My Favorite Link...EVER!

http://emrl.com/~dz-015/pm/pm_tron1.wav

Your Donald sucks. The one at Hong Kong Disneyland is more charismatic.

Recently, I took a trip down memory lane and ended up in Disneyland.

In line waiting for a Mickey-shaped rice crispy treat, I discovered I was within earshot of a perturbed middle-aged lady who deemed our happiest place on earth "ridiculous" because the manager of the Mad Hatter store wouldn't allow "P. Diddy" to be stitched on a mouse ears hat, as it was the name of a rapper. I went through a list of disallowed names myself before someone unwittingly stitched "Kool Moe Dee" onto my hat so pimp.

No one wanted to go on the Jungle Cruise in Adventureland. Too bad for the suckers who preferred to wait an hour to ride Space Mountain. Nothing rouses a venturesome spirit like the redolence of hot dogs coating the air as you're travelling down the dangerous Nile, shooting anything that's got eyeballs on him. That night, I dreamt of grilling franks in Africa.

Even the happiest place on earth couldn't keep me from frowning when I saw that It's a Small World was closed for maintenance. It wasn't a small world, after all: it was a shitty world, a shitty, shitty world.

Things got shittier when I saw for myself that people were no longer moved along the lines where the PeopleMover once moved. In the twenty-eight years that it provided low to moderate enjoyment to Disneyland goers, only two people died after boarding it. This was not the fault of the PeopleMover, however. This was the fault of the two people who hadn't the capacity to supplement the imaginatively open ride and therefore chose to cast themselves from the 2 mph travelling carts to extinguish their anguished boredom forevermore. I wonder if it worked.

The happiest place on earth? Barely. From the monorail above I witnessed with great horror that my beloved Submarine Voyage was no longer. Once a deep sea wonder filled with giant oysters and mythical mermaids, the space was now a parched tract, awaiting the installation of a stupid fish named Nemo, along with his wide-eyed Pixar cast of imagination destroyers.

Soles heavy, I trudged over to Star Tours, a Star Wars inspired simulated ride, which I, as a child, waited two hours in line to experience. No line this time, but I remembered the meandering path well, and it occurred to me that Tron really was a frightful movie and that Ewoks should never die under a pile of rocks when a child is watching.

On the whole, Disneyland remains pretty aight. I really like that ride where you sit on a boat going 1 mph and sail into a whale's mouth like Pinocchio.

You can hear it in your sleep too!

It's a Small World

It's a world of laughter
A world of tears
It's a world of hopes
And a world of fears
There's so much that we share
That it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all

There is just one moon
And one golden sun
And a smile means
Friendship to every one
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It's a small world after all

It's a small world after all
It's a small world after all
It's a small world after all
It's a small, small world

Pumpkin Thoughts

People can't get enough Starbucks out here. Starbucks serves holiday-flavored drinks: eggnog, pumpkin spice, gingerbread, and my current addiction, turkey gizzard. I was a Starbucks barista for Halloween. I was not popular. I wanted to be a hackneyed pimp instead. Halloween is...tricky. Insert your laughter here. That better be genuine or else the Halloween Hag will come get you in your mother's kitchen on Thanksgiving night. You will be exposed for pumpkin hoarding. I will be the victor, somehow. Me, the victor, in my hackneyed pimp costume.

Happy Halloween!

Kids are thirsty.

Drink, my children.

Please help! (No, she's not dead.)

Recently, I purchased an oversized plush bed for my Siberian husky. After a week now, she is still sleeping on the floor. I've tried everything to get her to use this bed: put a few pieces of kibble in the middle of it, refuse food altogether until she goes on it, threaten her with the vet's office on the phone. Nothing has worked. I find her behavior tremendously disturbing. I fear that she has adopted the bed as her own child. I don't want to take the kind of action that would traumatize my dog, i.e. bag the bed and return it to Petco. How should I tell visitors that my dog has difficulty separating fact from fiction?

The English Major Writes: An Essay on "Come Sail Away" by Styx

Come Sail Away by this band Styx is a mantra about a guy’s first time sailing a majestic cruise liner across the perilous oceanic expanse. The main idea is that this cruise liner is figurative. In other words, the boat is all in the guy’s head. Another important main idea is that our protagonist undergoes all these adventures before he renounces his everyman religion to join an angelic cult.

As I stated in the introduction, the cruise liner is figurative. The way we know that is by investigating the impossible feasibility of the lines. He, the speaker, goes, “I’m sailing away.” And more importantly he goes:

Set an open course for the virgin sea
For I've got to be free
Free to face the life that's ahead of me
On board I'm the captain
So climb aboard
We'll search for tomorrow
On every shore
And I'll try, oh Lord, I'll try
To carry on
I look to the sea
Reflections in the waves spark my memory
Some happy, some sad
I think of childhood friends
And the dreams we had
We lived happily forever
So the story goes
But somehow we missed out
On the pot of gold
But we'll try best that we can to carry on
A gathering of angels appeared above our heads
They sang to us this song of hope and this is what they said
Come sail away
Come sail away
Come sail away with me
I thought that they were angels
But to my surprise
We climbed aboard their starship
And headed for the skies.

As evident, the whole thing is figurative because none of this can be possible. Also, we don’t know who he’s talking to when he beckons someone (who? me? you? us?) to climb aboard, as he is the captain, the skipper of the boat-a-rockin’. The fact that we don’t know who he’s talking to makes us come to no other conclusion than that the boat would sink if you tried to sail it. In other words, it is figurative. The speaker, or, more precisely, the singer also talks about reflections in the waves that spark his memory. It is a known fact that it is impossible for waves to reflect memories, especially because waves move really fast and no one can dictate Mother Nature’s speed. Again, figurative language infiltrating the piece.

Now that we’ve established that the piece is not literal, we can explicate the epic journey condensed in the lyrical piece. First he announces that he is sailing away and says his course is “open,” implying he is not bound by the constrictions of nautical charts, which in turn implies that his sea is indeed “virgin” because no other nautical explorers have “hit it” yet. He is optimistic about his journey, saying that he will “search for tomorrow on every shore,” which is the most poetic line of the whole work, because you can’t really see “tomorrow” as a thing you can spot on the shore with your telescope. No, you have to dream it.

Mystery unraveled. It isn’t until a few lines later that we realize who he’s asking to climb aboard and search for tomorrow: it is Jesus, for God’s sake. So he talks about how he grew up with Jesus and the other kids and had good and bad times. Suddenly, he realizes he missed the pot of gold, which shifts our attention from Jesus to leprechauns galore. Since a lot is lost through oral storytelling tradition, we will never know of the bloody battle of the sailor and the leprechauns, but we do see some deus ex machina in action: angels come to the rescue. We can surely assume that the speaker lost his faith in holiness and shunned the angels, because in the end, he renounces his everyman religion to ascend to a starship, which, by the way, is an underlying message by Styx to say that traveling by boat is out and that the Here and Now is the modern, industrialized society, where we can all travel by plane and retain our spirituality. The cult of modernity is too strong to deny.

Lyrics, deep and cruel, kinda like the sea.

Come Sail Away by Styx

I'm sailing away
Set an open course for the virgin sea
For I've got to be free
Free to face the life that's ahead of me
On board I'm the captain
So climb aboard
We'll search for tomorrow
On every shore
And I'll try, oh Lord, I'll try
To carry on
I look to the sea
Reflections in the waves spark my memory
Some happy, some sad
I think of childhood friends
And the dreams we had
We lived happily forever
So the story goes
But somehow we missed out
On the pot of gold
But we'll try best that we can to carry on
A gathering of angels appeared above our heads
They sang to us this song of hope and this is what they said
Come sail away
Come sail away
Come sail away with me
I thought that they were angels
But to my surprise
We climbed aboard their starship
And headed for the skies

I Eats Spam.

Spammers are relentless with this righteous blog. I swear, it makes a sister not want to blog anymore; that is, until I was spammed by "Enlargement" who had some things to tell me about scrapbooking embellishment:

Interesting blog you have here, I landed here on accident. I was searching for something else and came across your site. I found it pretty interesting and entertaining. I got you book marked.

I will pop back in from time to time to see what you have new here.

My site is a bit different than yours, but just as entertaining and educational, I run a scrapbooking embellishment related site pertaining to scrapbooking embellishment related articles.

That shit really piqued my interest, but, I gotta say, it was that comment about how your site is "just as entertaining and educational" as mine that killed it. Word. Your shit don't even compare. I hope that when you "pop back in from time to time" you see this post and improve your wack site.

I got somethin', I say. I got borrowed lyric.

Up
and down.
And in the end
it's only round and round
and round...

I've lost my voice.

Check back in a month. Activity might be seen elsewhere.

Postcard of flags and a Space Needle looking structure.

Mr. Happy Crack Ain't the Only One that's Happy

Yesterday a Sidney Crackstein from St. Louis' Crack Team left a comment by my original Mr. Happy Crack post (making the streets of St. Louis safe again). I removed the post entirely and e-mailed Mr. Crackstein to be certain he was all right with my voluntary endorsement of his fine crack-loving company. Needless to say, I was struck with ultimate delight when I received the following e-mail from Mr. Happy Crack himself, addressing my concern that Minnesotans like myself have cracks up the wazoo--especially after the winter months:

Sylvia: Hopefully Minnesota will be seeing Mr. Happy Crack very soon, as we have plans on opening an office in your fair city within the next few months. I just can't sleep at night knowing a large group of very nice people have cracks up their wazoos. It pains me Sylvia. Regarding our image on your blog, don't be silly. Slap it up there as you wish...And as a reciprocal measure we'd be delighted to send you a free Mr. Happy Crack tshirt for the nice mention on your site. May all your cracks be happy, Mr. Happy Crack

Anniversary Post

A year ago today, Mediocrity was. And Mediocrity was the light in the basement of my water-damaged life. Like a soft-spoken miracle, Mediocrity began to prosper like some well-nourished philodendron, tendrils of tolerability clinging and expanding across the web of the wide world. Blessed with Mediocrity, I was never a bad writer, and that was safe. Then came the people, the blog readers, bitching, whining, and feeling sorry for me whenever I was having a bad month or three, despite that which my blog explicitly claims: mediocrity is safe. And you all wonder why I curse so much. For misty watercolor memories, see below:

• August 2004: I wish I were Snow White, so them twelve elves could clean my pad, but I ain't.
• September 2004: Check me and me and me out.
• October 2004: Mediocrity for life!
• January 2005: Asian at work.
• March 2005: Children love me.
• April 2005: Something for the haters.
• May 2005: It's hard work--it's not easy!
• July 2005: A heartfelt letter to my readers, expressing how I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them, but thanks first and foremost to the dear Lord almighty, for allowing me to cross paths with Ginuwine at LAX in the winter of 2001.

Winowhere, MN

Blogless friend Patrick has never been so eloquent...in a motel room in Winona, MN:

I got to my motel room at midnight and vegetated on beer and cable TV. It was so, well, Winona. I was up until 4:30 though, partly due to a headache and partly due to just plain old insomnia (not even nerves induced). Around 3:30 I walked over to the 24-hour grocery for aspirin. On the way back to the motel room, I noticed two things. One was that the message board below their sign read "Even a broken clock is right two times a day". Another was that the "l" on the cursive lettered neon "motel" sign was burned out, spelling "mote", which led me to wonder about the mote in my eye, and if that was what was giving me a headache.

Hatin' on my dog.

It kills me that my dog is cuter than I am. When people give her biscuits, I get jealous. When she is sleeping, I want to step on her head.

Because I struggle with math...and HTML.

Dear Literate Person,

You didn't become literate for me, I realize, so I extend a thousand thanks to you for humoring me with your stealth brand of readership, which I still find so queer. Even though you are a mute and forgiving happy face in my, perhaps, overly-generous imagination, I, shamefaced and unforgivable, do experience a worthy lot of guilt when I leave you with a blog that hasn't been updated in over a week. Starved but loyal soul, you've been recycling these mediocre stubs of prose, sometimes reading dangerous and unsavory possibilities into my often heedless pile of words, words, words. I give credit to you, lively thinker, since most people don't even bother, but that's because they sense I am wasting their time--and they would be right. My time, my life, after all, is much too valuable to waste on writing.

Syl

Weak and Strong

Man on bike is some fine machine, catches my eye for a while, like seconds stretched out into fractions on a clock at the finish. Streaming through my mind is Teddy Pendergrass with a contemporary rap interlude added for my contemporary rap body and soul, and yours too, bike man, if you had the my-my-my-my-my-my-my soul to go with all that rhythm.

Since I moved to the Midwest, the most enjoyable radio station appeared on L.A. airwaves, but I don't regret not being there: They don't play enough Johnny Gill. It's like sipping on weak ass coffee all day.

Corndog was an animal.

This post is going to suck, too, but since you all read this for free, I, with no writerly integrity, will continue to post whatever I want until I regain a wit so biting it leaves a mark prominent enough to make your momma ask who's been pickin' on you. And when she tries to cheer you up with a buttery warm grilled cheese sandwich, I'll be there to mouth it down myself--but not before I wedge your pet hamster Corndog between each toasty, cheesy flap of bread.

If you were offended by the tale of Corndog, then you obviously didn't visit this blog to lap up my saucy prose. You came for the Nudy.

(The) Baseball is Hard

This is the field where I hit a solid liner into the opposite field--Astros scout watching from the dugout. He gave me props afterward, but, hell, I never saw a contract. I would have settled for ball girl or cheese sauce churner for the rich nacho lovers in the luxury boxes, but none of these dreams would come true. Often during my Faulkner seminars, I'd turn my chair and peer out at all the bat-clinking activity from a tall building behind right field. My friend Eric claimed the nachos and soda lady at these Cal State L.A. games had the hots for him, which was fine, I guess, but I never liked when she showed up to mock my Houston dream.

Eat Shit and Excel!

This is the dog who ate shit and didn't die. In fact, it made her run faster! Now that's incredible!

Noooooooooooooooo!!!

Sunny stopped making me laugh. So I threw him out.

So-So Personality Seeks Mediocre Place to Live for Average Rent

Live in L.A.? Got extra space? Need a few extra bucks? For the right price, I'll hang with whatever:

1. sleeping in the living room
   
2. low water pressure
3. broken a/c
   
4. listening to KROQ (except for mack daddy Jed the Fish) or Jay Z
   
5. group shots of your trendy ass friends all over the fuckin' place
6. mice
   
7. roaches
8. mice and roach traps crowding out the places where I'm trying to store my food
9. unexpected visits by a landlord who wants to be let in to fix shit that ain't broke and really just wants to mack on those trendy ass friends he's seen in the past
   
10. flies and/or trick daddies
    

Step Increases, Holla!

All that 9 to 5 stuff is wack. I got it goin' on with 8:30 to 5, when I be situated at the pimpest job of all. Check out these dope reasons explaining my stable-as-all-hell direct deposit cash flow:

1. Answering the phones has long been an unfortunate area of responsibility for me, my syntactic and vocabular decisions overly clueless. Now, however, I have been gifted verbatim the genius language of upper management. No longer will I have to embarrass my institution with my peasant-informed phone greetings!

2. Fuck jeans. They are so low-class anyway.

3. Only special and specific colors appear on the approved-for-replenishment list of paper colors. These are: blue, grey, ivory, lavender (not violet), yellow, goldenrod, and tan. Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.

Totally Delicious!

Suddenly things became very ironic for Sunny.

Moving Up in the World

Never mind its suicidal flight pattern, a last minute reverse move to intersect my vehicle's unchanging direction. I killed a bird, a female tri-colored blackbird, and her death agonizes me. Everyone's been offering the same line of consolation to a sobbing Sylvia: that human life is more precious than that of any bird. I have to admit, I find myself sort of smirking at the swell idea that my life is precious and that I'm human. For reals! I'm not really a Care Bear! I suppose now I could employ my human potential and write to the people responsible for setting a freeway in an animal infested location.

Blog Off.

Hello, gorgeous readers. The author of Mediocrity has returned from Iowa to shut down the joint and file for divorce...from her own pissy-arsed moodiness. Oh dear, I discover from my forced British jargon that I am fictionally English like fictionally English Madonna and her fictionally commendable tale about a gang of jaundinced schoolgirls whose excremental attitudes take up most of the book, belaboring the boring fact that they be hatin' on the unwittingly ghetto-fabulous Binah who duhhhh doesn't quite get why ain't nobody be talkin' to her. For fuck's sake, Binah, you can make plenty of friends on the Internet. Why, you might even start your own blog and bitch about how Oprah's keepin' it real by pushing this pedestrian shit that Madonna must have written on a, mind you, good day.

Web Log

Sylvia is sleeping. In Iowa.

I warn you: Don't waste your time with this.

The less I have to do with life, the less I am vexed by it, thus my very goal to blog something with more than two lines to it is completely frustrated. This is line number two, and you are hoping it's a good one, because, if I didn't have a knack for making really long, yet fairly well punctuated sentences, this second sentence would not be offering you these rather uninteresting words to read right now, and you would know nothing of the natural anticipation that exists completely apart from the oft scripted realm of reality television, wherein tonight pure-hearted American Idol contestant, Carrie Underwood, preaches about people gettin' what's comin' to 'em on Independence Day in a clap along with me now! ditty that confuses the hell fiery wrath of the Old Testament God with a bunch of people who, hey, just want to light up a few sparklers for a good time.

Nudy.

Hazardous of warning notice: Not only for wild arranger use!

Rob Fukuzaki, you own nice suits.

Yeah, I'd sell peanuts here, bitches.

Here's a picture of my favorite dog:

(The tan one in the background.)

Goodbye Minneapolis, hello Los Angeles!

Once again, I discover I have underpacked. Fuck.

Nanny 911: Call Me

I'm appalled that young children can go around, have tantrums, and hit other defenseless children. Witnessing such freely dispensed abuse makes me want to yank the bicycles out from under them and throw them into the dumpster--the bicycles, that is. That's right, walk home, you little punk, and think about what an asshole you've been today.

To Clarify...

I like all people. I also like irony. But most of all, I like sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. And Bo Bice.

Mediocrity is coming to L.A.

While in L.A. I pray to see as few white people as possible. I hope I haven't offended you readers who are white, the white readers. You people are still welcome to peruse my blog entries. You may even respond emotionally to them, if, in fact, you have emotions. As a minority, I have never uttered the phrase you people, except for the time I accused Disneyland staff of overcharging hardworking minority families for a lousy cup of lemonade.

Does anyone want to go to Disneyland with me? My favorite ride is The People Mover. Yours?

Sunny Afternoons and Sunny Evenings

Feng Shui of the face.

Let God be the judge of this!

My mailbox has nearly exceeded capacity, what with all your heavy complaints about my new "favorites" line of posts. Lame? Lame, rather, are your benumbed senses! Do you fail to see poetry when it appears before you, naked and proud, urging you to awaken from the spoiled language of superfluity? You live in a world of black and white. I have chosen to color my world with tan.

Starchy Brain Material

Peanuts and corn chowder. I have nothing to say. Flea spray and doorknobs. Nothing is coming to me. Earthen creatures with quivering eyes have poured too much liquid fabric softener into the final rinse cycle, but I won't yell at them because they are just my brother's clothes. Besides, they do a lot around the house, like refinish the parquet floors and pick up the fluff from our shedding dog. I've come to appreciate these topsoil creatures whom I at first merely tolerated. Most people think I live with dirty men, but I tell you, they are surprisingly wholesome.

This is my absolute favorite:

I like to dance.

This is my favorite person:

A tan person.

Jesus shops for greeting cards at Walgreens. I saw him.

I used to be Buddhist, but now I'm a clerk at Walgreens, and this week the played-out hits of the 70s are only $7.99 on CD, $3.99 on tape. I've been stealing yogurt drinks from aisle 9, and I've been getting away with it. I mean, shit, if you're going to schedule me for fucking 6 o'clock in the morning, a sister's gotta get some breakfast, know what I'm sayin'? I ditched Buddhist school when my friend hooked me up here at Walgreens. Forget that wack Buddhism stuff, man, I didn't know what they were talking about--acceptance this, acceptance that. Man, that's all bullshit. What I couldn't accept was I couldn't accept my stomach being all growly and then being denied a breakfast burrito. Man, I owe my entire fucking life to Walgreens.

This is my favorite website:

www.engrish.com

This is my favorite color:

Tan

This is my favorite American Idol contestant:

Bo knows Americans.

Sunny days and sunny nights.

I started with the ears, and then Sunny began to express reservation.

Different Strokes

I've not recovered from being called an ego maniac--that is, I'm still blushing from the flattery. Other such fitting titles are welcomed. And yes, please stop me on the streets and ask for my autograph. I always have time for the groundlings--regardless of what they look like. They're usually the ones who ask if they could sit in my white limo, and that's when the tinted window separates me from them--as if I really need a window to do that.

You don't bring me flowers anymore.

All this time I've known you...thanks...thanks for not telling me you had it. All the times we've been together. Just yesterday we drank out of the same extreme can of Mountain Dew. No wonder you're so obsessive about washing your hands up to the elbows. We experienced some pretty contagious laughs, you know (pardon the pun--how insensitive of me). I thought we were close. I thought we could talk about anything, but I was so wrong. I know I gave it to you, but we could have been more open about it. You have made a fool of me. Why? Why didn't you tell me that you knew that I knew that you knew I gave you the creeps?

It's "sweeet," not "sweet."

I saw you with your two friends walking to Brit's Pub downtown on Friday. You were tanned, well-groomed, wearing jeans and a light blue shirt, untucked, cuffs rolled up for that casual "going out" look. You were so L.A. (where I'm from if you ever want to come home with me for a drive up the PCH)--your sandals pulled the entire outfit together. Dude, I totally dig you.

You probably say "sweet" a lot. "Sweet!" when the guy at the gas station tells you to make a right turn on 46th to get back on the freeway. "Sweet!" when the grocery store clerk informs you of the new hours. "Sweet!" when I take one of your sandals and bop you over the head with it, you fratboy fool, you. You probably rave about Chipotle too: "That shit is goooood." But God has not forgotten you, and you will marry someone very special one day.

For Pete's sake, pick up the fork.

You see, Pete's Chinese, and he doesn't care whether you, inept chopsticks user, use chopsticks at Chinese restaurants. Please, urges Pete, don't use the chopsticks for his sake. He won't judge you for using a fork, but he will judge you for having your chopsticks stick out of your bowl as you would a spoon while you converse animatedly with your hands. Instead, rest your chopsticks on the table or on the rim of your bowl, your chopsticks, a sort of bridge leading to a harmonious multicultural society, where no one is kicked out of restaurants by insulted chefs who witnessed you douse your food with soy sauce.

Songs from Childhood

Take the 605 to you know where! _____! _____! Cerritos Auto Square!

No you won't get a lemon, at Toyota of ______.

Reunited and it feels like crap.

Just last week I waited in line at the mall to get a sheet of the 5x7s featuring me, sitting meekly on the Easter Bunny's lap, a nervous smile on my face--just like the good old days when I was 5. The Easter themed display was a bold one that took up the entire east wing of the mall. I was impressed; it felt like the real thing, like I was actually on the Easter Islands for the first time in my life. There were like giant eggs all over the place! They were like wild trees growing all uncontrollably and stuff. At one point, I got scared, remembering velociraptors, afraid they would hatch on this island on which I was currently stranded. I got so desperate that I lit up a cigarette to send smoke signals into the air. For that, I almost got kicked out of line, and that's when I remembered I wasn't stranded on no island! I was about to reunite with the Easter Bunny. So it was quite disappointing when I finally came face to face with him, because he didn't remember me from back in the day. I kept asking him, "Remember me?" He just nodded and smiled nervously. There was all this tension in our encounter, because the costume job didn't recognize me and wanted to play it off like he did. I felt all weird when I left. I didn't like that.

Make me over!

It's time to shop for a new face. I want a cheetah face so I could model and sell Cheetos.

Story: Climbing my way to knowledge.

Today I fancied apple trees and pearl necklaces. I wore three pearl necklaces, while carving my lover's name into an apple tree. The tree began to cry, begging me to stop. It said, "Stop! Please stop and eat an apple." I climbed up the tree to search for the prettiest, shiniest apple in the giant green crown, and the tree swallowed me in its enormity. Just kidding. Trees don't have digestive systems. But the apple monkey does, and it swallowed me as I reached for the prettiest, shiniest apple near the top. The apple monkey thinks it's hot shit with my pearls around its neck. Meanwhile, the apple tree is scarred with my lover's name, yet the monkey can't read. I hope you never forget this important lesson, my dear children.

Ovaltine is old-fashioned.

So what milk-based hot beverage is considered cool these days? Lattes? Let me tell you what I think about your pansy-ass, lilac-flavored, twinkle-toes-tulip-topped 2% lattes: I think they're too expensive. Why, my fellow Americans, my barista-loving bastards, do you keep handing over $4.95 for a cup of watered-down milk when it doesn't have half the vitamins and minerals found in Ovaltine? Ovaltine makes you strong enough to knock out a Starbucks customer on the way to the office.

Explaining Important Things

I haven't been writing because stress has paralyzed my desire to give birth to creative expressivenationness. To wind down at the end of the day, I watch a lot of t.v. in my brand new fifty thousand dollar monster SUV. Lying also helps me cope with stress. I'm a liar who got her teeth cleaned at the new dentist today. He's not new but he's new to me. And even if he were new, he couldn't be a whole new because that's just something stupider people say. Stupider people can say funner and still be correct. They have more fun than people like me. I'm going to go and draw black SUVs with some crayons or something. Oh shit. I can't. My creativitizationality is paralyzed.

Completely Pointless Point

By the way, I hate unwitty oxymorons, but this is an unwitty post, so maybe it's appropriate. Gee, how excitingly ironic. And how blandly sarcastic. Anyway...

When I was about 12 years old, I joined some extended family on a walk down Hollywood Boulevard. One of the kids begged his mother to get him a souvenir. He was obviously illiterate at the time, because he was whining over a cheap t-shirt that read Eat Shit and Die. Well, my dog ate shit once and was promptly reprimanded. A few months later she found more shit to eat and ate shit again, but she didn't die. Eat shit and die...what a useless threat. It's not even true.

In the corner of mind my is you.

You are waving to me, and your eyes, bright. I get closer, anticipating our exchange. I stand before you now, and you say, "Crap!!! I found the pack of socks I bought from Kmart three years ago!" You hug your six pairs of bright whites, closing your eyes for added drama. I stumble back, shocked, saddened. In a fog of rage, I attack you with bug spray. You shrivel up but, out of courtesy, crawl into the toilet bowl where you'll conveniently be flushed away, and die. I steal your socks and put them back in the corner of my mind. Don't be going though my shit like that again.

It's after lunch. You're at work.

And you're reading this goddamn blog like you ain't got nothin' better to do. Like they pay you to sit on your ass and read this shit like you ain't gotta earn your shit. Fuck you. You are killing America. Yet, you wholeheartedly believe in the American Dream. And you're not going to quit your job just because you're going to buy a house one day. You're going to keep working, and you're going to read blogs and eat Fritos while on the clock. By the way, your boss is standing right behind you with a butcher knife, and he's going to hack up your PC and make you alphabetize some files from 1987. You asked for it.

Hello? Would you like to come?

Hey...um...I'm not good at leaving voice messages, but I'm just calling to tell you about my party this Thursday. A few of us are going to hang out. Don't worry about what to wear. Just wear whatever...jeans...I don't care. My friends are cool. I think you'll like them. Just...whatever you feel like...if you're busy, that's cool. If you can make it, please call me so that I know how much to get at the grocery store. Um...this message is getting kind of long...sorry. Um...what else, what else...did I mention it's an OVALTINE PARTY?

Take Advantage of YOURSELF!

I'm a motivational speaker now. When I brought it up to my boss at work, she was skeptical. She was like, "Don't take this the wrong way, but are you serious?" I said, "I like salsa music, but that doesn't make me a jokester." See, that kind of strength comes from within. The spirit drives all of you. Without a strong core, you are just mealy apple matter. The core holds it together. So when you feel like life has dealt you a really shitty hand, build a card tower, and then blow it down with one powerful breath from within like a mighty wolf. The world is full of pigs always trying to bring you down. You have to fight the powers that be. You can't let them build brick houses on your spiritual landscape, because that's your property. Put your heart and your soul first. You can do anything, but not before you know how to do it, so come see me this weekend only at the Minneapolis Radisson. Bring two friends and get a free Starbucks coffee.

Mmmmm BOP!

You are a fallopian tube in love with David Hasselhoff. You remember when you posed, thumbs up, sitting in the Knight Rider car at Universal Studios back in the 80s. You even spent $3.25 on a photo button of your superstar so that he could literally be close to your heart. You wish you were German. You wish you could gyrate to his music, but you can't. You are just a thumbless, heartless, hipless tube without the Hasselhoffian goods.

Bomb Ass Employee of Da Month

Da Bomb Ass Employee of da Month is back, yo! After my long ass vacation, I was pretty sure the people at work missed me and the enormity of work I churn out by the minute, but no. After my announcement at the front desk, sister payroll from cubicle 24 was like, "You got a nickel for my five cents?" All of a sudden I felt all average and shit, so I started doing paperwork at light speed to prove my worth, and my supervisor was like, "If you're going to play origami, I'll give you some work to do." I was like, "What, you mocking my Asian status or something?" She was like, "Nah," and she quickly backed off like I was her manager. Later, I felt bad, so I folded her a paper crane.

Los Angeles...

has a lot of wankers. Some were my friends, and we were kickin' it, non-smoking Los Angeles old school lounge style. There were these people on the road gettin' me and my homies all stressed out. They're all road rage and shit, because they're insecure and go around hatin' everyone all the time because their rides ain't all pimped out and they're all exposed through their non-tinted windows and shit. Let me tell you something: Pimpin' ain't easy. I ain't got that kind of energy, straight up. And that's why I kick it with the wankers behind the tinted shit.

Uh oh, Sylvia's got a case of the Mondays!

MONDAY: Waking up for work is such a drag...

TUESDAY: I hate waking up for this shit.

WEDNESDAY: I hate waking up for this bullshit.

THURSDAY: Oh, hell no.

FRIDAY: Where the fuck are my jeans?

Who makes you cool, baby, who?

Tom Jones, baby. He reaches my emotional core, leans on the frame of its door, and goes, "What's new pussycat?" And, like, I just DIE! Then I make him take me to JC Penny, and he buys me anything I want. On the way there--in a limo, of course--he'll sing his heart out. Sometimes, though, while he's singing, I'll be smiling and tapping my foot to the groovy beat, but inside I'm thinking, "Slow down. Damn, you'll get a hernia..."