So there's this Meme Game for bloggers where you're supposed to post 6 things nobody knows about you then tag six other suckers to do the same on their blogs. My editor, the Head Nerd, tagged me, so here are my answers and the unlucky people I'm tagging next.
1. My favorite kind of sandwich is ham, cheese, and jelly.
2. I eat Cheez Whiz straight from the can.
3. I like to watch my husband sleep.
4. I vote religiously for my favorite American Idol contestant.
5. My husband bought me my first dress.
6. I used to be afraid of the dark.
The next six:
Jeana Royal -- TRUE BLUE THOUGHTS Jess Cassady -- REALLY BAD HAIR DAY Francie Ford -- BRAINS ENOUGH FOR TWO Caleb Stanton -- MY BROTHER'S THE LUCKIEST MAN ALIVE Allison DuBose -- SO I MARRIED A LUNATIC Noah Hamilton -- CATS KNOW BEST
I hate television news reporters. Oh, not the national ones like Katie Couric or Brian Williams. I hate the ones on local affiliates whose newscasts go by names like “ActionNews 5” or “NewsCenter 2.” The ones who couldn’t make it as actors or models and ended up trying to look good while they act like they know what they’re talking about. You know the ones I mean, the plastic-faced, hairspray-drenched sensationalists laughing at their co-anchor’s lame jokes about when Jim the weatherman is going to give us a break from all this rain—hardy, har, har, har!
I hate the way they bob their heads for emphasis on their favorite buzzwords like “gruesome” or “shocking” and the way they can go from looking so concerned over the little local girl who needs a kidney donation to a goofy grin as they effortlessly segue into the next story about the Chili Cook-Off going on down at the fairgrounds this weekend.
And since I live in the South,(yee-haw!) every time the temperature rises above 95 degrees (a yearly occurrence), the top story of the night will inevitably feature tips on how to avoid dehydration (drink some water, moron!), and the first cold spell of the year will invariably draw lead story reminders about bringing in the plants, pets, and old folks because of the arctic weather blast (any temperature below 35).
And it’s not just the anchors I hate either, because the reporters are usually even worse. They haven’t yet mastered the art of melodrama and head-bobbing enough to sit behind the anchor desk, so they’re still trying to get noticed by interviewing the requisite rednecks who are always eager to be put on camera after witnessing a “gruesome” wreck or a “shocking” incident at the Chili Cook-Off. REPORTER: “Sir, can you tell us what happened here?” CLETUS DOLITTLE: (“Hit By Chili” captioned under his name at bottom of screen) “Well, I was jus’ mindin’ my own bizness getting free samples so the missus wouldn’t have to cook supper tonight, when I heard this mess of cussin’ going on over to the Five Alarm section, and the next thing I knowed, there was chili all over my new Ricky Bobby T-shirt!” REPORTER: (nodding and looking concerned) “Did you see who threw the allegedchili?” CLETUS DOLITTLE: “Naw, but my brother Wilmer said he seen somebody high-tailin’ it away right afterwards, and they was wearing one of them Tabasco aprons all them Five Alarm folks is so partial to.”
REPORTER: (turns toward the camera with Cletus and group of kids waving behindhim) “There you have it, Bob. The Chili Cook-Off has been marred by violence, possibly from Tabasco terrorists. The police say they’re still investigating and declined to comment until after they finish their chili, but we hope to have more on the story at ten.”
And then there’s the dedicated (i.e. obsessed) staff of the “First Alert Weather Station Team” who give you round-the-clock hurricane coverage from the moment the first whitecap is spotted out in the Gulf.
HEAD METEOROLOGIST: “So these are the latest coordinates for Tropical Depression Cindylou, and as you can see from our Superenhanced Secret Spy Satellite Radar, she’s still stalled about 300 miles southwest of this sandbar off the coast of Grand Cayman. And although we have no idea whether Cindylou will strengthen enough to even become a tropical storm, we’ve superimposed this projected path we call the “Cone of Over-reactive Panic” onto the map and will continue to closely monitor Cindylou’s lack of activity. And, as always, you can count on us here at the First Alert Weather Station Team to interrupt your favorite shows with hourly updates of how we still don’t know what this possible storm is going to do.”
And I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way either. Ever heard “Dirty Laundry” by the Eagles? But at least the bubble-headed bleached blonde that Don Henley sings about is talking about a plane crash. The local anchors around here would probably ignore that story and opt instead for more coverage of the alleged leprechaun in a tree.
Sing it with me, people: “I wanna know where the GOLD’s at!”
If ever there were a title that fit the subject matter, it’s this one by Al Franken. It’s been awhile since this book came out, but the big blowhard’s latest waste of oxygen and radio airwaves completely renews the veracity of Franken’s title: Limbaugh claims that Michael J. Fox is faking his Parkinson’s symptoms to help Democrats get elected. If only Limbaugh were faking his stupidity in support of his beloved likewise Republicans, but it’s definitely the real deal. He and Ann Coulter should get married and sell their offspring to freak shows as 100% pure, gen-u-whine idiots!
The only upside to the spoutings of these brainless wonders is that they do a better job of proving their ignorance than anything the thinking world could ever do, so I guess we should actually be grateful for the unethical, money-grubbing radio producers and publishers who provide these morons with airtime and shelf space. Hey, if these two did hook up, (shake head vigorously to dispel revolting visual image of said coupling) I wonder who would be their joint choice for their next morally reprehensible attack. Paralyzed veterans? Exploited children? Abandoned kittens? All of them have their own liberal agenda, you know!
Maybe Rush will eat Ann and choke on her. One can only hope.
Paris Hilton! What other subject could I possibly write about for my first rant than the embodiment of just about everything that pisses me off?
Let's see . . . attention whore with no discernible talent, mediocre looks (even after multiple enhancements), zero ethics, over-privileged princess-wannabe who acts more like trailer trash than any of my redneck buddies ever thought about doing. Yep, the only things worse than this vacuous bimbo are the media that keeps giving her publicity and the publishing pimps who paid some starving ghostwriter to pen those waste of trees with her name on them. No, wait. Add to that list any parents who actually let their daughters be in the same room with one of her manuals for "finding your inner princess!" Quick, somebody call Child Protection Services!
As proof that this most-heinous heiress is no different from the baby-mamas on Jerry Springer, here's the details of her latest news item: She and her boyfriend's ex, Shanna Moakler, got into a brawl at the Hyde club in Los Angeles, complete with jaw-jacking, profanity, intentional drink spilling, and somebody getting pushed down some stairs.
You know, to be honest, I've done all that stuff myself a few times. But at least I work for a living and have a higher IQ than my dog.
So, my editor (henceforth referred to as "Head Nerd") tells me I have to do this if I want her help with my books in the future. She might come across to everyone as a sweet little Southern lady, but she's mean as hell when she wants to be, and I'm not about to piss her off. Besides, I've never been shy about expressing my opinions, so I might even start to like this blogging gig.
Now, what do I want to tackle first? Pornography and the scumbags who proliferate it . . . the inequality of women's sports . . . the mouth-breathers currently running the country . . . the E. coli Scale Hollywood uses to decide what to make movies about lately? So much stupidity, so little time. But whatever topic I choose, you can bet your ass I won't mince any words or spout any pretentious crap about it.