Anxiety Activator #60: Miss Cleo’s Weapon-Filled Turbanry

Finally my horoscope is wrong for once. I swear, it was really starting to freak me out. Though I don’t know what’s worse, when it’s so accurate every day that I swear Miss Cleo is perched in a tree outside my window with a monocular or when the only thing canceling out her prediction of my quiet and harmonious day is the barrage of jackhammer solos raping my ear drums for the second week in a row. I guess option #1 is worse since she’d probably use her psychic powers to get an injunction on my restraining order. Plus, she looks like she could kill me with razor blades stashed in her turban. AND she’d know exactly where to cut me for optimum blood loss. It pretty much blows how psychics always have the advantage in hand-to-hand combat.

Anxiety Activator #59: When You’re so Exhausted you Pull on a Pair of Skinny Jeans that are so Tight you have a Clearly Delineated Camel Toe and you just Shrug at your Reflection and Decide to Leave the House Anyway

Then you get to Costco and notice Danny DeVito’s twin, not his Arnold twin, but his doppelganger checking out your crotch in the frozen foods section. You stare back, too tired to do much of anything. You tell yourself you can’t really get mad; it’s at his eye level after all. Your cell phone rings. “You’re the Best Around” from The Karate Kid soundtrack blares out of your purse. You answer the phone with a weak mumble. You are still staring at Danny who is still giving you an eye Pap smear. You tell the woman with the Marge Simpson voice you would not like to attend a time share presentation in order to redeem your cash prizes and chance at winning a new Sebring convertible. You reach into the freezer case with your free arm and pull out a bag of something. You don’t know what it is because you’re distracted by the fact that To Catch a Predator is still locked in a staring contest with your chonch. You cover your frontal wedgie with a giant bag of frozen shrimp then realize this does little to avert his gaze. You decide you will no longer leave the house. You decide if you must, you will wear MC Hammer crab pants from now on. You are so exhausted. You never want to get out of bed again. But now you’re the owner of 12 pounds of seafood and you can’t stay in bed until you disappear like the shriveled skeleton in the movie 7 who represents sloth, can you? No. You can’t. Because you have a lot of cooking to do. And every time you stir the shrimp you think of DeVito and what you think he was thinking and you feel sick to your stomach.

Anxiety Activator #58: When the Jersey Shore Comes to Town

Last night my life partner, whom we’ll call Raul, and I wound up taking bit parts in an untelevised episode of Cops. I would just call my love muffins (AKA the 3.5 people who read this blog) right now to discuss the details, but instead I have decided to type it out, because I’m lazy and only want to explain it once – or perhaps because I’ve contracted Brother from Another Planet Disease.

So, I sat upstairs in my unemployment office typing some e-mails to Cherd early this morning when I heard a man, who sounded possessed by either PCP or the devil, screaming and throwing things outside on the street. His comments included, but were not limited to, “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! I’m gonna f*ing kill you! I’m gonna kill you!!!!” ad nauseum.

I’m used to hearing this sort of thing, what with our street serving as a long exit way from the local bar and liquor stores (and crack dealing alley?) across the street. But this man sounded more out of control than anything I’ve ever heard. And then the car alarms did. And then the patio furniture did.

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Anxiety Alleviator #19: The Brother from Another Planet/My Movie Pick of the Week

If you’re like me, you spend a lot of time screaming yourself awake in the afternoon as day terrors involving the loss of either one or all of your eyes rock you to your very core. As you bolt upright in your work hammock, pausing only to rub your forehead after smacking it on the Skipper’s buttocks encased in the net bunk above you – I’ll never understand why he has to sleep directly above the skinnier hutmate – you touch both your sockets and thank the sweet Lord that they are still full of functioning eye matter.

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.

Anxiety Activator #57: The Government’s Terrorist Watch List

I understand not all suspects on the government’s Watch List can be upgraded to the No Fly List without cause, but if one’s name appears on the Terrorist Watch List, that should earn both the listed passenger and his underwear an automatic upgrade to the Officer Jelly Finger List. A little probing goes a long way.

Anxiety Alleviator #18: Making a Plan for the Holidays

I cannot WAIT to sit down at the table and look my grandparents in their faces while I hold up my Tofurky in both hands like an offering. Then, when they refuse to partake, I will violently decapitate my dinner with the teeth guillotine known as my mouth. They’ll gasp, but I’ll just keep chewing the tofu waddle all slow-like while maintaining eye contact. I don’t know who’s going to win the staring contest, but I doubt it’ll be the Tofurky.

Anxiety Activator #56: The Apparently Decapitated Driver of the Rust-Colored Oldsmobuick who Nearly Gave me a Nervous Breakdown Today

I must take some responsibility for deciding not to get all Tokyo Drift on your ass and instead opting to slow down and maneuver in behind you. Really, it’s my fault I spent the next five minutes of my life lurking in your exhaust fumes as I waited with growing rage for you to move forward just enough so that I could finally make my way around you and into the left turn lane.

 

In your defense, you were flashing some flagrant warning signs that should have alerted me to my mistake, but in my defense, I couldn’t see them until it was too late. Why does the clutserfuck-o-clues that a senior citizen home escapee is behind the wheel always have to be displayed in the backseat? My fate is sealed by the time I lay eyes on the catalog of crap nesting in the rear window.

 

It’s like a whole SkyMall, AARP Edition exploded in my face. What is that, an electric ear hair trimmer smashed between your World’s Best Grandma mug and a heart-shaped needlepoint craft that may as well say, “My other car is a gurney”? Damn it to hell, I do not need to think about that when I’m screaming obscenities at you!

 

You had it all: the box of Kleenex in case you sneeze whilst driving and suddenly acquire the Go-Go-Gadget arm superpower to reach all the way into the trunk area for an emergency snot rag, the backseat parade of Beanie Babies and other children’s toys that make me wonder if I’ve seen your license plate on an Amber Alert, and the standard lack of upper cranium where a cranium should ALWAYS appear above the driver’s side headrest of all MOVING vehicles.

 

I want to apologize for repeatedly slamming my forehead into my horn until you pulled over at an ever-accelerating rate, topping out at a shocking seven m.p.h. I didn’t mean to scare you, but for the love of God, there is nothing more frustrating than The Red Light Slow Roll, especially when it starts during a yellow light. Just get up there already! You do not need to leave forty-seven car lengths between your front bumper and the crosswalk. Why must you torture me?

 

Stop-and-go traffic is bad enough when it involves actual traffic – it is uncalled for when we are only two of eleven cars on the highway. And, really, five of them didn’t even count because they were piled on a dealership truck trailer. That counts as one vehicle! There should never be traffic in a six car situation. Never! I don’t care if Jenna Jameson is getting a mustache ride from a transgender midget on the side of the freeway. You take a gander and you move it along. You don’t creep down the road at negative speeds.

 

Are you some kind of auto erotic sadist or are you just suffering from the world’s worst depth-perception problem EVER? I do not understand what your deal is.

 

Did you once fail to break in time and annihilate a crossing guard and half the student body of an elementary school? Did your antenna spear some poor fifth grader, the Jack in the Box head bobbing out the other side of his gored neck? If so, I apologize for screaming at you. I could see how that would be pretty upsetting. I’d probably have some residual PTSD myself if I’d witnessed your classic old-person-confusing-the-gas-for-the-brake scenario; good God, it must’ve looked so much worse through your crazy bifocals, especially if they were those giant, black cataract sunglasses. You know that shit has some 3-D action going on. Why else would the elderly walk around feeling up walls in those things?

 

So I guess, maybe, I shouldn’t've stuck my head out the window and shrieked all the various things I would’ve liked to do to your car if I’d had a canon and an unlimited supply of bowling balls. That was wrong.

 

Maybe you read that a driver should leave room to flee in case a carjacker Hamburglars up to your window. But I gotta warn ya, Grandma, the combination of your paranoia and my road rage is more dangerous than any thug’s attempt to hijack your sweet ride.

 

What I’m trying to say is, I know it was wrong of me to let out howls of maniacal laughter as I imagined what I’d do to you if I had access to a monster truck, specifically the Gravedigger, as featured on the recent episode of The Tonight Show with Conan O’ Brian where the driver obliterated the world’s largest pumpkin.

 

Thinking about revving that super-powered engine untill your Rascal shook loose from your trunk apparatus made me giddy, but not nearly as giddy as imagining slamming the beast into reverse then charging forward, launching over your felled motorized cart, and landing on top of the roof of your car.

 

I feel guilty for thinking these thoughts and I need you to know I would never injure your person – only your car. But I guess you have no idea any of this happened anyway…because you were missing your HEAD!

 

Perhaps I should’ve addressed this to the owners of the presumably nearby Sleepy Hollow Nursing Home. If you’re reading this, will you please invest in a shuttle service for your residents before I invest in a hood-mounted paintball gun for my car? Fantastic. Thanks so much.

Anxiety Activator #55: A World Where Facebook Status Updates Honestly Report our Every Move

This is pretty much how my wall would look if I updated my page more than once a month.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is hiding out in the hermit lair, challenging herself to a Raisinette-eating competition. She is winning.

 

Two hours later…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is digging out a deep wedgie while watching a rerun of the A-Team. She is secretly thinking Murdock is the hottest cast member, though in a post-apocolyptic emergency situation she would consider procreating with First Lieutenant Templeton “Faceman” Peck. It occurs to her that he’d probably bring some useful survival skills to the table, what with his being a Lieutenant and all.

 

Later that day…

 

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Anxiety Alleviator #17: The Urban Remake of Twins in which Mr. T Bathes Gary Coleman in Baby Tub

I’d really like to watch a remake of Twins, but only if it stars Mr. T and Gary Coleman. If Coleman is too busy complaining about how his relatives won’t loan him any money in yet another CashCall commercial, I suppose I’d settle for Webster. Though I think it would only be fair, since I’m settling, that at least one scene involves Mr. T giving Webster a sponge bath in one of those cute little baby seats you set in the sink. That’s a very soothing image.

Anxiety Activator #54: An Update on Vanilla Ice

In 2005, Robert Matthew Van Winkle, AKA Vanilla Ice, set out to make a comeback with his long-anticipated Kwanzaa album. After angry protests turned into violent riots that raged from Harlem to Watts, his label, Albinism Records, decided to pull Vanilla’s release before it began distribution.

 

Albinism has since spent millions of dollars keeping the material out of the media. The demo, lyrics, and promotional posters, that are rumored to feature Vanilla eating fried turkey at the head of the Last Supper table, have been locked in a fortified safe just outside Barstow.

 

His music has remained hidden, until last week when Vanilla created an Ebay account in order to raise money for his anger management classes. Court documents reveal Vanilla auctioned off a jar of his leftover eyebrows — accumulated after years of maintaining his signature creative brow design — and four of his concert outfits.

 

After purchasing a pair of silver crab pants, famed Ebay buyer, igotyoshit187, checked the pockets and found what appeared to be an early draft of a song off Ice’s holiday album. We’ve obtained the text, which was scrawled on the back of a receipt for various weaponry, including a tazer and harpoon gun, both of which were items found on Ice’s person when he was arrested by police last Wednesday after neighbors reported seeing a racially confused gentleman hiding in a tree just outside of igotyoshit187’s bathroom window.

 

At this point, we have decided the only ethical thing to do is to share Vanilla’s sick thoughts on the holiest of holidays with the public who once supported him. We warn you the following content is graphic and may not be suitable for small children, priests, and theologians who will surely be horrified by Ice’s utter lack of reading comprehension skills in regard to the Bible.

 

JOSEPH’S BABY MAMA

Yo, V.I.P., let’s kick it!

Vanilla is back on a Kwanzaa mission,

with a rhyme more money than your Harvard tuition.

Rappin. Bustin’ shit up in your ear,

with a story ’bout the holy fetus who blew up a new calendar year.

King Herod. He ruled the land.

Like a motherfuckin’ pimp with a strong backhand.

Flying. Into adobe.

He’ll make your head hurt worse than hearing Lawrence comma Joey doing karaoke.

The three wise men. They cameled up to the curb.

That’s right, bitch, now cameled is a verb.

They pulled up. Hopped off their beasts.

They said, “Yo, Herod, there’s a zygote you wanna meet?”

“Hells yes, that is my plan.

Get back on your camels and go find the little man.”

“Ah-ite, dawg, you the boss.

We know if we don’t go you gone get our salads tossed.”

Camelin.’ Back through the desert.

Knockin’ back forties while we ride, it’s fuckin’ pleasure.

“Hey, bros, where the fuck we are?”

“Shut your bitch ass up we be following the star.”

Trekin.’ Dropping peyote.

Seeing a mirage of all the chicks that wanna blow me.

“Focus. Find the fresh placenta.”

“But how can she be prego if he neva went up in her?”

“Immaculate. Conception, that be how it went down.”

“Bitch please, if Joe believe that he a motherfucking clown.”

“You know my baby mama pulled that shit on me last year and

I said, ‘Bitch, please, I ain’t even tryin’ to hear.’”

Just then, the star is overhead.

There’s the holy son lyin’ in a ghetto ass bed.

“What up, son, why you chillin’ in a barn?

You be sleepin’ on skid row, I gots nothing to rhyme with the previous yarn.”

“Listen. We brought you some shit –

random fucking elements a baby won’t know what to do with.”

Just then, Jesus’ ass got pimped out with gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

What a baby gone do with all that shit, I ain’t never been sure.

After busting on some sick old school wine, the homies passed out.

Then an angel said, “This spot ain’t be nothin’ Herod need to know about.”

On Jesus’ coordinates they ain’t gone squeal.

They just worship his baby ass as they motherfuckin’ kneel.

“Ah-ight then, yo we gots to roll.

Cuz fuckin’ King Herod nearly turned us into moles.”

The angel, he gets around.

He visits old Joseph as soon as the wise dudes left town.

“Broseph, yo, you gots to know,

that Herod’s comin’ to glock you if your ass don’t go.”

Avoidin’ pistol whippings, that’s how Joe gets down.

So he loads up the donkey and they get the fuck outta town.

Yeah, they sneak out.

In the middle of the night.

If this were a movie, starring Woody Harrelson, right?

Then this scene would feature a motherfuckin’ gnarly ass chainsaw fight.

Terantino, he’d call in the extras playing Herod’s army,

Body parts would be flyin’ like a motherfuckin’ harm spree.

But this ain’t one, so they hit the sand.

Jesus rides in a Baby Bjorn cuz they ain’t got no family van.

The family. Livin’ like they in witness protection.

Joe probably still up on Mary’s shit about her freaky conception.

He be wantin’ to take her ass on People’s Court,

so he don’t have to pay no bullshit child support.

They get their freak on, they be make up sexin.’ Now Joe believes Mary ain’t never wanted no other dude’s erection.

Things keep getting better cuz fuckin’ Herod, he ain’t got no GPS reception and his shady ass hunt never makes the connection.

Finally, Herod’s old ass dies

and Mary gets a crazy workout on her sexy ass thighs.

They travel out to Nazareth.

Let me puff on this L, hold up, lemme catch my breath.

Now they building,’ a sweet crib in the promise land,

And that little baby Jesus he grows up to be the man.

At the parties, he turns water into wine.

He got hookers on each arm and they lookin’ real fine.

Now I broken it down with this motherfuckin’ verse,

this be the legit story of the crazy Jesus birth.