In fact, they are willing to blow up the entire Chicago metro area just to kill me.

Could it be in retaliation for this news story I posted many years ago? One can only wonder.

It's been awhile since the last Bad Music Thursday, but since Jeanne Martini brought up the Jonas Brothers today on the phone, and today is Thursday, I took it as some sort of sign.

Truthfully, I can't say that I've heard a Jonas Brothers song, or if I did, I didn't recognize it as such. I am aware of their existence because of the near-constant media assault to which I am subjected as an American citizen in 2009, but that's about it. Jeanne Martini tells me they are quite awful, however, and I have no reason to doubt her.

Aren't all "heartthrobs" awful? In my lifetime, I have witnessed things like this and this. And there was Fabian and Frankie Avalon and all that crap before that. So, I would be more surprised if the Jonas Brothers DIDN'T suck.

In fact, Jonas Brothers protest bands have formed. This one is called "The Bogus Brothers," and this is their song cleverly titled "I Hope the Jonas Brothers Die":



That's not very nice.

I am giving up beating the crap out of myself. It may sound selfish and contradictory to promise to treat myself better for Lent, but I am far meaner to myself than I am to any other human being.

For instance, I will eat better. You know how smug, skinny assholes wonder why people are fat? "Don't they know what to eat, or when to stop eating?" they might ask. Here's the answer: A lot of fat people are depressed, and don't care if they live or die. The fatty, sugary food provides a quick hit to the pleasure center of their brains, so it's kinda like any other addiction that helps momentarily trick your brain into being happy, albeit briefly. So, I will eat food that helps reinforce the idea that it is worthwhile for me to be alive, and try to find real happiness instead of monkeying around with my brain chemistry.

For another, I will stop saying things to myself that are so mean, I would kick anyone's ass if I heard them saying them to another person. Dilf put this picture up on his Facebook page:



This is what I thought: "My God, I have the fattest arms in the universe. How do I even fit into sleeves? I don't look like I belong in that picture. I am a fat loser."

Lest you think that all my self-abuse is food or weight-related, I will repeat here the things I say (said. SAID! I will say them no more) to myself on a near-daily basis:

• I am lazy
• Disorganized
• A slob
• Talentless
• Useless
• Ugly
• Unwanted
• Might as well not exist
• Disappointing to myself and others
• Weird
• Annoying
• Socially off-putting
• Unworthy of pleasure
• Dowdy

I don't think these things about other people. I mean, regular people. I say mean things about people in the public eye, which I probably shouldn't, mainly because I see them as characters instead of actual human beings, which isn't right... but when I meet someone, I tend to see their good points first.

Sometimes, like in the case of Cuntzilla McGillicuddy, they disappoint me and I overreact (but that's in the privacy of my own blog. And on the phone with Jeanne Martini).

But I will make an effort over the next 40 days (which is usually enough time to break a habit, or start a new, good one) to stop being such a bitch to myself and realize I have as much right to be on this planet as everyone else.

Has anyone had experience with Best Buy as an average retail consumer within the last 10 years or so? Don't they have pretty tight security... for you? Have a pretty rigid return policy? Check your credit for major purchases and such?

Well, they don't do such a good job managing risk in other areas, it seems.

You mean to tell me this scheme went on for years based on the say-so of one schmuck employee from the Twin Cities? And nobody noticed? Or, if they did, they thought everything was okay because Bobby Paul said it was? What the...

This is the kind of bullshit that enrages me, and hopefully millions of people like me.

Is there anyone with a brain running anything anymore? They can't do math properly, and they want the average joe to pick up the tab?

If one more conservative asshole tries to tell me that rich people need a break because rich people can create jobs, or that rich people deserve their fantastically-overblown salaries because they are "top talent," I may need to fire up a chain saw or something.

And some people have the time to sit around and speculate whether or not Dolly Parton is gay. Dear Dolly Parton: be gay or not be gay, whichever is your preference. Since your gayness or lack thereof is not causing any problems for anyone, live it up, darlin'. I, for one, leave you to your privacy.

But you motherfuckers who have bilked and bilked and amassed and amassed and defrauded and defrauded? Well, I may be verging on violence. I get closer every day.

Because if he wasn't, he'd be saying, "Fine. Fuck y'all. Let the whole system crash, for all I fucking care."

Once again, consumers/ordinary people are being blamed for corporate malfeasance/failure.

"Why should we honest, hard-working citizens pay to bail out people who spent beyond their means?" wail the pursed-lipped, holier-than-thou assholes who still blame the average American citizen for the banks messing up.

I can't get into this right now. I have to go make Elder's lunch. Talk amongst yourselves.

Oh, the humanity.

If you know what I mean. Which you probably don't. But trust me, you'd tell Mrs. McGillicuddy to go screw herself, too.

A few years ago, I heard about a dairy cow-related experiment on NPR. It seems that, just as the California Dairy Board claims in its commercials, scientists theorized that happy cows produce more milk.

To test this theory, they decided to make a cow sad to see how it affected her milk production. Being rejected by the herd and treated as an outcast saddens cows, so they tried to make her unlovable.

They covered her in a sack. They shaved her. They dyed her purple. None of those things mattered to the other cows; they welcomed her back to the herd -- perhaps even giving her extra attention, in sympathy.

Then, they masked her natural cow-y fragrance. They doused her in licorice scent, and achieved their goal. Nobody recognized her or wanted to have anything to do with her. And yes, she started producing less milk. I'm feeling like I might smell like licorice or something. I'm tired of feeling bad when someone says, "Are you going to Lisa's on Friday to play bunco?" and I have to answer, "I didn't get that email."

Now, I'm not saying that I'm some sort of outcast. Some of the moms in my neighborhood love me. But others avoid me. Or ignore me. I understand why; when someone says "I'm going to my high school reunion," for example, some women say things like "How fun!" or "What are you going to wear?"

I say things like, "How do you feel about that? Did you enjoy high school, or was it an awkward time for you? Is there anyone in particular you are curious about? Is your husband looking forward to going?" In other words, other people make small-talk; I turn into some sort of Diane Sawyer-psychotherapist combo. And some people love that. Other people are put off. It doesn't bother me, because I can appreciate both points of view. But I'm not a small-talk person and I don't accept things at face-value. Like anything else in life, there are pros and cons.

My problem is, I need to find my herd. I'm feeling the need to find some social group that loves me, and the neighborhood/PTA isn't the right fit, overall. I was feeling down and depressed until I realized, it's not me; it's not them. It's me and them together.

I wonder if I should join the book discussion group at the library? Or, there's this. Or, I could hold on for a couple of months; Mrs. Kathy is moving to the town next door!

I need to figure this out for the sake of the ÜberGirls. They caught my weirdness, and while I've accepted that Elder is navigating the cruelties of the schoolyard, yesterday I witnessed younger being taunted and chased by the two developing queen bees in her class when she wanted to pretend to be riding horses. Or that she WAS a horse.

"We don't even HAVE horses! You're CRAZY!"

However, the little girl down the street and her best friend, the boy who doesn't play with the other boys and is what you might call "sensitive," said, "You can play horses with us! We LOVE horses!"

"Mine's named Marshmallow!" said the boy.

So there you go.

I still watch Lost every week, even though it's ridiculous sometimes as the writers try to get the story back under control, and they make me wait more than a year for new episodes.

Every week since the series returned with new episodes in January, 2009, I have been subjected to promotional ads for an upcoming new ABC show called "The Unusuals." (Reading the web page for that show just further enraged me.)

Every week, I see the same tired scenes, ending with the same stupid shot of a guy in a hot dog suit asking for his one phone call, to which the (supposedly) clever (and tough. They're always "tough," right?) female police officer replies, "Who you gonna call, the Hamburglar?"

Hoo hoo, with witty banter like that, I can't WAIT to see that show. I think it really appeals to that aged 18-35 demographic that so enjoys comic references to their cultural touchstones. They are really in touch with the youth of today. I hope they mention YouTube, too, to show how hip and current they are.

And the fact the show the SAME SCENE every WEEK tells me that that's the BEST they've got.

In other news, "According to Jim" is still on the air.

I'm tired of hearing about how I need to "love myself" and "take care of myself first" and all those other stupid Deepak Chopra bullshit platitudes. I don't even know what the fuck they're talking about.

Maybe I'm bitter and negative, but I'm the one doing the work while you self-actualizing types are off getting a facial and buying yourself $800 shoes, so fuck you -- I don't care what you think anyways.

However, my stark realism and dogged resignation to do what needs to be done no matter HOW boring, repetitive, degrading and bothersome can lead to depression.

I know. Hard to believe with that kind of attitude, but I can feel overwhelmed and depressed at times.

That's why I've decided to adopt Boots Randolph as the official artist for my life's theme music.



Suddenly, I have the will to unload the dishwasher. Thanks, Boots Randolph!

Dear brainless, clueless assholes who manufacture lingerie,

I hate you.

Do you know why women don't wear bras to bed? Do you, fucking moron? Because they're un-fucking-comfortable, that's why. Not clear on the concept? How about you wrap your testicles in some chicken wire for the night and let me know how it feels.

That's right; I'm assuming you're a man. Because no woman would put underwires in a teddy and expect a woman to sleep in it. Even a woman who's been lulled to sleep by unknown quantities of pink ladies and some physical exercise of an undisclosed variety.

In fact, when said woman wakes up in a fog in the middle of the night, suffering discomfort from your ridiculously poorly-designed garment, that woman is mighty crabby as a result. And then she has to get up and take her thyroid medicine and a tall, cool drink of water. And take off your heinous torture device, fling it in anger across the room, and put on some flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. And curse you profusely while succumbing once more to the sweet, sweet slumber your hideously painful lingerie denied her.

Asshole.

I fucking hate underwires.











It was pretty, though. I'll give you that. That's why I'll let you live, albeit with a healthy dose of leprosy.

Sigh.

I am very busy today.

Please peruse this and torture yourself, please.

Evil Sysm (really, that's redundant) used to sneak up behind B.A. and say, simply, "Shooting at the walls of heartache..." to insert this nearly impossible to reverse earworm into his head at work.

What song is that? Why, this one, of course:



That YouTube video comes with the special added message:

The Lyrics To Scandals 1984 Hit The Warrior
FOR THE FUCKING LAST TIME STOP COMMENTING ABOUT THE FUCKING SPELLING I COPIED THE LYRICS FROM THE FUCKING RECORD AND I DONT HAVE DOWN SYNDROME IM A STRAIGHT A STUDENT YOU ASS HOLES!!!!!!

Today, I torture Tits. And Sysm. And Dr. Monkey. In fact, you can all consider yourselves tortured.



There's so much more to Kirk, though. Have you considered him from every side?

I think this week I am going to torture everyone I know on Blogger, one by one.

Today is Todd's day.



It's precious.

Also, I think that may possibly torture Randal. And many more.

Funny, or serious?

I'll let the readers decide.

Okay, electing someone who advocated change doesn't seem to be working.

Despite what "we the people" voted for, the arrogant bastards "running" this country don't seem inclined to change their selfish, destructive ways.

We need to take matters into our own hands.

Consider this, this and this.

How often do revolutions start from the top?

I still have hope; it's just not put in the same place.

Sorry, Obama, it's not you. It's the entrenched power structure.

note: this picture has nothing to do with what I was going to say, but when I googled "Chicago people," this is one of the choices I was given. So, that's another weird thing about Chicago.

The weird thing about the Chicago area is, despite the fact it's home to roughly 9.5 million people, everyone seems to know everyone around here (just like Sanford!) An example of this odd phenomenon took place last night.

I had driven with the girls into the city to have dinner with Dilf and two of his business associates, and we had to drive back downtown to pick up Dilf's car, which was parked back at his client's building. The client is Sysm, so ... yeah. Everyone knows everyone around here.

I wanted to wait and follow Dilf home, because I didn't have my cell phone on me and I don't trust Dilf's car to make it any distance longer than the end of our driveway. As I was waiting for him, parked at the side of the road, I see Nick and Al Gato walking through the corridors of the office building. It is now past 9 p.m., so this is a bit odd, to say the least.

I'm beeping and yelling, but they don't hear me, as they are inside a building made of thick glass. Luckily they exit somewhat near where I am parked, and hear me shriek "SEAMAN" at the top of my lungs.

To the delight of Nick and Al Gato, they do NOT need to take the 9:30 p.m. milk run train back to Downers Grove, nor do they need to take a cab from said train station because the buses stop running at 7 p.m. or some such bullshit. Instead, through pure coincidence, they happen to run into people they just happen to know, who happen to live right near them and can drive them home.

That is how weird Chicago operates.

For the record, Nick DID offer to run inside to grab my cassoulet dish when I dropped him off.