Friday, June 24, 2011

Survivor Show




When the concept of this television show was first introduced, I seemed to miss the part about the people getting voted off.    I honestly thought they were going to stick 14 people on an island and fly back six months later to see who was left. 

After all the stupidity, arrogance, preening and showing off on that ridiculous show, I am actually disappointed that my original misunderstanding was wrong.  

How can they call it a Survivor show when these people are surrounded by a camera crew, food and water, medical personnel and the like? 

All they are surviving is a vote.  Big deal.   They get voted off.  Where is the sport in that?  All they are doing is playing to the camera and the audience.   What if someone actually fell down and broke their leg?   In true survivorship, that person would limp for the next four months or expect his/her fellow show members to craft a makeshift cast out of bamboo leaves and tree gum until it heals.  

This show should be like Lord of the Flies.  Exist for the sake of existing, not because Americans have nothing better to do than sit around giving these people the attention they crave but do not deserve.  "Hey, look at me, I can tie a bandanna around my head, sweat a lot, swear at other people and be all big and scary.   I can cut down a tree and overtake a coconut.  I can fish with my bear hands wear sandals on the beach.   And then I can turn and smile at the camera.  Because that is why I am here."

Surviving isn't a popularity contest, who can manipulate who, sit around a camp fire and talk trash about each other, then let’s all raise our hands in proper democratic fashion and vote off the person who pisses us off the most.   

B-O-R-I-N-G

When they fly the people to an island, leave them there without the camera crew, the food and medical personnel, then maybe I’ll start watching. 

Ask our soldiers in Iraq what surviving is about.  They'll tell you.  And they ain't gettin' $1 million for their horrific experiences, you can count on that.  Where our soldiers are, people are fighting for their lives, not a silly vote.   Where our soldiers are, people do die.   This television show in comparison is an insult to them and all they go through overseas.   Makes me sick. 

Friday, June 17, 2011

Tomato – Tam-ah-to


I heard the word HUSKY the other day.   To most people, it will immediately bring an image of the beautiful blue eyed dog that originated in Siberia.   Right?



Not for me.  When I heard the word HUSKY, I immediately flashed back to being an overweight nine year old shopping for school clothes.  




  

Therapist on line 1, Michele, your therapist is on line 1.   


Sunday, June 12, 2011

I'm This Many Years Old

Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday dear me-ee
Happy birthday to me!

If you haven’t guessed by now, today is my birthday!    I have never really been fond of them.   Birthdays are reminders that we are getting older, but on the other hand birthdays are also a reminder that we are getting older. 

You think I’ve already lost my mind in my advanced age?  No, no.  What I mean is that birthdays are a way of reminding us that we are lucky enough to complain that we are getting older because it means we are still alive!  

And just how many years have I got to complain about?   I am proud to say it is my milestone birthday of 480 months!

Yes, I gave it to you in months.  Why?  Because I like to be annoying.   Just like all those new mothers that do the same thing.   They bug the hell out of me.   I am trying to be nice and coo over their child (whom I will likely never see again)  and I politely ask how old is the dear diapered devil.  

I am then rewarded with a math problem as an answer.    “Little Herman is 14 months old.”   So then I am forced to take my shoes off and count to see how many years that is.   14 months, 16 months, 21 months.  

My favorite is 17 and a half months old.    Now I have to whip out my calculator and compute the square root of idiotic divided by the number of times the moon orbits the earth multiplied by how many times I regret asking the “how old is he” question, all the while pretending not to be completely annoyed with one of Dr. Spock’s clan members.

So here I am, the big 4-8-0.   Wish me well, as I wish you well back – without saddling unto you a math problem!

And if you want to send me birthday gifts, I like diamonds, emeralds and Arnie’s Dutch Chocolate Torte!

P.S. – A shout out to my oldest nephew, Spenser.  He just hit the milestone age of 252 months!   You da man!