Friday, March 23, 2007


I had a very serious discussion with Jim The Small Child Nephew the other day, in which he informed me that he was in the process of eating a Popsicle, which was, quote, "blue", and also "cold." I pressed him on the issue, but further details were apparently a matter of national security, for he wandered away from the phone at this point.

He is in the process of compiling the guest list for his third birthday party, which he refers to to as "James gets presents." This, occasionally, is shortened by one syllable to the other vital facet of the day: "Birthday cake." Currently he's working on holding up three fingers, but it appears he's inherited his aunt's woeful fine motor skills, because he has yet to master two fingers, and instead compensates by simply pointing both index fingers in the air. At least he's showing aptitude for the most important aspect of his sixteenth birthday.

McQueen party at:

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Not Ready For Her Closeup

I've gotten some emails alerting me to the news that Disney is releasing a Tinker Bell movie. As her nickname namesake, I examined the trailer for .00002 seconds before solidifying my previous information-free decision that this is going to suck out loud.

I mean this in the most literal sense possible. Tink talks, apparently. Like Brittany Murphy. So all that lovely chiming in Peter Pan... it seems that she was really discussing propane and Alamo beer with Uncle Hank, a mystery I would have preferred to remain unsolved.

Tinker Bell seems to have been made in the dark times, when The Emperor took a look at the reason behind the success of the Walt Disney Company and surmised that it had absolutely nothing to do with animation. The ink-and-cell animation studios were closed, because you know what's really art? Jar Jar Binks. Traditional animators have since been rehired, but not in time to save Tink from a square rack.

And so: Tink 3D. Her feminine, flowing curves have been soldered to an electronic frame. She's been given filigreed wings, every flicker of glitter precalculated, and a posse of fully marketable, ethnically balanced fellow fairies. She's part of the machine, now.

Duck the wheels, Tink. You may have highly questionable taste in men, but you don't need Brittany speaking for you. You're your own woman. Pixie. Whatever.

jinglejinglejangleclunk at:

Dude, Where's My Comment UPDATE: I had some splog in the last raft of comments, and in the process of deleting that, all of the comments somehow went away. I am so sad. So if you don't see yours here, it's not 'cause I don't love you-- it's 'cause Blogger doesn't. Please resubmit them, if you are so inclined. We're soooooory.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Real Gone

Today I read that scientists have developed a pill that can help sufferers of post-traumatic stress disorder forget troubling memories. This needs to gain over-the-counter approval. Think of the societal healing! All the horrible, horrible things we'll be able to rinse from our brainpaths:

-The Pat Sajak Show
-New Coke
-Your prom
-My prom
-The rise and fall of Pauly Shore
-Biting into what one was under the impression was an Oreo only to have it prove itself a Hydrox
-Seinfeld's finale
-Any and all hair experimentation involving gel
-The 2007 Oscars
-That one guy
-Entirety of grade school, puberty, and freshman orientation
-James Cameron in general
-Banana clips

And to those who might argue that we must retain our collective trauma in order to learn from it, guess what I saw at the mall this week:

leggings with jelly shoes and Cosby sweaters next at:

Monday, March 19, 2007

Things I Totally Want To Hear a NASCAR Driver Say, Post-Race

"We had a terrible car today."

"I drove like a fifteen-year-old on a methamphetamine IV out there."

"Well, I'm getting laid tonight whether I won or not, so frankly all this 'point standings' crap means absolutely nothing."

"My team sucks. I want them liquidated."

"I hate my sponsors. Especially Pepsi. Seriously, the vanilla kind tastes like a candle from the homegoods section at Wal-Mart. Sod off, Pepsi."

"Also Combos. Go to hell, Official Cheese-Filled Snack of NASCAR."

"That's not racing at all."


SAT words at:

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