I didn't. I woke up at 4 a.m. lightly bathed in sweat. I don't particularly mind sweating in bed, except I was alone.
Not helping matters was the bedding. It was dark and the covers were mangled and somehow the tiny top sheet had gotten swallowed up by the thick duvet. My options seemed like either arctic provisions or a naked man laying atop a mattress. While I enjoy the odd naked man, I also know that after laying prone for a period of time, his body partially liquifies and forms folds and wrinkles that rival the Grand Canyon if it had curly brown hair springing out of its chasms. Not to mention the whole Tennessee Williams stigma that comes with oppressive heat and sleeping:
STELLA: Oh, Brick. This heat is like a vice, squeezing the living daylights out of me. The dank air is settlin' in my lungs so it's like I'm a'wallowin' and a'frettin' in the soggy recesses of a swamp rather than at the luxurious Hyatt at the Bellevue.
BRICK: I can't take it, Stella! It's circling my head like a buzzard and squeezing me like a snake and I swear it's going to suck me dry. Every breath I take my mouth turns to sand, and I can't move without feeling the accursed vines of the kudzu plant creeping up my thick, tattooed legs here on the edge of the upscale Rittenhouse Square shopping district.
I'm not the kind of person who accepts something and lets it go, especially if it means paying big bucks to not sleep for eight hours. I'm definitely a "bee in my bonnet" kind of guy, except I own the Bonnet Store. I hit a button on the phone that said "GUEST REQUESTS." I wasn't sure it was appropriate: it sounded like it was for people who ran out of hair gel rather than, say, people who had reached medium-rare, or didn't like lions clawing down their doors.
I explained the situation to the woman. She offered to send up an engineer to fix the thing, but in my book putting on clothes and having company pretty much means sleep time is done. Instead I went with her helpful tips: first, set the fan on AUTO instead of HIGH. I assumed that something running constantly at top speed was more efficient than something that randomly turned on and off, but I've never been paid to think at 4 a.m. Second, set the desired temperature at 68 instead of 60. I may have missed the logic here, but apparently if the air conditioner thinks the job is too big, it won't even give it a try. When the desired temperature is close to room temperature, it feels like it's got a fighting chance.
She also offered to send up a fan. I got the idea that if she worked at Avis and my Mercedes broke down, I'd be tooling around Philly on a Big Wheel.
I decided to go with her helpful tips. Twenty minutes later, when I realized the temperature wasn't going to change and I wasn't going to sleep, I called back and asked for the engineer.
I completely banished any thoughts of a silver lining when he arrived and wasn't even remotely hunky. He confirmed that the GUEST REQUEST tips were total crap while he pulled the AC filter out. He actually thought I'd be interested to know that it was two inches thick with lint, and I waited while he fetched a new one. "It'll be okay now!" he said. Really? I thought. Is that the Hyatt motto? If I find a hair on the Grilled Skuna Bay Salmon at the XIX restaurant will the waiter pluck it off and proclaim, "Looks like it's okay now!"
Needless to say, I was a bit grumpy when I boarded the MegaBus home. The guy behind me talking nonstop on his cellphone certainly didn't help. In his fourteenth conversation his voice suspiciously lowered, clearly indicating a female on the other end.
"Nickname?" he asked in Barry White's voice. "You gave me a nickname?" He chuckled long and low and I actually started to think it was sweet. "Yeah," he said, "I like that nickname. We'll have to give you a nickname too." Another pause while my chilly heart defrosted. I felt like recommending the standards: Sweetie, Darling, Honeybunch. "Okay," he finally said. "We'll call you Downstairs Margo."
I sighed. New York City's skyline appeared in the distance and I thought, "Well, it looks like I'm okay now."
Cassidy was stopped early Wednesday about 10 miles south of Albany. Tests showed his blood-alcohol content at 0.10.
The Albany Times Union reported that when the arresting officer, Tom Jones, told Cassidy his name, the singer said, "What's new, pussycat?"
I mean, come on. When a dog dies, does it become a chicken? Does a monkey become a sea cucumber? No! Christ, we're intelligent people, not Buddhists! It's scientifically impossible. One thing does not turn into another! When you die, you become invisible and your soul floats up to heaven but suddenly sprouting wings and magically learning how to play the harp is just patently ridiculous.
I realize I need to be patient. I've been asking God to grant me patience almost every time I feel like hitting one of the kids. And I know it's comforting thinking that after God takes us, we'll all be flying around heaven like Superman. But the sad fact is that's just a sad delusion, and as much as it pains me to say this, we need to face the cold, hard facts. We'll have to walk around on the clouds just like regular old dead people.
Of course, these clouds also have a silver lining. God likes us better than angels. That's why he gave us free will while making the angels his helpers, henchmen, and housekeepers. Yes, we make mistakes, but He gave us that freedom because he loves us so much. The angels are second-class, not as good, sad substitutes for the real thing -- pretty much like God's adoptive children. He can cast them out of heaven, but once we're in we're good. It's like heaven has a union.
Anyway, if you agree, please spread the word. Next time one of your relatives dies and a well-meaning "friend" says God must have needed another angel, politely inform them that you're strong and resilient enough to face facts: that your dead relative will be sitting at God's right hand for the rest of eternity as long as idiots like them don't get in the way.
Nir Arieli's portrait series "Men" places men in traditionally feminine spaces and postures, illuminating the human characteristics that have, over time, become decidedly feminine traits. The following male muses are making us wish men felt free to explore their feminine sides more often.
You'll notice a lot of these models are lying down. Men don't do that a lot, because they don't have to wait for themselves to come home from work.
Can't wait 'til Ms. Arieli captures women in traditionally masculine spaces and postures, but I guess there aren't many betting parlors left and there's like zero female models willing to kick a dog. Thanks, Huffington Post!
He wasn’t just an ordinary teenager who rolled his eyes and walked 10 paces ahead of me, either. He had grown into someone dark and angry, and when I was with him, I either felt like I was isolated in a psychological freezer or needed to hide in a bunker. He had called me unthinkable names and shattered my heart to smithereens. When he asked me to go on the cruise,
They Speak Formally. Bill Clinton said "I did not have sexual relations" instead of the more familiar contraction "I didn't have...". This is typical of people who are lying; to avoid contractions and use more formal language to distance themselves from the lie.
I don't know why nobody's thought of this before. If you want to build a massive structure, what building material makes the most sense? Wood means chopping down trees. Cement means digging up land. What we need is something that's environmentally-friendly and sustainable, with a supply will never run low.
Hey, how about human bodies?
There's certainly no shortage of human bodies, which is why the Great Cross is such a terrific idea. It'll be length of ten football fields, and eighteen stories tall. It'll be "the largest Christian monument in the world dedicated to Jesus Christ" (are there bigger Christian monuments dedicated to, say, Fozzy Bear?) and will be "easily" visible from space.
And it's going to be a stack of dead Christians.
The Great Cross Alliance is dedicated to constructing the largest, longest-lasting Christian monument in the world. It will be built of columbarium and mausoleum vaults that are available for purchase for you and your family. The Great Cross will be supported by a world-wide community who choose to become part of this beautiful vision dedicated to Jesus Christ.
Naturally the people who propose this massive project have also written the world's longest FAQ. It answers questions like:
The husband and father of the family that developed the concept had three similar dreams between 2007 and 2009. He saw an enormous, gleaming monument in the shape of a cross. The construction was a stack of large, clear glass blocks, each containing the perfectly preserved body of a person in peaceful repose.... [He] realized that such a monument could be a rallying symbol for worldwide Christianity, and a way to preserve the Word of God for a long time.
Got that? It was a vision. Jesus came to him and said, "Look! Stacks of dead Christians encased in glass as a monument to me!" And the guy replied, "Jesus, glass just does not make sense."
Where's the giant cross going to be? I found this map helpful:
Got that? NOWHERE NEAR CHINA. And how is construction coming? Well, see for yourself:
Wait. No, that's right. For a second I thought I got the construction photo mixed up with pictures of my third husband installing our eight-man hot tub.
Despite their divine inspiration, great ideas don't have such a great success rate. The Firearms Museum and Reflecting Pool still haven't been built at The Citadel. In fact, all they've got to show after nine months of fundraising is a wooden shed, but Porta-Potties are on the horizon. Unlike the dead folks who'll make up the Great Cross, its future isn't set in faux-stone.
IMPORTANT INFORMATION: The project must reach a critical level of funding before construction can begin. This level is set at the sale of 400 spaces.... Once the critical number of 400 is reached, construction will begin as soon as possible.
Did you see that? I just caught it out of the corner of my eye, but it looked like THE RED FLAG YOU CAN EASILY SEE FROM SPACE.
Mausoleum spaces at the Giant Cross are priced at $25,000 for a single casket. Four hundred of these would bring the builders ten million dollars. When it's finished, the cross "will enclose a volume of 8.6 million cubic meters," which is enough to "contain more than three Great Pyramids," but those first four hundred coffins will total only around 1,300 cubic feet. That's about the size of an eleven-foot cube, discounting the visitor's center or rainbow-refracting observatory dome they might prop on top. Initially, at least, that Christian monument you'll be able to see from space would fit into somebody's dorm room and there'd still be room for a dozen bongs and a "Hang In There, Baby!" poster. You'd drive out to the desert to look at it but it'd be totally be hidden by the World's Biggest Thermometer.
Will it be popular? Beats me. Maybe there are Christians who want to spend eternity piled up with other Christians eighty miles from Reno. But I definitely think it'll be a beacon of hope and source of inspiration to the entire world. I know every time I'll think of that mound of dead people who fall for crazy shit like this I'll say to myself, "Now that is a really good start."
(Via the very busy Joe.My.God)
"Make the most of your leftover Halloween goodies with these candy dessert recipes," one helpful website says before offering tips on how to turn those discarded peanut butter cups into a pie. Yeah, because we've all seen peanut butter cups and thought, "What the fuck am I going to do with these?"
Even Better Homes & Gardens -- what is with that name? Did you ever go to somebody's garden and think, "Wow, this is definitely better."? -- gets into the "leftover Halloween candy" act. Am I totally out of it here? I trick-or-treated for probably twelve years, most of those in my thirties, and I never had "leftover" candy. It's not like a Heath bar will go bad by Friday. If mold could grow on a Hershey bar they couldn't spend six generations in the candy machine of your local hardware store.
If you've got twelve M&Ms you need to get rid of, though, BH&G's Spiced Mice recipe is perfect for you. It also requires chow mein noodles, which makes me grateful that my folks never took me trick-or-treating in Beijing.
This Witch's Hat uses all your leftover popcorn. My second husband worked at a movie theater and we never had leftover popcorn. It has sweet and salty flavors, though, which will totally win your kids over if they're having their periods.
Still, there's an exception to every rule. The small effeminate part of me that loves Easy Bake Ovens and Hello Kitty totally crapped his pants when he saw this.
Looks adorable, but c'mon: chocolate bars, M&Ms, and cookies? Really? It doesn't take a genius to come up with the treat I'm giving away on Halloween:
Is it as cute? Not quite. But is it nutritious? Does a bear shit in the woods?
Yesterday North Carolina Gov. Pat McCrory signed a law that requires voter to have photo ID. When asked why he backed this legislation despite the fact that voter fraud seems to be quite rare, he replied, "Just because you haven’t been robbed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t lock your doors at night."
I don't mind the allegory -- voter fraud equals burglary -- but guv must know there's only been one suspected fraud case in North Carolina in the last twelve years. Clearly it's more truthful to say, "Just because only one dude has been robbed in North Carolina in the last twelve years doesn't mean you shouldn't lock your doors at night." Because, you know, it kind of does.
Imagine what would have happened if these two men had met! Let's let our imaginations run wild as we picture the pair sharing frothy cappuccinos at a Parisian cafe on a sunny afternoon in 1872.
MENDEL: Well, Charles, it has happened. We have stolen the very lightning from the Gods! I discovered how dominant traits are passed down from one generation to the next, and you showed how that gene transmission can change the whole face of a species. Together, who knows where these monumental discoveries will lead us!
DARWIN: Gregor, you are right. The secrets of the universe have been revealed and now mankind's dominion over creation approaches the infinite. While remaining wary of the consequences should mankind try to supplant nature, what triumph do you most yearn for most?
MENDEL: Ah, I don't want to sound like a dreamer, but I do have one fond wish. If we truly have mastered the minutiae of existence and can pull the tangled strings of life like some sidewalk puppeteer, I believe our path is clear.
DARWIN: (LAUGHS) Yes, my esteemed colleague, I feel similarly. Tell me what you propose.
MENDEL: I would like a fluffy little dog I can fit in my handbag.
DARWIN: (NODS) Yes, that would be a milestone that would cement the reputation of even the greenest geneticist. But do you believe a trophy of this magnitude is even imaginable?
MENDEL: Perhaps not. But we are on the right path! I shouldn't say this, because my research is not yet complete, but six weeks ago I crossed a healthy poodle with an allergic poodle in the hopes of creating -- no, I dare not tempt the fates!
DARWIN: But I have guessed: will your new creation be called a PooPooPaChoo?
MENDEL: If it's fluffy and it sneezes, I will totally shit my pants.
DARWIN: Well, dear friend, that would truly be an accomplishment.
The bill comes, and DARWIN pulls out his wallet. As he opens it, something very fluffy and small
leaps out. MENDEL can't believe his eyes as he enumerates four tiny legs, a head and a tail. Can this snow-white scrap of nothing actually be related to the lumbering beasts that live to kill rabbits and other vermin? The bit of fluff with teddy bear ears and big blue eyes scurries across the table. It nibbles at a croissant crumb and then, sated, curls up on a Splenda packet like it's an oversized pillow.
MENDEL: OHMIGOD! OHMIGOD, Charles, you have done it! It's breathtaking! It's spectacular! I would cut my heart out of my chest with an oyster fork to see it in tiny shoes. Why ever didn't you tell me?
DARWIN: (HEAVING A BORED SIGH) What? Oh, you mean little Chutney? Why, I've had her since she was small.
Droopy Sweater is a bold new innovation in fashion. After they're knitted from the finest Argentinian yarn, Droopy Sweaters are hung on wire coat hangers and left in a barn in Lancaster, PA. There we let gravity take its course. Two years later, when the yarn has loosened and the two front flaps are dangling like dead leaves in a Tuscan vineyard, they're shipped to fine retailers near you.
Crystal Young was 45 years old and had never contemplated buying new sweaters. But one day at the gym the pretty receptionist looked at her Donna Karan separates and thought, "Those are just too young and perky. It's like I'm ashamed of my droopy things."
"I'm 45," says Ileana Rodriguez, a Southern California housewife with four children. "I used to wear mini-skirts, and now I wear pants. I used to wear stilettos, and now I wear Easy Spirits. My body is changing, and it's time my sweaters changed too."
We know you'll love Droopy Sweater so much we're offering a 100% money-back guarantee. You'll smile as the loose-hanging flaps dangle between your legs. You'll chuckle when your pendulous protruberances gaily swing as you walk. You'll laugh out loud when the wind picks up and those wacky wings flutter and flash like windchimes.
You wouldn't wear a sweater that was made for men. So why wear one that was made for a girl? "I just love Droopy Sweater," says Rebecca Arlington, a 47-year-old ad executive. "People see my peach Droopy flapping out of the corner of their eyes and everybody turns to look. I smile, bold as brass. 'Yeah,' I say, 'It's Droopy. And I love it!"
I have absolutely fallen head-over-heels for a new TV series somebody's trying to crowd-fund called Jesus 2015. The plot is simple but wildly creative. A man is arrested for burglary. The police run a routine DNA check and discover that there is a "specific and positive match 99999.9" to the DNA on the shroud of Turin.
Now, I don't know about you, but I'm already hooked. There's no doubt this is Jesus: in fact, the lab has even increased the top limit on percentages because they're so positive. There's none of the wishy-washy 99.99% shit you see in paternity tests on Maury -- no, there ain't even a shadow of a doubt!
Plus, I'm entranced by the idea that the police have DNA from the shroud of Turin in their database. All too often I think they're incompetent, but it was definitely a good move to throw in Jesus. Some smart sergeant must have said, "Hey, nobody gets a free pass! Just because he's the Lamb of God doesn't mean he's never going to boost a car stereo in Santa Monica."
I bet they've even got dinosaur DNA in this database. Maybe in one episode we'll find out that Pontius Pilate has a 41937.71 chance of being a triceratops.
Maybe you noticed the odd religious figures/euphemisms in the police database. I got no explanation for that. Did they catch the Lamb of God smoking weed on Abbot Kinney Boulevard? Did the Bread of Life shoplift some earbuds from the Main Street Radio Shack?
But let's back up a little bit and merge the details offered in the trailer with this auteur's IndieGoGo beg:
A White Male Age 33 was arrested for 415, 459 (Burglary in Progress) and taken into custody by L.A.P.D on May, 13th 2013 in Venice California. The young man does not reveal his identity and is booked under the alias "Christian."
God, that's so L. A. I'll bet the dude who was arrested before him was given the alias "Flavio."
Chris Doe was booked and processed at The Pacific Station in Los Angeles, routine prints, DNA samples were collected from said individual.
I have to admit I'm a bit confused here. Forget the fact this isn't close to a sentence. Why is the phrase "from said individual" there? Because it's been fourteen words since the antecedent noun and dimmer readers might think we're talking about Kermit the Frog by this point? Did anybody suspect that sentence could end with "from Zsa Zsa Gabor!!!"?
A report from Aundergene Forensic DNA laboratories dated June,4 2013. The D.N.A. submitted from the arrest of Chris Doe Male Age 33 May 13th 2013 has specific and positive match 99999.9 to D.N.A. reserved in bank collected samples originating from The Shroud of Turin.
There's really no other explanation for this paragraph other than some police reports are automatically generated by the game of Boggle. In related news, Mike Smith Male Age 27 October 12th 2013 arrested also bank robbery hello 867-5309 fingerprints Robyn.
Now, here's where the plot runs into a fork in the road. The trailer says Chris was released from prison due to overcrowding, but the IndieGoGo summary is markedly more dramatic:
He is held at the West Pacific police station awaiting transport to the downtown courthouse. While being detained he is incarcerated with a Mexican gang known as the Disciples.
The cops always let Mexican gangs share a single cell because ay dios mio, they get lonely otherwise.
As the prisoners are being transported via the 405 freeway in Los Angeles, an accident with a tractor trailer occurs, killing several of the prisoners on the bus.
I pictured SNL's "The Californians" while reading this. They were being transported on the 405? That's important to know, because that kind of thing would never happen on the 101.
I think it's smart the writer decided Jesus wasn't released due to prison overcrowding. Because then all the religious conservatives would be saying, "Damn these lily-livered liberals, letting our Lord and Saviour out of the hoosegow!"
The surviving 13, including Christian, are able to escape in the chaos and confusion. Local and State Authorities as well as Leaders of Religious and the scientific communities despite massive efforts have been unable to locate Chris Doe for questioning.
Really? Leaders of the scientific community couldn't find him? Well, then, they might as well give up. If dudes who stare into test tubes and light bunsen burners can't find a dude, he just will not be found.
Anyway, by now I'm sure you're as hooked as I am. I can't wait for this to be made into a TV series, which is why I nearly donated a dollar to the IndieGoGo beg. I don't need any gifts in return: I just want somebody who understands punctuation to be hired in my name.
So please, be generous. I'm already on the edge of my seat. Will Our Lord ever be found? At least he'll be easy to spot.
All Units be on the Lookout for a White Male Age 33 Surfer Distance From Top of Hair to Bottom of Nose Three and One Half Feet adios Charo 3.1416.
(Via the divine Joe.My.God)
"Mummy," I said, since in my mind I always pictured myself as a British lad, "what's happening to me?"
"Roman," she replied after taking a dainty sip of Earl Grey, "you're going through that stage in life when a child turns into an adult. Hispanic girls turn into spitfires, Italian boys turn into gangsters, and boys with overactive pituitaries turn into gentle giants."
"What do gentle giants do?"
She laughed. "Whatever they want, darling!" She blotted her crimson lips with a lace hankie. "Well, except for one or two things, of course. You can't crush kittens in the palm of your oversized hand. You can't tear the golden arches off a McDonalds if a clerk forgets your fries. You can't sit little girls in your lap and pet their hair while repeating, 'Pretty! Pretty!'"
"That's it?"
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "Well, if you want to cower in fear every time you see fire, that's not going to hurt."
"But aren't those rules that regular people follow? Why is it different for tall people?"
"Darling, regular-sized people want to hurt everybody. They want to smack their dentist if he farts while he's cleaning their teeth. They want to strangle that girl at the post office who flings their fragile package into a big metal bin. Regular-sized people are all, 'Oooh, if I were one foot taller I'd show that bastard a thing or two!' They think tall people must start the day garroting the man who elbowed them on the subway and end it dismembering their neighbor for playing Iron Butterfly at 2 a.m."
"So people will respect me for not doing something?"
"That's exactly right. If you were tiny, they'd call you a coward. But since you're big, they'll think, 'Wow, it's amazing how he's controlling himself!'"
I wasn't crazy about being stereotyped, but it didn't sound like such an awful fate. "Do you want to beat up everybody?"
Mummy laughed. "Me? Heavens, no!" She took another sip from the porcelain cup as her eyebrows rose. "Well, possibly. You know that checkout girl at the supermarket who's never said so much as 'Hello' to me? If I were six inches taller, I might give her a Chinese mustache."
"What if I don't want to be a gentle giant?"
"Darling, the alternative isn't pretty. Remember Jaws, that misshapen, horrific oaf in the James Bond films? Do you want to be like him? He's not a gentle giant. Do you really want to chew up a motor home with your giant metal dentures?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to be the box of rocks who doesn't understand he's fighting for the wrong side until James Bond explains it to him?"
I said no.
"Do you want to get shot into space inside a cramped satellite with a tiny, pigtailed girl?"
I flinched. Mummy shrieked. Just the thought of that fate rubbed me the wrong way, and the late Mr. Meowster would have agreed.
