.  I'm so tired and burned out.  My brain hasn't worked this hard since freshman year when I arrived at my English final hung-over and bare-foot.  (A bit of knowledge to tuck away in the far reaches of your brain: 1. NEVER pack up your dorm room the day before your last final while 2. belting back large quantities of liquid courage so 3. you can tell your crush that you'll miss him all summer.  In my case, I threw away several shoes but kept their mates, had to fly home with a massive headache, and got crushed when he said he wasn't all that into me).

But the good news, I passed the first test.  I have until Thursday 7 AM to finish part two.  The bad news is that I have until Thursday 7 AM to finish part two.  All 150 questions.  Yikes!  Plus I've got a job interview tomorrow at a restaurant.  (But I don't have to deal with flair).

And funny as it may seem given my recent job was supposed to be a stepping stone to a bigger, more boring government job, I think that between the consulting gig and waitress-ing, it'll be the best move that I've made in a long time.  I'll have the flexibility to write, a vast amount of daily material to muse upon, and will enjoy the fact that I won't feel the extreme anxiety and pressure from my previous job.  My feelings for my former job are best described by this picture:

(Not that I'm thrilled to be unemployed; it was a major downer to deal with the feelings of failure and guilt that I could have done things differently.  That being said, I took some pleasure in hearing that things were exactly as terrible as I remembered them to be.  Catching up with a former colleague/friend instead of turning into bed early tonight was well worth it.)

So from now on (hopefully), I'll get my creative Energizer batteries charged by interacting with everyday people in a low key environment.  That way when I come to the key board I'll be buzzed on relevant human interaction, not grasping at creative straws while trying to suck the life force out of the 'motivational' posters on the break room wall.

Word of Fashion Advice--A Public Service Announcment

Dear Local Wannabe Gang Member,

You are under no obligation to take fashion advice from me, as my daily wardrobe consists of jeans and a graphic tee-shirt.  If I am feeling in a particularly festive mood, I'll gunk up my eyes with mascara before I plunk down to write, drop by the Post Office, or run to the local grocery store for milk, eggs, and Tastykakes!  (My addiction to the Koffee Kake CupCakes has been triggered by a recent marathon of reading many Stephanie Plum novels).  In short, I don't fancy myself being queen of the runway, however I am able to garner a few double takes as I am va-va-voom curvy. 

Thug life is hard, I am assuming.  Listening to my favorite rappers (yes, I listen to rap) if I understand correctly, thug life means that you have to fight your way to the top, letting nothing stop you, even though you had an emotionally-crippling childhood, full of drugged, deadbeat parents, with your best friend/brother/uncle/woman dying on your kitchen floor and never getting no respect cuz you were the smallest dude in the hood.  You survived because of your skills and raw talent; you are the fiercest, baddest, mutha-fludpucker around Thug Town.  

That being said, I appreciate your attention to detail.  I had a very mundane upbringing compared to you, and yet I can't coordinate/accessorize to save my life.  I applaud the flipped, stiff-brimmed baseball cap, the multiple golden chains of various lengths, the rock-sized faux diamond earring stud, the exceedingly large sports jersey and jeans, which apparently you borrowed from Andre the Giant.  (He called and would like his clothes back).  The fact that you are unable to walk two steps without having to hitch up the crotch of your pants should be an indication that you either need a belt or stop shopping in the Big and Tall section of the store.

To finish off the ensemble of bad-assness you have a mean scowl and children's rubber bands dangling from your wrist telling the whole world, "Watch out, don't mess with me.  I'll cut you!"

Yes, the Silly Bandz that encircle your wrists really strike fear and terror into my heart.  But instead of thinking, 'Oh my, maybe I should lock my car doors!' instead, I fear I will crash my car into a stop sign because I have just laughed myself into an asthmatic coughing fit. 

So Local Wannbe Gang Member, a piece of advice as you continue your bad-ass rise in Thug Town; if you are looking to strike fear into the hearts of people do yourself a favor and give the Silly Bandz a rest.  What you do with them behind closed doors is fine by me, but if I come across you and see you still wearing them, I can't promise that I won't laugh at you.

They just don't make 'em like they use to----Part Duex

Well, my first and certainly not last mistake has been pointed out to me by an expert trivia fan.  It was EVA not Zsa Zsa who played in Green Acres.  Whoops!  But still, I am grossed out when I think of plasticine Gabor.  

They just don't make 'em like they use to

This week I have been bogged down with the continual aid at the parental property.  The MotherShip had the Wild Woman of Borneo look about her, so for the past three days, I've been logging in most of my time out in deliverance country.  No joke, there are deer that walk through the back yard and I half expect the neighbor down the road to invite the new folks to a Klan rally.  (Really, we get it.  You live in a log cabin, you have a truck with Dixie flags, and your yard is a testament to hunting.)

So while I have been unable to summon up the energy to write, I have at least collected articles of amusement and ideas that I have been running around in this highly caffeinated cerebral cortex.  The you've-got-to-be-kidding-me factor has been through the roof, and it's technically not even Friday for another 120 mins.

First up, is this brand of crazy.  I haven't followed up on it yet, but I am assuming that all over the blog-sphere one camp or another will be admiring/denouncing/sanctifying/vilifying James Lee, an obviously mentally diminished man.  It is apparent that by reading the first line of Lee's demand this is not your everyday Mother Earth Lover; he's quite off his rocker.  He hates, well, pretty much everybody.  He's no a peacnik but he's not a warmonger either.  Lee wants everyone dead so he can be Lord Cuckoo Head of the Beetle Kingdom.  The thing of this that makes me wonder the most, isn't why wasn't this person arrested back when he began causing public disturbances as we are now finding out about his prior encounters; it's why do we not have mental hospitals anymore?  I truly believe that there are people who cannot live in society, who need to be sheltered from the outside world, for their ideas of reality are far too warped.  I'm not talking about mental hospitals out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest, or Girl, Interrupted  but maybe a cross between Shutter Island and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Second item up for intellectual target practice are the big bad gangbangers of Chicago.  It appears that "police and city officials do not respect them."  Well, someone stop the presses 'cuz this is the biggest shocker of my life.  Image that, citizens whose job it is to uphold the law don't like those 'self-identified gang members' who do their best to break the law.  And these upstanding Chicago boys really know how to represent their intelligence: "they were tricked into coming to the meeting, and that it amounted to harassment." 

Now here's the thing, if I were head of a gang I would be ASHAMED to admit that I was tricked by the police.  Isn't part of being a gang member/hooligan/thug with street cred supposed to be wise to the tricks of the 5-0.  Would you really want to project the image that instead of being wily like a fox, you are as dumb as Wiley Coyote?  And complaining that you were harassed by the police, isn't police harassment one of your merit badges?  Like you don't get any really respect unless the Po Po be hasslen' you every time a situation goes down. 

And of course if Chicago ever wants to see less gang violence all the city has to do is "provide jobs and improve their community."  Because of course, it's Chicago's fault for making all these gang members sell drugs, shoot out of driving cars, and destroy neighborhoods. 

Third and most lastly for the evening, vanity thy name is Zsa Zsa.  Is this even a real story or is The Onion being used as a source for real and current news?  It appears that Mr. Zsa Zsa beleives his alling wife would want to have her moral remains a la Madame Tussaud's for the entire world to gawk.  And not immortalized in wax, but to have her body pumped with plastic filler.  Wasn't Paris Hilton in a horror movie where that happened?  I don't know, it's far too weird for me. 

One might argue that Catholic do the same thing, noting the various chapel crypts in Europe where one can't throw a stone without hitting an incorrupt body, but the distinction here is that Catholics believe these people to have led holy lives, preformed miracles, and are spending their eternity in the presence of the Almighty Creator. 

I'm not too sure that Green Acres is a TV show that I'll be watching in late night reruns.