I'll admit it, I'm an elitist.

I've had just about enough of reading people who I know for a FACT have never had a complex thought in their life talking about doing their drugs.
Girls who post pictures on Myspace of themselves looking about two seconds from getting it on, lips thickly penciled and poised for the first toke off of a nasty, brown stained, ten dollar pipe filled with low grade marijuana that they call by some god-awful nickname like "my sweet girl" or "salvation". Not to mention any sort of jabber about blunts. Let me tell you what I imagine you saying when you tell me you smoked the most fatty blunt in your life last night.
Last night, I was at home while my mom was at work, so I went out with some people because I have no idea how to entertain myself and then we met this weird homeless man who wanted to pee in our mouths but instead gave us some pot. So then we took it to the park where we found the old Burger King bag, so we fucking ripped that shit up and then put the pot inside and rolled it like a thousand times. Then we smoked it, and we were like fucking...What are those guys? The brown ones? Ya man, we were like fucking Indians with like greeting pipes or whatever.
You are not M.C. Escher, who could have used drugs and totally gotten away with it, but was already too cool for that.
("I don't use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough." -Escher)
You are not The Beatles, nor are you Radiohead, you are not an adolescent politician going through a rebellious phase, nor are you a Rastafarian.
You are a low life, with an ash tray on your kitchen table, a house that's falling apart, and an eighth grade education.
Forget blowing your smoke, you can just go ahead and blow me.

Endless, Profound, Startling, Horrifying Dumbness

It never ceases to amaze me how idiotic people are about everyday issues, particularly the news.
Case in point: Today, as I was running an errand for LawFirm, I spoke to the lady assisting me about the recent booking of two suspects for the serial murders that have been taking place around the city for about a year now. As we went on, I mentioned to her that our other murderer/rapist has yet to be aprehended. I made a comment about how silly his police sketch is, and she responded with, "Yeah, have they released the photos yet, I want to see if they're even close", referring back to the two murderers who were caught. These are clearly seperate people, and she mentioned that she had seen the news that morning, which lead me to believe she may have seen one or two of the other 5000 broadcasts detailing the seperate cases and releasing only one picture, each time clearly only to be associated with the Baseline murderer. Pure Genius.
Yet another one for the Gipper: yesterday, while watching E!'s (recently named "Gayest network ever" by A&E, I believe) show, called "Work Out", or something like it, the show's central character/owner of the gym the show is about took a trip to a fertility clinic accompanied by her mother. The gym owner is a slightly butch lesbian with a long-term girlfriend, while her mother is a portly Mormon from Dayton, Ohio. As they proceeded with the conversation about the possibility of freezing Jackie's (gym owner)eggs for later use, the mother stopped everything to ask "Well, what do they do with the frozen embryos?" The doctor sort of sat back and looked at her perplexedly, and then said "What embryos?". He then had to explain to her that all they do is harvest and freeze the eggs, which are LATER enseminated and implanted into the uterus of choice. This was astounding to the mother, who then said that she was happy that at least all the fetuses would have a chance.
Finally, I will end my rant with a quick retelling of an incident that occured with a girl I was tutoring in English. As she was writing a comparison paper about Italy and the United States (riveting already!) she chose only to describe each countries' high and low points, geographically speaking, and the number of people subscribing to a variety of religions. Because I nearly fell asleep after reading the first line, (thankfully, the terrible grammar kept me up) I suggested she talk about something else, perhaps using a comparison of two major, culturally representative cities from each country. My examples were New York, and Rome, which I thought would be easy for her, since they are both enormous enough to have at least worked their way into popular media enough to be a part of her memory arsenal. However, I was then hit with an astonishing question, which I, personally, think probably sums up everything I hate about Americans: "Wait, I thought Rome was a seperate country?"

How to seduce an old man.

This is the title of my future book. The entire content will be "Don't be his wife", because in my experience, that's pretty much all it takes. A nice strut, boobs, and great legs don't hurt.
Also, if you can go for someone who is not allowed, or just really really shouldn't (read: a professor, a married man, a guy who has kids, someone who works for your father, or someone who is more than one of these), then your chances automatically skyrocket.
So far I feel fairly certain that I have seduced two men.
In one case I spent an entire year on the receiving end of lectures, personal question meetings, advisor e-mails, and red letter grades. Over the course of the entire year I could feel his resistance to my I'm-stripping-you-with-my-eyes gaze breaking down. The addition of a few unnecessary office pop-ins, and a post card from a popular Spring Break destination broke his spirit entirely. So much so, that on the occasion of our last meeting I was granted quite a surprise as I sauntered into his tiny corner office, wondering as-per-usual if the door would be soundproof if locked and stuffed under with towels. As I gave him a once over, and began visually scrolling south, I noticed something shiny resting on his desk. I immediately recognized it as the gold wedding ring I'd despised all year. Why wasn't it on, I wondered to myself, as I looked up and met his eyes. For a second he seemed to be telling me something, but then he averted, so naturally I followed, only to find myself starting back at the ring, and then once again caught in a gaze with him.
Unfortunatly my white Protestant ancestry chose that exact moment to catch up with me, and the impropriety of the moment, as the potential sadness of his wife dawned on me. So a years worth of work had to be abandoned in hopes of one day receiving reward for my act of Christian love and female solidarity.
However, it seems I've found a new victim, a more dangerous one on top of it.
I've been exchanging glances with a lawyer at my father's firm, where I work. I make sure to walk by his glass walled office each time I have a job downstairs. It's best on days where I wear my short shorts, and I know he's forced to think, "Wow, after punching out three kids, my wife's ass looks nowhere near as good as that one." Usually I look at him while thinking "You want to fuck me" over and over in my head, just for good measure, and in case he's a mind reader.
Usually we wave, or smile, but today I only had one free finger, so I waved with that. In response I got a goofy and unnecessarily large toothy grin. Most likely he was mimicking the way I always joke with everyone, in an attempt to make me see that he can be young and hip too, even though he's only in his early forties, if even.
I think the next phase is going to be dropping things, which may then lead into stopping into his office, hot and flustered, with several key buttons missing from their holes.
Either way, I'm pretty sure I've got this one too, and feel fairly confident in saying that if I want to, I could probably map the back seat of his BMW by the end of the summer.

How to Piss on Your Own Foot

Its seemingly simple enough- if you're a flaming liberal, homosexual enthousiast, card-carrying tiny Liberal Arts school attending, "politics ARE my religion" abortion lover, then you should probably steer clear of parousing the local churches for love.
Perhaps "looking for love in all the wrong places" was invented for just such a situation.
My situation.
It's a living, breathing joke without a punchline: "What do you get when you mix a crazed Democrat and a Jehovah's Witness?"
I would like to know, because so far the only punchline has been angry families and strife.

So there's the problem.
Here's the solution:

NoKo shows us the way again by demonstrating the simplicity and overall ease that comes with a political leader who is ALSO GOD. What could be better, and how could you ever hope to have any more faith in a leader than if they were your one and only God. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm the abortion lover here, so I'm not suggesting we diefy Bushykins, but if Oprah, Hilary, or John Stewart make it on the ballad in '08...well...
I'm just saying: Think About It.

Letters You Can't Send

Now if someone could answer me this, I would gladly give all the tea in China (especially since it isn't mine).
What are ex-boyfriends for, if not to crawl back to every few months with a sobby phone call, annoyingly mushy poem or letter, or a drunken hook-up request?
I've been contemplating writing a whole book of letters I'd like to send to the ex's. I may just start calling them my troup, because by now I've plowed through so many, they could probably form their own army to rise up against my tyranniacl rule.
The letters wouldn't even be disgustingly sweet, that's what drunken texts are for, they'd just be supplementing the contact I can't make.
How is it possible to fit someone into your life, sort of like you expand your puzzle to make room for them, only to have them leave.
It's never whole again without them after you've made a place.

There should be a space filling aparatus. Maybe bat blood or something equally hard core. Then, in the letters, you could say, "I got over you today, and in your place I've filled my heart with the blood of a thousand bats". That's some terrifying shit.
Maybe you could also fill it with some sort of Vietcong-style booby trap, a small rope loop to catch the foot of any hopeful occupant.

On that line of thought, why hasn't the vaginal bear-trap been invented yet? Forget rape training, women just need to be able to shut up their southern border in the same way as a bear trap works. It should have retractable jagged iron teeth, and be spring loaded.
That way, if a rapist comes up, you could just let it happen.
For example:
John the rapist: Hey, come here, let's do it.
Vianne the victim: I'd rather not.
John the rapist: Rather not!? Fuck you bitch...
Vianne the victim: Oh...you are going to WISH you hadn't done that.
*struggle...insertion attempt...*
*Pop...Spring...Snap!*
John the rapist: Oh my God, what have you done!? What ARE YOU!?
Vianne the victim: Sir, I am an independent women (throw your hands up at me), and you and I are goin' down town. Prepare to be dragged by your penis and then locked up for life. Nice try!

Sometimes it just sneaks up on you.

Everyone does it. You're in a room with a couple of really close friends. The sort you show your partially chewed food to, and tell how badly you have to pee. The term "racehorse" may even be used to describe said pee issue. You're sitting with them, and it's as if you're all alone. You know them like the back of your hand, they know you.
Suddenly, you feel one coming. No problem, you're alone, right?
Blam.
Le fart. Out it comes, hopefully small and unnoticed.
It snaps you back into reality, oh God, you're not alone. You're in a room, with two people, they aren't your family, they're just some friends. You've only known them for three months. What have you done?
You look up, as you feel your heart slamming against your rib cage, and a needly sweat start to break out. Did they notice? No, they must not have, they're still watching TV. But what if they noticed, and aren't saying anything. What if only one noticed and is going to tell everyone else later. There will be no good laughs at my expense.
If they say anything...I'll tell them it was my hand pushing against the wood-no, they're never believe that. Dogs? No, then I'm the girl with gassy dogs. Maybe I could tell them I'm sick.
Maybe they didn't notice, no, I'm sure they didn't. It was quiet. Maybe it didn't even happen.
No, it definitely didn't happen.
I don't even know how to fart.

If only we all had glider wings.

After a recent trip to the Grand Canyon, and spying a fantastical cave accessable only to unappreciative birds and spiders, I've found myself desperatly longing to picket for the addition of a radical new cosmetic surgery: Glider Wing Attachment. It may not be Dr. 90210 pretty, but I think it would be a very popular procedure.
I can just imagine flocks of mutant supergirrrrrlz flying through the air, crocheting the O-Zone back together, carrying airplanes with their super biceps, and freeing themselves from the confines of the hump-and-walk "myboyfriendlovesme" stance.
Maybe we could even make our own buttons, or elitist panties.
Who knows?
Who cares?
As long as I can spread my arms and catch the wind in my sweet, fuzzy skin flaps and soar my way into dangerous cliff caves, I'm a happy Sugarmutant.