WTF Friday: I Started A Joke Which Started The Whole World Crying

Other Person: You know, you should lighten it up sometimes. Your blog can be depressing.

Me:  I know. I’m just not all that funny, though.

OP:  You’re not totally unfunny.

Me:  Really? I once cried during a Damon Wayan’s comedy sketch. Do you want to know why?

OP:  No! Write another piece about your vagina. That was funny.

Me:  To you and maybe two other people. And my vagina wasn’t the least bit amused. I had to eat a half a box of chocolates to make her happy again.

OP:  You’re blaming that on your vagina?

Me:  She rules the roost.

OP:  Um, you know that it’s not really a separate entity, don’t you?

Me:  Right. Like I’d give myself mood swings and hot flashes.

OP:  Back to what I was saying. Do you think you could write something that doesn’t call up images of slums and exploitation or, as Doris put it, exceed anyone’s quota of Sturm und Drang?

Me:  Ha! Doris has a death counter on her site. She’s not as sunshine-y as those twinkling blue eyes would have us believe. Besides, my new blog boyfriend Ryan liked the piece on George, and so did my artistic BFF, (and the mother of boys so cute they make my eyes hurt), Kris.   Annie, Anne, Ann, Julia, SusanS, Mary, and Melissa, even if it was a little close to home for her. . .

OP:  OK, now you’re just shamelessly throwing out link love. Why don’t you write about something funny that happened to you this week, instead?

Me:  Well, I did watch two women declare their undying love to each other on Facebook after a very brief, long-distance courtship. I thought that was funny, but only in lesbian-land. They’ll be together for three or six or eight years now.

OP:  Three or six or eight?

Me:  Yes, don’t ask why.  Those are the magic numbers that follow instant, undying love.  Although if it’s six or eight, the last three to five years will be hell.  By the way, did I tell you I have a blind date this Saturday?

OP:  I thought you swore off of blind dates since the Pillsbury incident?

Me:  It was Play-Doh, and it was therapy for her. I just didn’t expect that she’d tell me her life story through clay finger puppets on our first date. Her mother was neon pink by the way, and the rest of the family was blue. Do you think there’s any significance to that?

OP:  No, Freud. Sometimes a blob is just a blob. So are the same friends setting you up this time?

Me:  Rorschach had the blobs, not Freud.  They always looked like uteruses or butterflies to me.  Sometimes the uteruses had ghosts or scary sex images in them.  Like this one:

rorschach

OP:  Okay, wow, I really didn’t need to see that. Why are you going on this blind date again?

Me:  Well, I could stay home and write my thoughts about the blogger who told me about keeping a pig’s head in a bucket in her garage, and all the nightmares I’ve had since.

OP:  Good god -  please no!

Me:  Okay then, blind date it is. And who knows?  Maybe she’ll be as amusing as that one who told me that wearing a bra was capitulating to the patriarchy.

OP:  That wasn’t funny.

Me:  You had to be there.  It’s always the ones who are like a 52F that think bras are a conspiracy against women.

OP:  Can you blame them?  By the way,  I’m pretty sure that even if I was a lesbian, we’d never date.

Me:  Is this where I’m supposed to ask why?

OP:  God only knows what you’d write about me.

Me:  I’d totally write about your addiction to the Rabbit.

OP:  I’m weaning myself. It just doesn’t do much for me anymore.

Me:  I think the next step up is a jackhammer, sister.

OP:  Yeah, anyway, so glad we don’t date. Can we get back to you?

Me:  Sure, just let me finish this post I’m working on first.

***

So what do YOU see in the Rorschach?  Any WTF dating experiences you’d like to share? You know, just between us?

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WTF Friday: We Missed The Gravy Train

As I was gathering materials and enough righteous indignation to bring you another WTF Friday, a light bulb went off.  Surely, I thought, there’s a job out there for me reporting nothing but meaningless trivia.  Plenty of  people seem to be making their livelihoods this way, and I’m sure I could write a compelling two paragraphs about Angelina taking her daughters to an art store.  In fact, I could probably cover that, plus Pamela Anderson’s naked ass, and Lindsay Lohan’s consumption of a Big Mac before noon — which would leave me plenty of time to write about something meaningful — like how a sleazy gossip site like TMZ managed to get a picture of Rihanna’s battered face from the files of the LAPD.   Or the sense of entitlement that goes along with deciding to  re-victimize a woman, and make a few bucks by exploiting her pain.  (No link provided, because I think it’s disgusting, and that a couple of people need to lose their j-o-bee’s).

This edition of WTF Friday doesn’t aim to ask any deep questions, though. Taking the lead from some big, popular publications, we are instead going to ponder the inane and irrelevant with all the lightheartedness we can muster in a world where puffed-up provocateurs like Rush Limbaugh make more in a month than many of us will earn in a lifetime.

Oh yes, I know, my kindred American dreamers.   It’s all about working hard, keeping our noses clean, and paying the bills.  The working-class ethos of my ragtag childhood are ringing in my ears at this very moment.  There’s no such thing as cheap Oxycontin, a free lunch, or a free ride.  People with lots of money work really really hard and make wise decisions.  Just ask newly-minted millionaire Dustin Dibble, age 25.

Dibble had to work (the bottle) really hard in 2006 in order to get drunk enough to fall into the path of an oncoming subway train.  He lost part of one leg, but was so inebriated that he doesn’t even remember falling.  A New York jury recently awarded Dibble 2.3 million dollars after his attorney convinced the jury that the conductor was 65% at fault for not stopping in time.  Dibble stumbled onto the track when the train was about 180 feet away.

Elaine Hess of Florida also recently raked in the big bucks — $8 million of them — because her chain-smoking husband died in 1997 after a forty year habit.   8000 other Floridians are standing in the same lawsuit line, waiting for their slice of a $145B class action award the State won from big tobacco several years ago.  Never mind that these billions could have been used to fund actual health care costs, cessation programs for smokers, and prevention programs — all of which were originally part of several State’s cases against big tobacco.   Instead, let’s make a few millionaires, buy some golf carts, hire a dogcatcher, build a museum… because.  Well, didn’t we just talk about shit garden economics, and the vegetables it grows?

The question on everyone’s mind though should be What Really DID happen to Anna Winthour’s Thumb? If you don’t know who Anna Winthour is, then we’re pretty much on the same page.   I didn’t know either, but my fashion is pretty much limited to tatty sweaters and faded jeans.  In the world out THERE, where the super-riche and fashionable people live, Winthour is the editor of that thick pile of ads otherwise known as Vogue.  The mystery in the fashion world this week wasn’t why women can no longer find jeans without lycra in them, or why Vera Wang designed such hideous clothes for Kohl’s, it was why Winthour was wearing a Band-Aid on her thumb.  This incredibly important story is complete with a slide show, and the relieving news that Winthour miraculously healed — even if the reporter’s emails to Vogue did go mysteriously unanswered.

It might also behoove you to know that “Hillary Clinton’s Glasses Make Rare Appearance in Seoul”.  And yes, thank God, there’s another slideshow.

My point is — we seem to have missed the gravy train, people.  As far as I know, there is not one paid reporter of meaningless news, or multi-million dollar lawsuit winner among us.  WTF? I think some of us may have taken that whole work-hard-keep-your-nose-clean-American-dream thing a little too seriously.

So how was YOUR week?  Any WTF’s you’d like to unload?

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