Unlike Netflix with its smug conviction that I’ll just looove “Kung Fu: Enter the Fist” (disgusting — I don’t even want to know) and the full season of “Canterbury’s Law” (starring Juliana Margulies and her 18-century-moustache eyebrows), you understand my needs.

Pandora, will you accept this rose? Let’s go make out like you’re Casey and I’m Vienna, only I actually won’t mind getting guilt raped by you in front of green-lensed night-vision cameras…and all of America. Guard and protect my heart, Pandora! Guard and protect it!

On a related note, I just experienced the anger and rage that is Awolnation’s single “Sail.” It made me realize that (a.) there are, in proctology terms, a buttload of sailing songs out there, e.g., Enya’s “Sail Away,” Cartman’s “Come Sail Away,” and “Sailing…Takes Me Away” by some one-hit-wonder whom, I imagine, probably looks like my dad, maybe has the same Cat Stevens beard and whatnot, and (b.) most sailing songs suck balls.

And while I applaud Awolnation for breaking the tradition of keeping songs about sailing light, airy, and as soothing as a wind-blown sheet in a Downey-ball-of-freshness commercial, I’m just not sure violently screaming at the listener to take up boat transportation is the best approach for getting someone out to sea. Maybe it’s just me, but I think I’d feel more comfortable having more than just maritime “law” standing between me and what sounds like a certifiable psychopath. Then again, as far as sailing songs go, this one kind of rocks.

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unicorn horn,  freakish animals,  ladybug smashed by a hammer,  cloris leachman breasts

Unicorn horn, freakish animals, and the sweet rack on a sexy silver fox, sure; I understand your deep desire to read about such fine, high-brow topics. You’ve come to the right place. Welcome home, friend.

But…ladybug smashed by a hammer? Who goes online to engage in discussions regarding violence against ladybugs?! What’s that? You’d like to direct my attention to Anxiety Activator #61? Fine, I’m not exactly the Ceasar Milan of the insect world, but it’s not like I’m advoacting decapitation via wrench.

I can’t even tell you how much I would pay for video of this person, this angry man with his axe to grind against ladybugs, hunched over his ancient computer in his grandmother’s basement, the dangling overhead lightbulb casting shadows about his deep scowl as he punches open a browser, rubs his palms together, and pounds the enter key on his search. Hurry up, google! I imagine him growling at his monitor. Show me a ladybug smashed by a hammer! I gotta see that right now! Not a taracnhula; don’t show me a fucking tape worm. It has to be a ladybug and it has to be murdered with a hammer!

He waits, ever so patiently, his excitement growing like the number of governemnt watchlists on which his name appears. Just when he’s about to lose his mind from anticipation, he lands here, where there is no video and no writing, not even a song lyric, about this one thing in life he so desperaltey seeks. Well, you know what? I’m sorry, Bob the Beheader, but you are just going to have to calm down and step away from the toolbox. Let the ladybug fly to safety. She’s not trying to hurt you, though, if experience has taught me anything, she may be thirsty for a little sip of your nipple nectar. Go on, give her a taste. Then, when you’re done with that, click here to read about some freakish animals and/or here for Cloris Leachman’s breasts. I have a feeling that may be exactly what you need. That and a good therapist.

Half convinced the Sadistic Eyelash Curler from Hell was real or one day could be, you decide to celebrate the gift that is your ability to see. In honor of your incredible luck at not having gone blind yet, you opt to enjoy the one thing that makes life almost worth living: the 1984 classic film, The Brother from Another Planet.

Oh, you’re not aware of this stunning cinematic achievement? Well, then. I guess you’re not like me after all. Allow me to introduce you to the best synopsis of all time. What follows is almost exactly what was written in the Netflix text blurb, give or take some words on account of my Xanax intake at the time I read and attempted to memorize it.

An adult humanoid slave from outer space lands on Earth and must evade bounty hunters while attempting to win over his would-be adopters with his technical wizardry. The Brother From Another Planet is a heartfelt look at race and belonging.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Sybil, why is it so important that I maintain my eye health so that I might enjoy this ’80s blockbuster?”

And to you I might say, “Why ask such obvious rhetorical questions when so many more important queries exist. Queries such as, How can I reach the Brother’s level of technical wizardry so that I, too, may one day fix a broken arcade game with the touch of my hand? What set of skills must I acquire so that I, also, could regenerate my three-toed foot after crash landing on another planet and sustaining serious injury to my walking pod region? These are the important inquiries one must focus on at the present moment.”

“I see,” you say.

“And a good thing that is, sir/madam. Because if you could not see, you would have no idea what the fuck was going on in The Brother from Another Planet. And that is because the Brother is mute. He is a bona fide anti-talker. This dude is communicating on a level Scooby Doo can’t decipher. Elephants cannot hear this man. His screams of pain and longing are in freaking capable of being perceived by the human ear.

That’s right; you better thank your lucky Russian spy satellites that you can see, because if you were blind, you’d be looking at one hour, forty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven seconds of confusion. Well, literally, you wouldn’t be looking at anything, of course, but the real bummer is you couldn’t even get a mind picture of what the hell was happening on screen. Your ability to hear any kind of plot in this film is rendered moot since the protag makes less sound than my grandma’s debarked collie.”

So, I think we’ve all learned something here today. Appreciate your most important sense (the one you ALWAYS choose to keep in a game of Would You Rather) and by God, do not waste another minute using it to gaze at anything besides the most entertaining display of technical wizardry to hit the screen since Short Circuit 2 robot rolled into town.

One of the problems with taking happy pills and sleepy pills (that’s right, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs are heading up the crack team of scientists down at Eli Lily) is they tend to have unintended consequences. And contrary to the lawyers’ rapid-fire promises at the ends of the TV ads, side effects are NOT generally mild.

Case in point: Just about an hour ago I had what could only be the sort of morning that gave rise to the cliché “a rude awakening.” After switching up my sleeping pill regimen a bit last night — and staying up just long enough to kick my husband’s butt at five rounds of Boom Boom Rocket on the Xbox, while hallucinating I might add — I awoke eight hours later not to the sound of an alarm, or a leaf blower across the street, or the gentle nudge of the tooth fairy stuffing ones under my pillow. Nay.

I screamed myself awake today after sweating through a night terror that involved a giant snake slithering through my apartment, chasing me, then disappearing, then stalking me and waiting to strike. Call me crazy (and you’d be correct), but I will be writing at the library today…with a shovel by my side and a Ginsu knife in my sock.

Here’s hoping that tonight I just get the old biting-your-tongue-off side effect.

I’m eating pancakes and feeling guilty after peeling Mrs. Butterworth’s label off. I wonder if Mr. Butterworth knows his wife doesn’t wear panties, the dirty whore.  

I'd hate to watch you exit a limo, you nasty Britney Spears wannabe! At least you had a smooth wax job...thanks to me.

I'll never be able to look at you the same way, Mrs. Butterworth!Syrup: Part of this disturbing breakfast.

I’ll bet Aunt Jemima’s doesn’t go around town without underwear on. Then again, I’d bet money that Uncle Jemima likes it kinky. Uncles.   

Normally, you'd be the one doling out advice, seeing as how I'm your niece, but I want you to know there are hotlines you can call if Uncle gets out the ball gag again, though I'm not sure they'll understand what your saying.

At the top of the Web page was a header splashed with close up shots of Fabio looking deep in thought underneath the cursive words: Actor, Model, Spokesman.  

Then, below that, appeared more than one disturbing modeling shot of the bare-chested Hunk-o-Man-Meat-tastrophe biting into a female model’s arm. I don’t mean nibbling in a romantic way, but McGruff-taking-a-fleshy-chunk-out-of-crime gnawing on this poor woman’s third metatarsal.  

I gasped in horror at this Zoolander gone wrong and could only hear a deep Austrian-accented voice saying, “I con’t beliv eets not chickon.” 

Gross, Fabio. Really gross.  

The best part, though, was when I went to save the photo, it showed up as previously being titled wild_man_ad_2_web.jpg. Hehehe. Someone’s webmaster doesn’t mind a little biting.  

I con't beliv I don't hov any I Con't Believe Eets Not Butter buttery-flavored spread for this delicious hand.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                      Normally I wouldn’t think to share something like this. I’d simply gaze at Fabio’s feast, say something out loud to myself about what a creepy picture this is, then go comment on my friend’s FaceBook page after noticing that he became a fan of bacon. I was inspired to share Fabio’s weird photo after reading Marcy’s blog. She is a genius who writes the BEST blog on the internet. I completely adore her and all of her updates that are so damn funny that I often weep laughter tears after reading them. Check out her hilarious AdTalk series at Marcy Writes. She is the funniest writer I’ve read, and I read a lot of writing from funny writers. Check her out! 

I was scrolling through part time jobs on craigslist today and happened to see a secret shopper reporting job that looked fun. I wrote a cover letter and changed my objective on my attached resume to read, “Seeking a secret shopping position….”

A few minutes later I came across some openings for English tutors. Thinking that would be a perfect fit for me, too, and seeing that they were looking to hire immediately, I quickly whipped up a cover letter about graduating with honors and volunteering as a tutor in the past. I updated the objective section on my resume again and was certain I had it in the bag.

When I went to change my objective back to copywriting for yet another application, I noticed that I had made a terrible mistake before sending out my resume to multiple tutoring companies. In my excited haste to apply, I hadn’t deleted back far enough before filling in my tutoring objective, and had sent out the following: “Seeking a secret tutoring position….”

Sweet Jesus! They’re going to think I’m the Michael Jackson of English tutors. I am dying of embarrassment.

I swear it’s not like that! I’m not a hands-on tutor! It’s not our little secret. Oh, dear God, suddenly the part of my cover letter about my passion for working with children seems very, very wrong. What have I done?!

I paused, mid-swallow, and thought to myself, “No, surely root beer cannot attack as well. Was shattering my illusions that I might safely one day snuggle with the cutest Zoro-masked furballs in the rodent kingdom not enough for you, God?! Must you now taint my favorite non-Mr. Pibb soft drink with images of death, too?”

I considered the caps lock warning, hoping the only reason my root beer bore a disclaimer was because some overzealous fetus-loving organization had won a lawsuit against pregnant caffeine addicts, but then I remembered…A&W isn’t caffeinated. 

At this point I decided I might as well see what new phobia I could add to my list of Things That Make Me a Pussy and was confronted with the single most horrifying tidbit of information I could have read: 

CAP MAY BLOW OFF CAUSING EYE OR SERIOUS OTHER INJURY. POINT AWAY FROM FACE AND PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY WHILE OPENING.

Fine, I thought, I’ll point it away from my face while opening next time, unless I’m wearing my onion goggles, but how in the hell am I supposed to point it away from my face while I’m chugging out of it?

This was only the first of many disheartening contemplations the admonition evoked. Not only was I disturbed that even root beer could force me to relive my formative days as the only girl on my preschool campus sporting an eye patch, but I was troubled by the fact that, apparently, my mother has a secret second job in copywriting for A&W.

Now every time I see someone selecting a soda in a vending machine, I’m going to feel the need to scream, “Stop! You could put my eye out with that thing.” And I was just celebrating the fact that no one had hit me in the eye with a champagne cork over the holidays. I’m so glad my embarrassing urge to duck and cover my face every time someone mentions they’re thirsty is going to last year-round.

Thanks a lot, Authority of Dr Pepper/Seven Up, Inc. Don’t be surprised if you get an irate call on your 866 number when my Damnbien kicks in in another six to nine minutes. We’ll see who needs a warning then. Oh, we’ll see indeed.