Anxiety Activator #63: The Top Search Terms Driving Traffic to my Blog

Seeing as how I’m aware that many of my interests are categorically eccentric, and that I know my writing reflects this, it shouldn’t shock me that I have some pretty idiosyncratic readers. Yet I must admit I felt a tad surprised today when I glanced at the list of search terms people are using to wind up at my blog. Brace yourself, because this is splendid:

Top Searches
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.

March 20, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators, Hobbies & Special Interests, Random Shiznit, Uncategorized . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: 2 Comments

Anxiety Activator #62: The Iselts of Langerhans

I was pretty excited about my upcoming vacation…until I learned the iselts of Langerhans are a group of cells located in the pancreas. You disgust me, Travelocity.

March 19, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators, Uncategorized . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

Anxiety Activator #61: The Ladybug that Attacked me While I was Driving Yesterday

Yesterday as I sped to meet a girlfriend for coffee, I noticed something moving near the top of my vision. At first I thought it was just a huge eye floater, which bothered me, but did not freak me out nearly as much as when it swooped down and hit me in the face.

At this point I realized I’d either developed some James Cameron super 3D floaters, or I was about to have my own Chris Farley in Tommy Boy moment.

It buzzed back in my vision and hit me in the cheek. I shrieked and took both hands off the wheel to swat at my attacker. It landed on my left boob, which led to more screaming, and the second I looked back up, a high-pitched skid as I slammed on the brakes and missed the bumper of the car in front of me by a millimeter.

Freaking out that nature’s winged beast was now affixed to my chestal region and apparently attempting to breast feed, I pulled a hard right into a parking lot, nearly flattening an old lady leaving Grower’s Direct. I glanced back down and yelped, “What are you doing, bug? I’m not freaking lactating. Get…,” I plucked at the fabric around it, trying to trampoline fling it at the windshield, “Off!”

I thrust the car door opened and flew out, jumping up down whilst flicking at my teet. I hopped about squealing Beaker meeps that happened to create a nice harmony over The Pointer Sister’s “I’m so Excited” blaring from my open vehicle and adding to my embarrassment.

Finally, the mutant surrendered its calling as the world’s smallest breast pump. It spread its wings to fly toward some other unsuspecting driver. It was at that moment when I noticed its red and black pattern.

Sweet Jesus, I thought. I almost crashed my car, hit an old lady, and gave myself a public breast exam over a ladybug.

But in my defense, they really are creepy little insects, especially when they’re trying to milk you. It was definitely not baby sized so there’s just no excuse. It was large, which begs the question: Was it a lesbian ladybug? Obviously so.

I’m telling you, do not let the name fool you. Do you think it’d be any less to disturbing to find yourself driving along in your car only to have a gentleman worm drop down on your lap?

You think you’d just keep cruising down the highway in your Camero, the T-top open, your skullet blowing wind, as you act like you don’t care that an episode of Fear Factor is taking place on your cod piece? No, you’d probably crash because only the name of the sick creature and not the reality of it is a euphemism.

Your crotch-diving gentleman worm would not sport a little bow tie under his slimy neck any more than my ladybug donned a bonnet. It was not a lady. It was a bug. And it attacked me.

So stop trying to make me feel like a freak for calling this ladybug what she really is and that is Anxiety Activator number sixty-one.

February 25, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators, Freakish Animals, Pet Peeves . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: 3 Comments

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.

February 24, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

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.

February 18, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators, Pet Peeves . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

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.

Read More…

January 23, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: 1 Comment

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.

January 21, 2010
Categories: An insidious one way ticket to Cyclopsville in a bottle, Anxiety Alleviators, Hobbies & Special Interests . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: 3 Comments

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.

December 31, 2009
Categories: Anxiety Activators, Things that Remind me of Dongs . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

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.

November 26, 2009
Categories: Anxiety Alleviators, Diet, Health and Fitness . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

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.

November 8, 2009
Categories: Anxiety Activators, Most Popular, Pet Peeves . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

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