Monday, January 31, 2011

Mex I Can or Mex I Can't Believe It's Not Butter?

Image courtesy of Google Images

The Mexicans seem to be everywhere lately.

CNN's tweets say the gangs are too quiet, Amanda says they are outside her building pseudo-mariachi style, I say "Hey, maybe that's my cousin," every time the gardeners are outside.

But what I really want to evaluate is the Mexican resume as a whole. What do they, and parts of me, have to offer the world other than services at a cheaper rate due to language barriers?

1. Well, there is the beloved piñata that all the white kids go ape shit for. Don't twist your panties, Bobby, everyone will get a swing. And if not, at least a few treats will fall from the heavens. And by heavens I mean the unicorn carcass. And the entrails will scatter to the earth like dead birds after the fireworks.

2. I am currently drinking apple soda, Sidral Mudet, imported from Mexico.  I know it's authentic because I found a tongue in the bottle.

The store was out of Schweppes ginger ale --And I hate to settle for any other kind of ginger ale because the taste is so obviously inferior--so I stuck to my guns and my  motto: Go big or go Mexican. 

And I bought the apple soda, because it's my favorite and reminds me of my first  experience in the most authentically Mexican place there is: The Puerto Vallarta airport.

3. Mexican Sweet Bread. And really what else can I say about that except that it trumps everything in it's path. Even Donald.

4. The Macarena--I'm not sure it's even Mexican in origin. Especially since the most dance exposure we get is around a hat, but Los del Rio is Spanish so it might as well be the Mexican kind.

Do you remember the simpler times when all we had to do was wave our hands around and touch ourselves like we were just  lonely on a Friday night? I mean giving myself a hug and shaking my hungry hippos a little --yeah that's easy to remember. Now we have all kinds of steps, and choreography, and Shakira shaking her ass like it's not even connected to her body. We live in complicated times.

5. Mariachi bands- Sorry Amanda, you're getting gypped. An authentic, full mariachi band might be one of the most wonderful, bad ass musical genres ever created! Who doesn't love jolly, mofos, clad in bedazzled sombreros and Mexi-Elvis outfits? Although, they can get annoying after awhile. Especially after the tequila's gone.

6. Tequila- So long as you can drink it without your body breaking out into hives because it's incapable of digesting the alcohol like ten percent of Asians.

7. Margaritas- with the help of number 6 of course.

8. Indentured servants! My first housekeeper's name was Maria. My parents fired her after we realized she was stealing my beanie babies. That's why they say never work for family.

9. Chubby Mexican boys--Like Rico Rodriguez from "Modern Family". I too hope to have my own Manny one day. There's just something about a little pudgy Mexican boy that makes you want to squeeze him until his sides bulge out a little, like Gak. So precious.

10. The caliente women. Enough said.

11. Huevos Rancheros- It's Mexican brunch food gone right!

12. Yes Mexican food is always a good time --just not right before sex-- but more specifically, I'd like to pay tribute to the overused but not abused Avacado.

You, Avacado, have given us something to look forward to everyday. Whether in our omelettes or sandwhiches, or preprared in a Mexican dish, you are there for us. You are the main ingredient of guacamole! Thank you for being born in the hands of some wetback that is undoubtedly, one of my cousins cousins. Amen.

Or A Hombres, rather. jajajajaja

It didn't make the list but it definately deserves an honorable Mention:

Lalalalabamba. Oh Ritchie Valens. You were the Meximan. And you are greatly missed.

Well, the list has come to an end. That was a more exhaustive resume than I expected. I know there are other good things about Mexicans that if I squint and squeeze really hard, I will eventually remember. But until then, I'm signing off to go eat some Italian food.

Adios, amigos y Hank!  Hasta Luego...

Over and out: kksshhhhh.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Super Hero or Super Nero?

My boyfriend has been known for a few things:

1. Stability, sanity, saline solution.

2.Good taste in women. wine.

3. And above all else, the "watch dog" factor akin to an eager-bieber journalist.

Let's focus --or foci, if you're into calculus, Hank --on # 3 for a second. That's right, folks.
Said B-as-in-boy-friend keeps his ear to the ground and acts as a passive-aggressive caped vigilante.

Does he Jackie Chan killers that kidnapped the ambassador's daughter for ransom? No.

Does he try to club convenience store heist-ers after a stick-up like Kick-Ass or does he say, "Snootchie bootchies," like Bluntman and Chronic? No.

Does he drive a sweet black bat-mobile with more na na na's than batman and more gadgets than Inspector gadget himself? No die (Yes, singular. I lost the other one during Yatzee last night).


Does he sit around on his recliner and call the police the one time there's two high school girls screaming outside his house -- in his safe burbs neighborhood-- when he can't hear the t.v.? YES.

Does he call the police when a car swerves a little into our lane and then back out?  Boy George,Yes!

Does he blow his rape whistle when his girlfriend allegedly steals the covers?  God, my ears are still ringing. Sorry, what did you say?

Look some people walk with swagga, some people wear swag ,some people drive with swagger ( although, in some places it's still called "road head"). Instead of a shoulder-down limp, there's a cross-over lane dip. Since when was line dancing illegal?

What should be illegal is the cologne, Stetson, that all the fat cowboys wear. And those nasty SPURS that all the lesbian cowboys wear (Illigal-ize that, prop 8!) or..wait...
It hurts like a mother when I get the spur-side kick on my  right cankle during the cow boy boogie. And I'm not sure who is worse to bend over in front of at the water hole.

Back to the future:

Pay attention and write this down, Hank (My taxes can wait):

I say Dateline should give him [boyfriend] a show. Bring back Scruff McGruff and that host of "To Catch a Predator" and put them in a hamster ball and see what you get. That's a show about vigilante, law-fighting, tight wearing, mustachioed-watch-doggy -style, but not quite beastiality, good o'l crime stopin' lovin'.And all from your recliner. 

Am I right? So quitcha' worryin', plop back on the couch, and read your Tom Clancy romance novels. People need to learn their own(s) lessons and get caught doing something Jewish annoying on their own time.

Honestly, are you a super hero or a super Nero? Just to be safe, I'm going to hide the candle sticks and matches from you. Don't get any ideas.

Over and Out: Kkssshhhhhh.

1. Images courtesy of google Images. 2. I had the full consent of said b-friend to make such remarks, jokes, and racial slurpies about him. Its all in good, clean jest, Hank. And I'm sorry I yelled at you when you were doing my taxes. Keep crunching  those numbers like it's braille pornography. But stop sorting through my mail. and laundry. thanks.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar the Grouch, Mayer Weiner, and the Gay One from The Office

Gay one

This is my sardonic life:

1. If I were Greek, I would undeniably call my mother ,"YA YA,"  to perhaps explain why she is galavanting around in fuzzy socks and a back brace, sans pants. And by galavanting I mean hunched over and trotting like a neighing midget banshee.

And again, SANS PANTS.

2. I bought an awesome ninja turtle t-shirt yesterday. From the men's department. It fits like a glass penis. I mean slipper. 

And again, it's from the men's department.

3. I now understand how soul-sucking it is to write a profile article a month and a half after I interviewed the person. It might as well be a feature piece about the mating habits of South American leeches. It's actually about dancing tampons.  

And I'm getting a sick urge --like when i wanted to push that girl, in my Theology lecture, down the stairs (She had one of those faces. And the seat had wheels) --I want to subliminally hide "Bump and Grind" into every sentence of the article.

And again,  "leeches".

4. This list sucks like tampons, and leeches, and men that talk about "art" like they want to impregnate it in their moms' station wagons. Or just men with back hair. 

 And again, Jeepers Creepers, Mom,  put on some pants!

In her defense, she does look cute
like bunnies
when they eat their babies.

Or wait, that's spiders and beta fish. Nevermind...

And again,
this is my life.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

New Jersey's Official State Shower Song for the Month of Jebruary:



That song is a classic my friends. And by friends I mean my stalker Hank who ,unabashedly ,is the only person that reads this blog. Oh, and thank you for the birthday flower last week! Even though it was missing all of it's petals and the green stem looked like a crusty popsickle-cell stick (nananananana metapun!), it really was the loveliest little weedlet anyone has ever plucked for me. And I could tell you switched to organic fertilizer this year. Hoo-haa! Yeah...

Okay, so maybe the Garden State doesn't have an official shower song but what they lack in creativity they make up for in sperm count. How else do you think it came (wapppishh..see what I did there?) to be the most densely populated state in the nation? From all of the grenade bangs of the "Jersey Shore" cast? Well, actually...

I need to stop procrastinating from writing this article that is rapidly approaching deadline. And by rapidly approaching i mean two weeks late from the time it was already two weeks late(Which is a month in total, Hank. No need to whip out your pocket calculators. Yes, plural.). What is there to write about ballerinas anyway?  I mean, they're graceful, and disciplined, and their toes look like they bump uglies with fungus on a regular basis. Not to mention the frontal wedge. I should just tell people to go see Black Swan and then sign up for  6 to 10 months of  shock therapy.
I think that would about cover it, twinkle twat. i mean toes. Twinkle Toes.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Oh Those Fortune Cookie Mondays...

Photo by michelle j.

Sing that to someone you love tonight
until you pass out

Or until the other passes out

and you drift asleep
wondering how you ever slept
without the sound of their
chest heaving
and the way it feels pressed against your back.

wondering about the world
they’ve just created in their head.

and then they fart

--rapid fire--

akin to the destruction of a fission weapon
made during The Manhattan Project.

and that soliloquy disapears.

Since there is no gender neutral pronoun other than "it", i have substituted "their" and "they"  for male and female pronouns despite it's gramatically incorrect nature.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Oh, Hey, I Wouldn't Go In There For 30-45 Minutes! I Tawt I Tweeted A Putty Cat.


I tweeted  3 times today, all you tech savvy Don Juans! HA! Mama's got big potatoes now!

I realize those sound like lines from a Spanglish romance novel (Which is the equivalent of  porn for most Women over 40).  But I'll never say which one.

Gone with the Potatoes 2: The Ballad of Don Juan's Sack.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Lo Mein Kamph

This is in no way related to the Chinese cook book, Lo Mein Kamph, that I will undoubtedly write after too many [Japanese] sake bombs with my new friends Moshe-Moshe and Hiroshi-San at their son’s Karaoke bar mitzvah.

What's with this Huff-and- I'll- Puff- and- I'll- blow You Your- House -Down mantra?

I want to buy all those raspy, spit-ballin’
spoken word poets an inhaler
so they can breathe while they’re on stage.

Maybe it’s just their art, their expression, their shtick,

but I have bodily gasses that enunciate better.
And what good is a sermon if I can’t hear the words
through the struggling gasps for air
innocuously trapped in the vacuum of their throats?

I want to punch them in their respective jugulars
so they can understand release
like the dove in Noah’s Ark.

Your words are in bondage, friends.
Speak like you are in the cells of Birmingham:

Eloquent in diction,
raw in honesty.

Be clear and concise in your convictions.

Even Jesus didn’t try to rap out the Sermon on the Mount
like he was having a panic attack during a drive by shooting.

Yet he drew crowds by the thousands.

Even Lincoln didn’t cough out the Gettysburg address like Emphysema.

Yet it’s remembered as one of the greatest speeches
in American history.

In fact, the only famous speaker that howled out his will,
akin to a Helen Keller tantrum,
and still maintained an expansive cult following,
was Hitler.

And no one could understand that asshole. Or his book.

Mein Kamph is really Your Kamph.
So leave your nefarious, sports induced Asthma on the court
or in your parents' bedroom.

But not on a stage that has a mic.

We don’t have the time, pay grade,
or inherent fear to be your fascist followers.

Or your Annie Sullivan.

And this is only one of many. Make sure you start this video at 4:49.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Stairway to Almost Heaven. Anyone Know Why There's a Homeless Guy on Step 82? Nevermind, It's Just a Kennedy.

It's back today! My favorite Coffee: The beloved Casi Cielo Guatemalan coffee from Starbucks. Casi Cielo is a seasonal blend created by Starbucks and some of the chefs of the famous restaurant, Canlis. C.C. was originally made for some of the most exclusive, fine-dinning restaurants in Seattle. It wasn't until a couple years ago that it was finally featured and sold at most Starbucks stores.

And if you're anything like me, every January-February, I store bags of Casi like little acorns in my face to get me through the spring months.

The only problem is, even though the bags are not open, coffee is at it's prime 3-5 days after it's been roasted. Furthermore, after two-weeks the flavor wanes exponentially. And not to rag on Starbucks, because I love it like it's my own adopted Asian child, but their coffee usually doesn't arrive into one of their distributors until two weeks after roasting. Yikes!

So the best thing for everyone is to just buy a bag a week-- which is the consumption of coffee for any normal human -- just enjoy it while it's out for these two months.

And binge.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Oh Those Fortune Cookie Mondays...

Photo by michelle j.
Sometimes people ask me how I manage to grasp sanity in the midst of what seems like chaos theory. Or how can I at least fake it like a good orgasm. The truth is that if I seem okay, chances are I am feigning sanity through some medium of humor or another distraction.

However, there is one simple truth that makes holding, groping, or just cupping said sanity in the ark of my hands possible. The one thing that can bounce me –with quarter on quilt recoil –back out of the trenches of depression is this: There is always someone in the world with the unfortunate, ill-fated life far worse than I will probably ever know. Someone out there is suffering in a way I can’t imagine. Just look at the Mexican gang wars right now-- people are being shot up, tortured, sexually assulted, castrated, their tongues cut out and on display in the town square-- if I could even slightly understand what that's like, I would be haunted for the rest of my coherent, above the influence days.  Even more so than I may think I already am. And in some morbidly altruistic way, that makes me feel better.

So quit’cha bitchin’, folks. Some people aren’t even eating beans for dinner.

And we think we have problems. 

Friday, January 7, 2011

Corn-on-the-Cob: A michelle j. Original

This, ladies and the hunchy-modo gentle man in the back row, is a sheer phenomenon of the human race. It's probably my favorite al naturale, quasi-avant-garde magic trick that I can whip out of my sphincter sleeve. And it would never have even been possible had Squanto not shown the pilgrims how to squat the land a million-rectalian years ago. So pull up a stool and take notice of this art.

Anyone who doesn't know what my etch-a-sketch diagram is referring to is a prairie-doggin' liar. Cuz this shit is legit. And you know you took a magnifying glass for a closer, God-like view of your creation at one point in your life. Only if this majesty took seven days for you to create, you might want to see a doctor about that...

Shoeflies! And Stop Laying Your Eggs in My Caviar!

Photo courtesy of

Helvetica is my favorite font! Let that be known. Let your beady little eyes feast upon the bounty that is the greatest sans serif ( meaning without "wings" or "feet") font created by the Swedish. Or maybe it's the Swiss? We'll just say it was the Swish, and agree to disagree.

Swiss trademarks: the Holy Swiss cheese, the  Swiss pocket knife, Swiss chocolate, and the lovely little Swiss-made Movado watches (but who wears those?)

Swedish trademarks:

Okay, so maybe all the Swedish have are the fish. So what?

Are we going to leave them to kick the dusty curb? To curdle like little cow terds in old-i-forgot-to-check-the-date- milk? Hells Kitchen, no!

Friends, Swedish Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears! I come to bury Caesar.(Wait, that last bit doesn't apply)

And heed my battle cry:

"We will not forget the Swedish children who broke backs that-that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and propper that we should do this. But in a larger Swedey-sense, we can not dedicate, we can not concecrate Swedish orange juice, we can not hallow this Swede..i mean..ground! the brave men, living Swedely and Swedely dead, who struggled here, have concecrated it far above our power to add or detract acidity levels. The world will little note, nor long remember what we Swede here, but they can never forget what they Swedies did here. It is for us the living Swedeheads rather to be dedicated here to the unswedished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be Swede here dedicated to the great Swede-task remaining Swedly before us. That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave their last full-Swede measure of devotion, that we here highly resolve that these dead mothersweders shall not have died in Swedey vain. that this nation under God-Swede shall have a new Swedish afterbirth of freedom. and that the government of the people, by the people and for the mothersweding people, shall not perish Swedily from the Swedish earth!"

Okay, so maybe that was just the ending of The Gettysburg Address, add or detract a few "Swede" references . And an "afterbirth". But I don't think Abe would think this was honest otherwise: Hiding the Swedish children from the world and stuffing them in some attic where they write in a diary everyday and eat their fingers feelings. That's Ludacris! (no literally, I saw him in a Lifetime Special) Or maybe it was Hansel and Gretel (the jewish version)?

My proposal: World peace? End global warming?Better contraceptive/ population control for hyper-conservative Fox News employees? Well, technically yes. But until then, I propose to lump the famed Swiss and the lamed Swedish into a new nation of peoples. Call it the Swish. Call it the CLAP. Just don't call boarder control. 

Just give them a chance, peoples. Give them a flag and fly them to the moon.Give them an std. Because that's democracy, minus the cow boy hats.

But really that's all this blog is, an escapist's haven: A couple of ha ha's and a lego-tower with a quasi-Grendel waiting to flash you--ahem--two latterns are better than one lattern. Or I suppose it would be called a unilantern.either way, the British are coming

like Jesus.

So get ready. Cast down your nets of Lincoln Logs. And follow me, you little monkey butts--or i'll go Abe shit--and I will make you fishers of poop,clad in a top hat and awkward beard, next time the toilet clogs. Amen?

**Disclosure: we are in no way slandering the aformentioned Shoefly pies. Nor do we consider them a threat, nor do we condone consumption, nor do we condemn constipation.

This has been an endorsement of poo pies dot com after prom