I can't hear you through all this...everything.

Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub.

Lips are moving in synchronized noise and phones are ringing. Blub blub blub blub.

A box of Kleenex on my desk loses another comrade every three minutes or so. Blub blub blub blub blub.

I squirt hand sanitizer on my hands, my keyboard, my computer mouse, my Tylenol bottle. Blub. Blub. Blub. Blub. Die, vile cold germs, die.

From her desk, my coworker holds up two sheets of construction paper. One is yellow and the other purple. "Do these blub blub?". I'm assuming she's asking if they go together. "Sure," I reply. In my head, it sounds more like "blub blub."

My boss sits at her desk about five feet from mine. She wants to know how to do something in Word. I can vaguely hear her, but I cannot discern whether she is on the phone or not. Blub blub blub blub blub. "Blub blub blub text wrap," I mumble. "How do you know that?" "Blub blub, I used to do a lot of this blub," I reply.

And so is working as a receptionist with a cold. Fail. Uber fail.

Blub blub blub,

J.

Take Your Childhood and Edit It

Random House, famous paperback publisher, has recently updated and re-released the Sweet Valley High series of books. With this, I have no problem at all. I wonder why, but still, anything that gets kids to read is a good thing.

What I do have issue with? The following letter:
in which Random House proudly promotes eating disorders.

In this, we find out that the Wakefield twins, who used to be "a perfect size six" are now "a perfect size four". They no longer drive a red Fiat, but instead, a red Jeep Wrangler. Elizabeth is no longer an editor at her school's newspaper, but is now an editor of the school's website and an Anonymous blog writer.

SERIOUSLY. Please, please, please, whoever's idea this was: do not pass go, do not collect $200. I understand it's just Sweet Valley High. It is not earth shattering literature by any means, in any way, shape, or form. How could you? HOW COULD YOU? Mutilating my childhood in order to make it a "perfect size four", a red Wrangler, and last but not least, killing the Oracle?

This makes me really sad for no reason in particular. Series like Sweet Valley High and the Babysitter's Club had a hokey 80s quality about them that should not be messed with. It's just not fair and it shouldn't happen. Those characters existed BEFORE websites and Internetz and MP3s. Keep them that way.

I know SVH is no Shakespeare, but c'mon. Even Nancy Drew classics, while edited of some of their original racism and other things that weren't completely necessary, stayed true to their stories. Are you trying to tell me kids today can't fathom a life before computer screens and cell phones? That they can't even use their imaginations to identify with a story where a main character writes for a newspaper, like an actual paper one?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the corner reading me some Goosebumps and thinking of simpler times.

Peace,
J.

Buckley's Bad Taste Tour, Varsity: The Word

It's all too familiar. That annoying tickle in the back of your throat that punches you in the face and says, "Damn bitch! I hope you enjoyed getting drunk this weekend, because you are not having any fun this week at all! Bahahahahaha."

And so it goes. And it goes and it goes and it goes. So anyway I'm rooting around the house for my Buckley's and I figure out I've either used it all or it's been lost officially. So I go on the Buckley's website because I can't remember the name of the specific Buckley's that is awesome.

What do I find there? The Buckley's Bad Taste Tour. Where you post a picture of your best "bad taste face" in the hopes of securing a five year supply of Buckley's.

The practical person in me says, "Who would need a five year supply of Buckley's? How do they figure out how much Buckley's you need for five years? Wouldn't it expire?".

The girl getting a cold in me says, "That's the best idea I've heard all day."

Dear Carmex, Tim Hortons, and Oh Henry:

Please put up a contest like the Buckley's one. That way, save for getting up and going to work, I will not have to leave my dwelling for the next five years.

Love,

Jenn

Also, one more rant before I sleep: The word varsity.
When I was a youngin, I had a green tracksuit that read Varsity Girl all over it. I recently purchased a pack of "hipster" panties from lovely Wal-Mart. Because these are the panties of the 6 for $6 variety, I rarely examine the patterns. They are $1 a pair. I do not care. I make sure they are mostly pink, they are the right size, and they are not opened and never have been. Five of the six pairs of these new panties feature no writing. The sixth? In really giant purple letters it proclaims "VARSITY" with a fake coat of arms. But I decide I don't really know the definition of varsity and look it up: "of or pertaining to a university or school team, activity, or competition".

My panties are advertising a team, activity, or competition? Interesting. Very very interesting. Somewhat disturbing. Wal-Mart - your underwear designers are a bunch of pervs.

Carry on.

The No Cussing Club No Cussing Challenge

I am standing in the gym at work, doing a basketball relay course in high heeled shoes and a blue flowered spring dress, despite the fact that March has entered like a lion, and, well, carried on...like a lion. I am quite worried I am going to break my ankle, having been off high heels for a very long time. The challenge is to be the first team to successfully run the relay while dribbling the ball, with a beanbag on your head. I am quite worried my tank top has sunken down and that I am leaning over a bit too far, as I meander slowly around the pylons in an attempt to eventually clumsily throw the ball into the basket.

Team building exercises are fun like that. My peers are cheering me on optimistically, "Get it in the basket, Loos!", and I toss the ball. It goes nowhere near the hoop. The beanbag falls right off my head. "Shit!", I whisper. The team has gone silent. My four letter word echoes off the walls, "Shoot!", I exclaim, a bit louder, attempting to make a recovery. Everyone knows I did not say "Shoot!" in the first place. It's common knowledge. I put the beanbag back on my head, kick off my shoes, and run back.

The other day during first aid class, our instructor opened her bag of dummies to find that one was missing in action. "FUCK!", she sighed. "Oh, I said that out loud, didn't I?". Yep, you sure did.

Enter the No Cussing Club (tm). 14 year old McKay Hatch (how pretentious can your name possibly be?) explains that his friends were cussing way too much and it was offending him, so he came up with the No Cussing Club, whose slogan is the eloquent, "Ya wanna hang with us? Don't cuss!". Oh, McKay. He goes on to explain that if his friends could say no to cussing, they could also say no to drugs, violence, and pornography. McKay's parents raised him with values, he says, and that is why he doesn't dig any of that nonsense.

McKay, McKay, McKay. Seriously? You're a fourteen year old boy. In California. Who is offended by four letter words and the idea of your middle school friends stealing a glimpse at a Playboy. Wow. In addition to this awesomeness, McKay invites people all over the world to start their own No Cussing (tm) chapters. For the low, low price of $300 (and your free speech) you will be permitted to make 50 shirts with the NCC logo and slogan on them, to hand out at your school or your church to advertise your chapter. You are advised to hand out certificates at your school and your church to those folks that are willing to end cussing forever.

So, for shits and giggles (that was somewhat intentional), I have joined the NO CUSSING (tm) club.

Check out my membership form. I filled it out like I thought someone who genuinely wanted to join this club would fill it out.



I waited patiently for my automatic electronic response from McKay himself. And behold!



Now, of course, this is just an exerpt. If you want all the No Cussing (tm) goodness, you'll have to join the club yourself. But aren't you excited at the prospect of five free hug cards and a copy of "Raising a G-Rated Family in an X-Rated World?".

I did a little bit of research on McKay's page and quickly unearthed some truths. The book Raising a G-Rated Family in an X-Rated World appears to be written by his parents. Could the No Cussing Club really just be an outlet to hawk more books for them? Oh, McKay, how could you f*cking fool me so? But there was still more to unearth, and I wasn't about to let such a delightful conservative website escape my grip quite so fast. The worst part about this is this book claims to have sold 3.5 million copies.

Behold, the Power of Positive Hugging:


Quite honestly, this picture creeps me right the f*ck out. It's also a venture from this uberconservative spawn's parents. Apparently, you are to press the button to figure out how many hugs you require on a given day. I'm not concerned with how awesomely lame this is, like, not all. I am a bit concerned with how bizarre these bears look. I mean, of course, they must be married, because they are like, all close and stuff, and unmarried people never touch each other in Conservatopia. But why does Mama Bear look completely trashed out of her mind? Why doesn't papa bear's shirt reach all the way down to his pants? And that skirt on Mama Bear... I mean, it isn't even ankle length. Blasphemy.

This thing only works at room temperature, apparently. I suppose it is the same premise as a mood ring. But would the hug card know if you were swearing? Doing teh drugz? Looking at teh nekkid peeps? Srsly. This shit is marketed to HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. If you had handed me that thing when I was in HIGH SCHOOL, I probably would have PUNCHED YOU IN THE NOSE, and I was not a violent kid by any means.

People in the real world swear. I have seen the most proper of teachers and professors and doctors and nurses and other professionals let the odd F-bomb drop. Instead of giving four letter words so much attention, why not just let them go? If people think you have a problem with it, they are going to keep doing it. Seriously. Find something better to protest, something that seriously matters. I heard there was going to be some protest about women wearing pants or small children getting ahold of the lingerie section of the Sears book, McKay. Maybe you should track down the address.

But thanks, McKay, for letting me into your club. I won't even end this with a hearty "Go F*ck Yourself".



I mean look at that hot certificate. Your Paint skillz totally rival mine. Awesome work with the whole letting your parents pimp you out to sell books!

So you should all check out McKay's site at www.nocussing.com, and until next time, DON'T SWEAR!

(DISCLAIMER: because the website seems so totally all about the (TM) symbol, I really have to tell you that all graphics contained in this post are screenshots from the NO CUSSING CLUB (tm) website. Carry on.)