Monthly Archives: September 2011

The Great Plights of Humanity – Four Issues Untouched During the GOP Debate

Last night the Greedy Old Pricks held their latest debate of the political season. As a passionate young American, hungry for change and a plate of Pad Thai, I was patriotically tuned into this event, eyes peeled, brain ready to be washed.

But I was of course disappointed, not only with what I heard but with what I didn’t. Since the start of this train wreck known as the 2012 Presidential Race, I have been impatiently waiting for a candidate to address the problems that are truly plaguing this great nation. Right now it’s all economy, social security, foreign affairs, immigration. Basically, a bunch of bull s***.

What I’m concerned about are the real issues. The ones that make Joe the Plumber cry himself to sleep each night into his American flag pillowcase. The ones that will make Michelle Bachman say, “Whoa, wait a minute. I’m running for President of the United States? I thought this was for student council!” The hard hitting, pull no punches, “I’ll put my life and lobbyists’ money on the line to make change” issues.

That’s why in the next debate, I will be paying close attention for the candidates to address the following problems. These, ladies and gentlemen of the blogosphere, are what I consider “The Four Great Plights of Humanity.”

1. People using  the word “fudge” in place of f***.

Now some people may disagree with me. They may say “Lena, this is not a plight of humanity. This is humanity’s beautiful attempt to dismiss a word so vulgar in nature it must be referred to, with a Voldemortian sort of cautiousness, as ‘the f-word.’” Well to those people I say, fudge you. Because truth be told, the only time this word is acceptable is when Ralphie says it in “A Christmas Story.” Otherwise, it’s fudging lame.

While we’re at it, I’d also like to throw in “crapola” and “quackalator.” These words are hideous. Some call them cute. I call them treasonous.

2. Girls who get tan-toos of Playboy bunnies.

Well really any kind of tan-too* reeks of skank and may as well be accompanied by clear heels and a portable pole. But there is something especially trashy about the choice of the Playboy bunny. A Playboy bunny tan-too basically says to its audience “I come with high melanin and low self esteem. Call me!” but with substantially
less opportunity for misspellings.

*I may or may not have invented this word. I make no claims.

3. People who hold their noses when they sneeze.

How many times have you been sitting in a public place like a waiting room, courthouse, or God forbid church (J/K, JC!) and saw a tiny, spiny, little woman wearing a lavender cardigan and Keds, sitting by herself reading Good Housekeeping when suddenly you hear a squeak like a chipmunk getting sucked into a vacuum cleaner?

You look around to discover what produced this sound, when you see it. The tiny woman’s tiny eyes are shut, her tiny head is leaning back, and just as she is about to forcefully erupt into a fit of sneezes, her tiny fingers and undoubtedly cold fingertips pinch her tiny nose, causing the sneeze to push back into her nasal passages, resulting in said
squeak.  She pats her nose with a Kleenex and tucks it into her purse before going back to reading about carved pumpkin lanterns.

Meanwhile you sit in your chair, (or pew) awe-struck. When a woman’s giving birth you don’t shove the baby back in. Why treat a sneeze any different? This is just wrong. Dare I say in some irrelevant way, un-American?

4. Child cell phone use

A few months ago I was following an elementary school bus
home from work. I always sort of dread these moments. I’m not really amused by children, especially when they are in a tribe setting like a school bus. I expect savage behavior; spitballs, hair pulling, gun fights, all the standard horsin’ around. So you can imagine my surprise when I pulled up behind the bus at a red light and saw nothing but several children sitting calmly and quietly in their seats. It was beautiful.  How often does one get to see a group of future voters with their spirits already broken? I was impressed.  But upon closer
inspection I realized these children were not quiet as result of having their heads in the sand. They were quiet because they were busy being occupied by their cell phones.

Cell phones.

Elementary school students.

These kids are between the ages of say 5 and 10. Why do they have cell phones? Who are they texting? They can’t even spell yet, should they
really grow up thinking “OMG” is a word or that the proper spelling of great is GR8?  I should hope not.

Academics aside, what about social growth? Time spent on a
school bus is essential. Kids learn the hierarchy of the older vs. the younger kids and all the slang words for penis. ESSENTIAL. With all of these kids too busy writing Barney fan fiction on their iPhones and googling pictures of naked Bratz dolls, they are missing out on these valuable childhood memories. Don’t take these experiences away from our children. Take their cell phones.

Will these issues ever be addressed by the GOP Presidential
hopefuls?  Doubtful. But just in case, keep your eyes and ears open, America. For the deciding factor of the 2012 election will not be the economy or healthcare. But the candidate most willing to put an
end to the madness stated above that is slowly but surely eating away at American culture.

Love,

The girl who Ron Paul aside, would rather die than vote Republican

Taking a Bath With Kim Kardashian and Choking on a Tomato(e)

Last week I had a brief encounter with death.  I was standing at my kitchen counter slicing a recently purchased farmer’s market tomato. The kind that is shaped like the skull of a malnourished orphan and weighs more than an NBA player’s testicles.  I had two slices of 35 calorie bread prepared on a plate that my laziness was choosing to pass as clean. Distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, I carelessly slathered a mound of mayonnaise on a single slice of the slimy red fruit and shoved it into my mouth. My haphazard multitasking of chewing and slicing came to a halt when suddenly…

The sly tomato slipped through the confines of my molars.  Resourceful, as all tomatoes are, it used mayonnaise and my panic as lubrication and took a suicidal plunge down my throat, lodging itself mid-journey.  I couldn’t breathe. Visions of my impending death overtook my mind. My oxygen-deprived body would slide onto the kitchen floor, twitching

for some reason that I don’t think is scientifically possible, perfectly positioning me on my back. My lifeless eyes would stare at the ceiling; my limbs sprawled about in the form of a chalk outline with an unexplainable pool of blood seeping out from under me. Who would find me, my roommate? If she was not making a freezer pop run to the kitchen, it was likely to be days. Who would tell my mom? Would she drive to Tennessee for a funeral or fly my corpse back to Pennsylvania? Would my sister take off work? Would my brother leave his apartment? Would my father clear time in his social calendar? Would it be reported as an accident or a suicide? Would they curl or straighten my casket hair?

Swallow. The tomato easily moved from my throat to my stomach as I continued to stand and slice, distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, when I realized:

I am in the midst of an existentialist crisis. This is why I fear tomato-related death and haven’t written in two weeks.

Not to say I haven’t tried. I have four different blog postings half-written, all too sub par to continue the effort. Instead of using the three free nights I had this week to write as I normally would, I sat in bed watching movies on Netflix, passing out at 10:00 waking up at 1:30, and staying up the rest of the night, tossing and turning while picking kernels of popcorn out of my hair.

Just last night I had intentions of coming home from work and writing until midnight. Those were my intentions. But the reality of my recent behavior involved watching reruns of Sex and the City and falling asleep on the futon with a half eaten bowl of popcorn and a completely eaten box of chocolates to keep me company. I slipped in and out of consciousness for a few hours but finally awoke around 3:30 after having a dream about taking a bath with Kim Kardashian, while meeting with an attorney about making Wen the only hair product available in the United States.

This morning I awoke as the only 23 year old in the world dealing with a morning after headache from eating too much sugar. A friend of mine asked me to join him tailgating at the local college football game this afternoon. It is hardly my scene but I am considering it since it involves free food and liquor.

All of my innocent self destructive behavior and thoughts of death come down to my exhaustion from being in an eternal state of not knowing what I’m doing with my existence. I realize this is a problem that only plagues fat citizens of first world countries and I really deserve to contract Malaria for the pettiness of my concerns, but I simply cannot help it. As I have described in a previous blog entry, I feel like I am 23 going on 90.

Maybe I just need to drink.

Thoughts, criticisms, and general cruelty is encouraged. Thank you.

Love,

The girl who every time misspells tomato, “tomatoe” before cursing and backspacing