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.
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 #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…
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.
