Michigan makes babies cry.

This shirt would be really fun to wear this weekend, if I was not a responsible and completely politically correct, domestic stepmother (that was really hard to type, you know).

In honor of the Michigan/Purdue game this weekend, I also felt compelled to post this YouTube clip. Sorry, but embedding was disabled, so you'll have to make the jump. Michigan makes babies cry. It's documented here, sportsfans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-fc5os23mI

(Go Boilers)

Opie, God, Revelation chips, and a needed superhero...

My friend in Nashville sent this to me this morning. It's a clip of Ron Howard, endorsing Obama in a way that is, well, creepy as hell. He's using the character of Opie to express his belief, after drinking the Kool-Aid (the celebrity batch was especially strong, I think), that we should all vote for CHANGE. Which is Obama, according to him and a gazillion other people in the country. And, to make things worse in this already creepy video, he pulls in Andy Griffith, who's more than likely 125 years old right now and half senile, to put that proverbial cherry on top of a shit pie.

So, to preamble (faithful readers know I like to do so), if I didn't like vodka, sex, and shoes so much, I'd probably be a Buddhist with Christian foundation. I appreciate all faiths (the Lama visit was a religious experience in itself), but I do believe there's some sort of a God. At least I have faith in a God that I believe in, and he may not look, sound, or act like anyone else's. Call it weakness or call it strength, but I just think it's narrow-minded to believe that we're on this earth to only become dust one day. I'd like to think there's much more to it. I suppose I'm one of those optimistic idealists with a realistic hard candy shell.

It's very interesting, because some of the notions in Revelations have been showing themselves. It doesn't scare me, per se...it just interests me. I do know that if we all spiral down this socialism path and become as equal as possible, "sharing the wealth" and enjoying a lobotomized life of Vonnegut novel-like mediocrity, there will more than likely be some centralized and dictated manner of buying goods and services once we get to that severe equalized state. And, if you've ever read the Bible, you know that a chip in our hands or whereever the government chooses to implant it would be that "mark." If you don't accept it, then you'll more than likely starve to death.

I didn't write it, folks. I'm just reminding people of a piece of literature here. One that is weirdly timely right now. That's all. It's still a democracy, last I checked, and I have at least until January to say that SOCIALISM IS A CROCK OF MONKEY CRAP. :-)

My friend, Mockarena, said it best this morning. "We need a superhero!"

We totally do. One that can undo the spell of the Kool-Aid. This, of course, makes me wonder what Linda Carter is doing and if they've gotten to her yet. If they've forced the Kool-Aid down her throat. I always LOVED Wonder Woman. In Obama's world, she'd have to cut her invisible plane up into small pieces and share it. Very useful, indeed.

So, yeah....that creepy little video from Ron Howard. Here it is in all its "take advantage of the 50s and all it stood for" glory:

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/cc65ed650d

My new favorite lawyer

First a journalist, then a lawyer. It's been an eventful day, thinking about how the demise of America could very well start taking place next week, in between working my butt off to pay my mortgage. Happily, I might add.

Mark Levin is kind of cool.

The Kool-Aid must be some good stuff. I've never been one to give into peer pressure, though...

http://marklevinfan.com/?p=3686

8 days left, and I love this woman....

At least she ASKED the question I would've asked. For that reason alone, she's my new favorite journalist. You go, girl...

Mr. Lawyer McCheaty is getting angry.

The Harrison Bergeron-ing of America.

I have been very heads-down these days, trying to juggle about 7 different projects that I'm both managing and creating deliverables for. So, I rely on things like Fox News and the mind behind www.themockdock.com to give me my daily scoop of both snarkiness and news.

Yesterday, my friend Mockarena sent me the following movie trailer. We're both slightly disillusioned by the fact that we may be leaning towards becoming a more socialist country, and as a result, this irritates us WAY beyond the fact that Tara Reid can make a really, really good living as an actress. She is an actress, right?

So, two things. One, when our country spirals into socialist mediocrity, don't blame me. I'm voting for the other guy, because I think capitalism and all that it represents keeps us on our toes. Sort of like when I used to play tennis, and I always played better when they put me up against girls that were nicknamed "Moose."

Two, this movie is going to rock, mainly because Kurt Vonnegut rocks, but also because I think it's quite timely.

I'll be there opening night. God bless your brilliant soul, Kurt.

Second in line to fainting goats, I now want "Robert" on my property.

I can't understand a word this man is saying, but he's a German dude named Karl who raises these giant rabbits. The rabbit is aptly named "Robert" (he does look like a Robert, I believe). I must have one immediately.

He was featured in the Chicago Tribune. Here's the snippet husband-man sent me today (at lunch, of course):

First bred in Germany by veteran breeder Karl Szmolinsky. The breed made worldwide news in 2006 when 23 lb (10 kg) "Robert" won a prize as Germany’s largest rabbit. As a result, the North Korean Government has begun a breeding program to use these very large rabbits to feed the population. It is reported however, that the rabbits sent by Szmolinsky were eaten at a birthday banquet for Kim Jong-il.

NICE. Kim Jong-il is an asshole. Karl, however, is keeping one, because he apparently fell in love with the fuzzy little man like I have.

If you haven't watched this yet, you must immediately.

Democrat, Republican, Independent...whatever. She plain rocks, and you can't dispute it, people:


http://www.themockdock.com/2008/10/19/poehler-palin-rap/

Bruxism, becoming brunette, and Brazilgentina

You know that migraine I had the other day? It was quite possibly a hormone-thing, but after consuming 3 Imitrex over the course of 2 days, the pain moved directly into the right side of my face and prevented me from chewing food. So, I decided to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist. I've proclaimed my hatred for the dentist in previous posts, as I'd rather have four pap smears - one right after the other - than go to the dentist. So, me going is a big deal. I either have to be punched directly in the face and have teeth knocked out of my head or have the raging pain I had the other day to ask for an appointment. But I know that if I can't eat solid food, there's an issue. I like food.

Lucky me...it turns out I have this little thing called Bruxism. It's a fancy name for clenching and grinding of the teeth. I do this at night. Why, you ask? I have no friggin' idea, other than the fact that I am a freak and a half. I'm a historically-maniacal insomniac who apparently thinks too much not ONLY while awake, but also while I'm asleep. I guess my sleeping brain believes that clenching and grinding my teeth with four times as much power as I do when I'm awake will rid me of all worries and life stressors. Welcome to my type-A little world. Jump right in. The water's warm.

So, my dentist said that I have good, strong teeth, but they're being worn down with the constant grinding, and the pain I'm experiencing is a result of this. The solution for this problem is to STOP DOING IT, of course. And the only way to stop doing it is to wear this really attractive mouth guard at night. Kind of like a very thick condom for my teeth. A teeth Trojan, if you will. My first mental image was Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles...the vision of her with that hugely awesome headgear.

Within 10 minutes of the diagnosis, dentist-man shoves this nasty cement crap in my mouth, holds it there for three minutes, and oila! Instant mold of my upper mouth. I shall have my really sexy cure for bruxism by tomorrow afternoon. In my very own hands. Lucky, lucky me!

To add to my extreme overall hotness, I got my hair cut tonight. And colored, of course. Brown. Really, really brown. I'm a brunette tonight for the first time in YEARS. And, while I realize I have to let it settle and grow on me a bit...fade out and find its groove...I'm a blonde by nature. Yes, I realize that my blonde may not be all real, but I'm truly a blonde from the depths of my soul. Tonight was one of those, "I just need a change, and it's winter, so why the hell not?" nights. I went full-on brunette and got a little Posh Spice cut to go with it. The cut is adorable, and I love it. The color? I kind of hate it. I'll let it try to change my mind in the next few days, and if it doesn't convince me of its sheer sexiness, I will reconsider and kill the brunette me. And that's OK. Because I live in a constant hairocracy...and I'm the dictator.

To top off my sexy brunette bruxism, I also found out today that my slated work trip to Brazil has been derailed. Instead, I shall be going to ARGENTINA. I am BEYOND excited about this. Brazil was going to be a cool place to visit, but I started becoming fearful of my eventual slaying upon my arrival at the Sao Paolo airport. Argentina is where Oscar the Boxer lives, so it must be OK. This news made up for any dental condoms in my future, as I'll finally be visiting a Spanish-speaking, South American country at 37. I've been wanting to do this since I sat happily, conjugating verbs and going by the self-imposed Spanish name Cha Cha, in 10th grade Spanish class. My undergraduate minor in Spanish will finally have a shot at rearing its head, other than to say, "Otra margarita, por favor!"

So, to recap. I am the coolest writer-chick on the planet today, as I'll be jetting to South America in December. This completely overshadows my complete brunette indifference, the teeth Trojan, and the fact that I could very well be morphing into Joan Cusack's character in Sixteen Candles.

And with that, I bid you goodnight.

This is basically what happened, only the bird that hit us was real.

Concerning my last post about the flying chicken....Well, it was a lot like this. I am Christina Applegate, and she's Cameron Diaz, only I think we're way cuter.

Flying Chickens, vodka, and my deferral to themockdock

I could blog all of the events of this weekend, but Mr. Daisywriter has made me his world-famous, "the kids aren't with us tonight, so have a cocktail" cranberry vodka drink. He missed his calling as a bartender, because as a man who doesn't drink very much at all, his cocktails are unbelievably dangerous and yummy. I am somewhat tipsy, if you will, so I shall refrain from trying to sound smart in any way, shape, or form.

Instead of acting like I can spew original thoughts, I shall defer blogging of the weekend's festivities to my fated fabulous friend Mockarena. She blogged what really needed to be blogged - the wedding to end all weddings. The big, huge, obese Greek one that everyone wants to attend. We attended it, indeed, in true Mock/Daisy fashion.

I would like to point out, though, as I did in a comment to themockdock.com, that I believe that Jesus threw a sacrificial fowl at us. I'd also like to publicly proclaim that Hacienda in Kokomo, Indiana, has salsa that I truly believe is laced with crack.

http://www.themockdock.com/2008/10/11/greek-orthodox-weddings-suicidal-chickens-and-hacienda/

The simplicity of men.

I don't often write about my husband-man, as I love him dearly and admire him greatly. I keep the majority of my blogging focus off him, as he's a private man, and I try to respect that. Unlike me, he doesn't talk unless he has something of real value to say. I, on the other hand, am a walking mouth that jabbers constantly. He's always been unassuming, never one to be flashy...doesn't care about what brand of clothes he wears or car he drives. He buys a car because it's practical. He's quietly confident. He doesn't need the fluff, and I know that he's pretty cerebral, which is one of the main reasons I was first attracted to him. I've always been a sucker for a smart man. Smart men that don't use hair products and have no idea what Burberry is. The kind of man that's rugged...the one who wears work boots and has substantial facial hair and often grease or dirt under his fingernails. No way around it...this is just plain hot - at least to me.

I wouldn't normally "out" my husband for anything in my blog, mainly because there's not much to "out" about him. However, I felt compelled to do so today. You see, my husband - the guy who watches only Discovery Channel, Sci Fi, TLC, and the History Channel (with the occasional exception of Family Guy and South Park) - is a thinking man. Case in point: last night, I came in from my night class, set my keys on the counter, said hello, and noticed that he was watching a documentary on how lead was made. Yep. Lead. As in that heavy stuff. Yeah.

So, knowing what kind of a guy my husband is, it makes me giggle when he gets excited about the one show I never dreamed he'd get excited about. It's the exception to the cerebral rule to end all exceptions. The season premiere of this show is tomorrow, I've learned, and all things will be set aside to watch it. Leave it to cheerleaders to make my cerebral husband a deer-in-the-headlights. God bless CMT's Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders "Making the Team." In all its anti-feminist glory, I, too, love this show. It's a train wreck. It's simply awesome.

Yes, I'm outing you, hon. Because it makes me smile that we can sit down together as a happy couple, I can snark on the girls' dancing ability and lack of world and political knowledge while you stare at their abundant boobs. It's the little things. And in this case, I find bonding with my husband over blatant T&A just plain sweet.

To hook any potential viewers out there, Joel McHale highlighted my absolute favorite scene from last year's show. Enjoy the blondeness:

Chuck Norris the Visionary

My Dad sent me this article today in a roundabout way. I just love that Mr. Norris is giving commentary on Washington. I secretly hope that he goes to Washington and opens up a can of whoopass on everyone. Yes, I just wrote the word "whoopass." That was a first. Congratulations, Dad.

http://www.humanevents.com/article.php?id=28902

Appraisals, churches and chicks

Yesterday was a blur of work, work, and more work. I worked at home yesterday, which makes me once again proclaim that I love my job. I didn't shower all day, didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and didn't wear any shoes except flip flops temporarily while taking the dogs out a few times. It was non-stop chaos, con-calls, and creative writing from 6:30 am to 6 pm. But it was a gloriously mish-mashed day. While juggling work, I was also expecting an appraiser to come to our house, as we're trying to take advantage of the financial ruin of our country and refinance our home. Additionally, I had a date after dinner to see my neighbor's new shipment of chicks - little, fuzzy, baby chicks that I'll be tending to this weekend when they're out of town. Who would've thought that there's actually work into keeping these little fuzzy things alive?

While on my second conference call of the morning, I was interrupted by what I refer to as the "bible people." These people have come to my house before. In fact, I think that in the past year of living in my country residence, I've had at least 4 visits from people trying to make me see the "light of Jesus Christ." Right after we moved in, The God Squad was in the form of a 16-year old kid and his little girlfriend - who didn't speak much, as I don't think she believed it was her place as a woman to do so. The teenage boy was trying to tell me - a 36-year old at the time who, I will venture to say, has lived a few lifetimes in those years - how to live life. He asked if I had been "saved" yet. I still don't really even know what that means. And, he couldn't even grow facial hair yet, for chrissake. My lip was bleeding from biting it, and while I wanted so badly grab the girl, shake her, and give her some Camille Paglia to read, I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, was polite, and smiled at them while explaining that I was busy working. I actually work and all. I did the same thing yesterday. It was a lady and a man, dressed in those horribly unfashionable dark suits that scream cult couture. I mean, why can't a woman of God come to your door in Jessica Simpson shoes? Is there some I-accept-Jesus-into-my-life paperwork you sign that says, "I'm going to forfeit the fun of being a put-together, sexy, strong-willed woman. I'm not ever going to consciously appreciate the fact that I have a nice rack, because that would just be wrong. Even though God made me as a woman and has given me these long legs, I know I shouldn't show them. EVER. No way. I'll be dowdy and wear my husband's clothes instead. Yeah. That's what God intended."

When I told the lady that I was in the middle of a conference call and that I had no time to take away from my workload, she said to me, "well, bless your HEART."

Bless my heart? Because I have to work? I like to work. I like making money. I like buying food and shoes, lady.

Bless. My. Heart. Alrighty then.

I think I've said this before, but I do believe there's a God...I just believe that he's up there shaking his head at all of us, saying, "This is SO not what I had in mind...you people have just royally f*cked up everything I set out to do." THAT is how I think we, as a people, are flawed. We're just not nice to one another. We just don't GET it as a human race, I don't think. Plain and simple. And, while I think some people find their own way and do it in a sincere manner, I think a lot of the Christians I know, at least, have this air of "I'm in a special club and that makes me superior." It's an extension of a high school clique, and heaven is like that awesome club you want to get into, but aren't sure if the guy at the door is going to let you in based on his own perceptions of you.

I don't believe that's the way God intended things to be. And the Catholic church? Well, my steady readers know the drill there. Money makes people - and institutions - corrupt. And that's all I got to say about that.

When spirituality gets wrapped up in money and elitism based on who finances the biggest and grandest stained-glass windows in the church....when it becomes a way for insecure people to point fingers at me and judge me...when it is a way for other flawed humans, such as myself, to justify their own sins and wrongdoings by thinking, "well, I can just ask for forgiveness for being a complete son of a bitch most days of my life and still get into eternal happiness in heaven"....then it's not something I'm genuinely interested in.

Try explaining that to the Church Lady at your doorstep. It's harder than you think. Next time, when she tries to make me over to be more in Jesus' likeness, I, in turn, may offer a makeover for her. I'll start with the shoes and work my way up. And THEN we can talk about how cool God is.

More fun from Oscar the Boxer.

I'm getting ready to head home for the day - much work to do tonight. When the humans piss me off, I turn to the pups...and I love some Oscar Schnookums. He looks so much like my Tess Larue. His little clips have inspired me to start documenting my three canine children's lives more. I shall begin that promptly. Until then, here's Oscar at the beach in Argentina. It actually made ME smile, and that's a huge feat today. I especially like the porn-like 70s music. Solid gold.

I love my job. I love my job. GGRRR. I love my job.

Today sucks. I'm irritated beyond repair today. Today, I really hate my job, but I'll just keep reminding myself that it's the first day I've hated my job in 8 weeks, and I really, for the most part, adore my job overall. I just hate it today. I hate it so much today because of one distinct person, actually. Then the one condescending, blood-sucking, soulless excuse for a human has made it his/her mission to make my work life both inefficient and as difficult as possible today, which in turn makes me irritable towards all other normal human beings, of course. Today is a grand reminder of why I have worked contract my whole career. Corporate politics are such raging, smelly, ridiculously unnecessary bullshit. It also reminds me of how wonderful life may be had I actually majored in piano performance and gone on to play backup for Clapton. I don't know if Clapton provides a dental plan, though.

I must snarf down my sandwich now, then catch up on the 50 million things I have to do, due to the fact I spent all morning cleaning up the mess caused by that said soulless human. In the meantime, the above clip sums up my day. I'd like to emphasize that I am the chicken. Enjoy.

October Foo Fix

It's been a year (on September 25th, to be exact) that Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace came out, and I still friggin LOVE this album like I was hearing it for the first time. It may very well be the new millenium's Abbey Road. I can say that, because I'm now a member of the "I'd Sell my Family to Marry Dave Grohl" club on Facebook, which makes me ridiculously cool and borderline psychotic stalker.

My favorite song on the album - and it's taken me a year to really pick - is "Let it Die," which is the first song they played at the concert I took Speedy to in Indy this past July.

I know you want to thank me for giving you this month's Foo Fix. But, it's OK...you don't have to thank me. It's the least I can do for my three adoring fans. I'm a giver like that...

Flying Shlongs and the Best. Job. Ever.

Forgive me, faithful Daisywriter companions, for I have blog-sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession. So much has happened in the past week, even though none of it was really that blogworthy.

First and foremost, I captured a fabulous snapshot at the Purdue/Penn State game this past Saturday. It’s a flying penis. A really, really large penile member floating around the stands in a glorious, inflatable format. Someone actually BOUGHT this thing somewhere. In fact, it’s created such curiosity in me to find out where in the sam hell you can actually buy 8-foot blowup shlongs. The flying penis first reared its head (no pun intended) a few weeks ago at another Purdue home game -in the student section, of course - but it was snatched up so quickly by security guards, it eluded me. This time, I was ready for the big one-eyed wonder worm, and lo and behold, I got my photographic evidence. There’s nothing funnier than a flying penis. Much like chimpanzees, it’s up there as comic gold on the funny list.

So, there was that blogworthy occurrence. Pictured above for posterity.

Fast forward to this morning, when I arrived at work like my conscientious early-bird self, opened up my Outlook inbox, and saw a really cool surprise. My boss #1 is Mr. Communications man-in-charge of my company, and I am, for lack of a better phrase, his right-hand writer/editor/manager chick. He’s like a marketing and communications-slanted John McCain, if you will, and I’m his Sarah Palin. If he’s not able to do something merely because he is incapable of cloning himself, I’m his little Alaskan princess stand-in, whisking into action with my rifle to combat communications terrorists and such. I'm just amazed that I have a shred of imagination left, people. Honestly.

My boss will be out of town on business in Tennessee in early December. He has committed to being at an engagement and as a result, he will not be able to travel to Brazil to handle yet another engagement. Yeah, you read that right. BRAZIL. What does this mean? Well, this means that I, Daisywriter, the girl who doesn’t speak a lick of Portugese but feels as though her Spanish minor may still come in handy beyond ordering margaritas one of these days, gets to possibly go to BRAZIL. I almost urinated all over myself with excitement.

Of course, my thoughts went immediately to colorful, party-filled, naked people in the street in Rio, free and festival-like and very, well, Brazilian. People with this fabulously sun-kissed skin, soaking up rays and being decadently carefree while I watch, all WASPy and pasty and ginger-like, in absolute bewilderment. However, upon conveying the wonderful news to my husband, my thoughts were somewhat squelched. Husband-man is petrified that I’ll get killed anywhere near a Brazilian airport by random gunfire (much to my surprise, their murder rate is four times that of the United States). Or worse - I'll be kidnapped and sold into Brazilian sex slavery. He’s completely freaked out about my safety or the lack thereof in such a turmoil-infused country. Which, I’ll admit, is very sweet and protective and dutiful-husband-like, but I keep telling him to give me at least 5 minutes to bask in the glory of my Brazilian, half-naked, sunshine-filled, party daydreams.

I guess I never really thought about the crime, but he has made me promise that I’ll have either a traveling companion or some sort of escort for the trip. Traveling alone is, in his opinion, not an option as a pasty tourist chick. Even the boring federal transportation sites tell travelers to be cautious, as “random acts of violence” are common in that neck of the woods. And here I always thought everyone was just drunk and in costumes all the time.

So much for carefree and colorful. Although I am thinking about confiscating the giant shlong and taking it with me as a peace offering.