Patriot Rot

Guys, look what I just read: Fourth of July Parades make you grow up Republican!

Am I the only one who suddenly feels like America has every right to waterboard the shit out of people?

And here's a shocker: Now I never want to even let my hypothetical kids anywhere near a parade lest they grow up all Gingrich-y. 

Sorry, Newt, but I'm pretty sure even your mom kind of hates your face.

I mean, I actually love the United States a lot. When I am not in the country, I am constantly reminded how great it is that I was born here, how wonderful it is to have the rights I have, and how awesome it is that I get to write a blog where I get to tell conservative assclowns to check before they wreck. (I usually only have these feelings while I am abroad, because I spend most of my time in the country thinking about how I have no rights because I'm a lesbian, and nobody reads my blog). Clearly, however, I don't think that appreciating my nation of origin requires me to regard the Constitution as anything but a living document, or vote the straight Republican ticket. So how come parades make you grow up Republican? Is it all parades? Or do different Parades result in different outcomes? If, for example, you go to the Thanksgiving Day Parade will you grow up to have a balloon fetish?

Can all this be explained by a close encounter with the giant Snoopy balloon?

I have never been to a parade (if you exclude parades that involve drag queens, and girls with faux-hawks and lip piercings). And now I am wondering if I had gone to a Fourth of July Parade, would my entire life be different? Would I own a bunch of sweater-sets and enjoy the company of small dogs that fit into my purse? Would I tell people that global warming is a liberal ghost-story, and would I listen to Bill O'Reilly more intently than I listen to my pastor? (In this scenario, I also go to church, apparently). 

I don't know, friends. I just don't know. But I'm glad I don't have to find out.

xoxo

zuzu

Song of the Week

This week's song of the week was recommended by a good friend, and, boy, do I love this guy. Well...back to twiddling my thumbs.







xoxo
zuzu

Song of the Week

So lately Hall and Oates has made a subtle reentry into my life. Every time I hear them I have distinct memories or sitting in the backseat of my mom's mazda compact and singing that someone's kiss was on my list...and not knowing what that meant.

A few months ago I realized that one of the bands that I like (The Bird and The Bee) had made an entire tribute album to the magical musical stylings of Hall and Oates. I downloaded the whole thing, and I love it so much. But for me the best tribute song is "Rich Girl." So that is my song of the week.

xoxo
zuzu

Facebook Ads Strike Back: Return of the Weird Pictures

So, I must confess I have a Facebook. This is trufax. I went on a very high horse for a while and deleted my account, but I started to chafe riding on that high horse, so I came back down to the land of cretins and started up again. I like to think that my Facebook usage is totally healthy. It's a super private account and I am only friends with people I interact with. However, I often go through my Facebook friends every month or so and delete all the people I no longer consort with. It's a political move, I know, and I'm sure I seem like a total douchebag, but fact is: If I don't see you in real life or talk to you on a fairly regular basis, it just makes me feel like a stalker to view your status updates talking about you laying a deuce or WHATEVER it is that people use the status update for. Thus, you are eliminated.

But, enough about my personal, tumultuous relationship with Facebook. I know that the topic of how well the ads on Facebook know you has probably already been discussed. But, I often find that the photos that accompany said ads are quite absurd. Check out this one I delightfully stumbled upon the other day:

Here's the thing: I actually seriously do want to go to graduate school for English and for cereals want a grant to do so. HOWEVER, I find this advertisement mildly offensive if it is insinuating that all English major-y type women look like pixelated sorority bums. I will have you know that I am only slightly pixelated and look like a poor, wannabe hipster. Basically, get your facts straight Facebook. Yes, I do want to go to grad school for English (and the fact that you know this is disturbing), however, I do not want to do so at the expense of my personal, physical identity. I won't go full pixel for a grant. I WON'T.

Free Credit Report Your Mom

I know that I haven't written on here in a while, and I am really sorry about that. I guess I just felt uninspired. My temp job ended, my part time job is done for a few weeks, and I haven't even been reading any good books lately. I've just been sitting around in my underwear with a fan pointed directly at me thinking about the world and shit. Nothing that I felt like people would really care to hear about.

Although I did kick some ass at the first annual beer olympics.

Anyway, all this sitting around thinking about how I can justify my existence to the universe as something more than merely a tap on resources since I am apparently unable to participate in the workforce was interrupted yesterday by one of those janky freecreditreport.com commercials. I have blocked most of the commercial out of my brain, but it seemed to involve a golf caddy asking a man "at the top" for advice. And this man at the apex of the wealth food chain replies with a series of helpful word association phrases so that the poor little golf caddy will someday become a successful privileged douchenozzle who is able to hang with the best of them.

And once he has made it to the top, he will presumably play music
from his golf bag stereo, and pretend his arm is broken when he is losing.
I have no idea what rich white men do, but I am pretty sure Caddyshack is fairly accurate.

Here's what irks me about the commercial: Everything. From the fact that they have been making these crap ads for as long as my addled brain can remember, to the fact that the song is essentially a bizarro version of Dispatch's The General. I just hate it.

Almost as much as I hate that this twit is a cultural phenomenon

It's moments like this I wish I had little more power. Not like a lot of power. I don't want to change the course of world events or anything. Just enough power to call someone up and say "no more of this, please." In this case, I would make that phone call, and ask that that whoever created these commercials be "required" to watch them over and over for 24 hours, and then given the choice about whether they should continue being made.

Hopefully he will see things my way.

Anyway, I will try to post more regularly. Sorry that my first post back in a few weeks was a tangent about a commercial.

xoxo
zuzu

The Highlights

I tried to amass a list of great mom interactions I had while in Croatia and staying with her in upstate New York for a few days. Somehow, they have all escaped me.

Save for one -- during dinner I chuckled when a certain song by Ace of Base came on. My mother inquired about the song and I began to explain it to her, and realized about half-way through that my comprehension was significantly checked by my age when the song came out, and I had yet to update it. This conversation culminated in my mother yelling, "WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO GIVE BIRTH TO ANOTHER BABY??"

Rabbits in France

Since being in Paris, there is a sign on the metro doors that always fascinates me when I see it:

As the image illustrates, there is a rabbit, wearing what can only be described as a nice set of yellow pajamas, without shoes, and getting its hands (paws?) caught in the door. Now, the purpose of this illustration is to alert passengers of the dangers of putting your hand in the door when the door is closing.

However, I find that the message and image don't totally coalesce. Honestly, I'm more concerned with the fact that there is a rabbit on the metro in the first place. Second of all, who gave this rabbit clothes and taught it how to walk? It looks like some sort of escape victim, as it was obviously in too much of a hurry to put on shoes, but somehow managed to have enough time to wear a matching outfit. It looks all discombobulated. I mean, getting its hand stuck in the doors of the metro is really the least of its problems.