Arizona = HELL

The thermometer doesn't lie, bitches.

So I’m on the road again, posting Blu hoo from the passenger seat of a rented Volkswagen Jetta, which isn’t a bad car at all other than the fact that the entire interior is black plastic, which absorbs heat the way a Tena Twist ® takes on lady-pee. And if you look at the photo above, you can see PROOF that the temperature outside the Jetta today was 110 fucking hell-degrees. That means that if my calculations are right based on the relative size of the skin grafts I’m going to need on the backs of my thighs, the INSIDE of the four-wheeled-furnace was mother-fucking HOTTTTTTTTTTTTT!

I am just baffled that there are so many people in Arizona. Armadillos and tarantulas and scorpions and rattle snakes and other evil things that would naturally populate hell, I can understand. But what in God’s name possesses humans to want to live in this inferno? There are just miles and miles and miles of desolate terrain that look mostly like either elephant skin caked in clay or my heels in the summer months. I cannot conceive of the notion that someone looked out over the parched landscape of bakedom and thought, Now, THIS would be a terrific place to settle and raise a family!

It says a lot about a place when every, single Arizonian who found out that we are from Indiana looked at us gravely and asked, “Oh, my God. How are you handling the heat?” NOT. That’s how. I feel bad that mostly everybody looks like one of those witch heads we used to make out of shriveled apples at Halloween when we were kids. I kept wanting to stick cloves in everyone.

And all of the plants just look angry. I mean, there are 10-foot cacti with needles the size of, like, butcher knives, which means that they are almost as big as the one needle that asshole doctor stuck in my knee last year.

This plant will kill you in the night and like it.

There was a kid’s birthday party going on in a neighborhood we passed. All the torpid children were dragging uninflated balloons on strings because what’s the point of blowing them up when the trees in the yard have built-in weapons? I totally made that shit up, but it isn’t hard to imagine. I also imagine this exchange happens frequently:            

“Mommy, can I go outside and climb the tree in our backyard?”

“Sure, Billy! Don’t forget to take your phone so that you can call 911 when the bleeding gets too heavy.”

No wonder all the children look sad. They are probably going to die if they go out to play.

Even the hotel pool wasn’t much relief from the scorchage. It was so tepid that either no one knows how to make cool water in Arizona, or there was a whole lotta peeing going on in there. From the taste of the water that went all up in my nose and down my throat when I stepped off a sudden, un-marked drop into the deep part, I’m going to have to go with that second choice. The only upside is that my sinuses are now sterile.  

So even though I love my dear friend whose wedding occasioned my journey to sunny, Arizona (which is Navajo for “Fuck you, white people for forcing us to live on this God-forsaken reservation; We curse you to drink your own pee and die.”), I probably won’t go back any time soon. You know what they say: “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the Arizona.”

10,000 Page Views Coming Soon to a Blog Near YOU!

I want 10,000 of THESE. But the page views are nice too.

Okay. Blu hoo is closing in on 10,000 page views, so I’ve been toying with what in the HELL topic I want up when that happens. Yeah. I’ve got nothing.

I had been planning forever to post about Angelina’s boob-removal, but that is so five minutes ago. There seems never to be any time to write Blu hoo posts anymore. I have officially turned into a friggin’ dog. I eat, sleep, and work, and that’s about my day, every day. I substituted “work” for “poop” because dogs don’t work, and apparently someone has stuffed my ass with Sakrete ® again, for God’s sake. I realize that in order to have non-ashy skin, eyes that don’t feel like they are full of glass shards, and a working digestive system that I desperately need to drink more water.

But there just isn’t time.

I mean, it’s such a goddamned chore to get up and go to the kitchen and take down an ugly plastic cup and turn on the filtered water faucet and wait for-freaking-ever for the cup to fill up only to have to do it all again in, like, seven seconds. What I need is an IV. I’ve been saying this for years. If I had one of those nice permanent port thingies, my life would be so much easier. I could throw some saline in there and some nutrients from time to time and maybe some pain killers on days like today. Then I would never be dehydrated again and have to embarrass my husband by making him go down to the Marsh and buy industrial strength Fleet ® products in front of all the snobs. Those folks get their colons cleansed weekly in between the pedicures and root touch-ups and tennis lessons. I’ll bet their colonoscopy pictures look like one of those tunnels that people see when they have a near-death experience what with the smooth, clean walls and bright light and dude dressed in all-white at the end. MY colonoscopy picture is going to look like a fucking Baby Ruth ®.

Does that mean I should give up good eatin’ just so that I have a clean butt tube and unclogged arteries? I don’t know. My theory is that even if I eat tree bark and tofu for my whole life and never savor a bite of it, I will still die. I might as well enjoy my life experiences while I’m here. I guess that’s one of the reasons Angelina cut off her boobs. She is definitely enjoying the fuck out of her life experiences, so who can blame her for wanting to prolong life for as many moments as possible? I’ll bet that more women would elect to have preventative surgery if they knew the first and last thing they’d see before and after going under would be Brad Pitt.

Plus, Angelina and Brad have more money than God and can expect the best possible care. I’ve had two friends who bravely fought breast cancer and opted to have the additional reconstructive procedure after their mastectomies. The options have changed since these two darlings had their stomach muscles re-routed to form the appearance of new boobs. One chose to have her nipples tattooed on. I know this because she yanked up her shirt to see what I thought. She didn’t warn me either. Just ripped that shirt right on up in the middle of a conversation. The boobs looked pretty good, but the tattooed nipples were a poor substitute.

Angelina was lucky enough to have the time and funds to test her nipple tissue so that she could retain the real deals. Then, she had the “new” tear-drop-shaped implants for optimum boobage. I think what she did took a lot of guts because undergoing any surgery—elective or not—is scary. Plus, she removed almost all chances that she will die young of female cancer like her mother and grandmother, leaving her children devastated and unmoored. But she now has perfectly sculpted tits that will remain forever perky. Both of my friends died despite their efforts. The rebuilt boobs didn’t help.

So. I ended up talking about Angelina anyway. Figures. Here’s to the next 10,000 page views and to living life with grace and beauty and acceptance and juicy cusswords and incredible food and without fear and hatred. Except for hatred of bad grammar and constipation and Charlie Sheen and no vacation time ever and the pain and suffering of people I love. Those are still fair game.

Why I Hate Whiny-Assed People

Don't you just KNOW he has a tiny, little trust fund?

I hate injustice more than anyone else in the history of injustice haters. If you come to my house—and for those of you with restraining orders, I’m not talking to you—you can see my shiny, golden statuette with the little engraved plaque that reads, “World’s Greatest Injustice Hater.”

That makes it true.

Just ask anyone who has ever received a shiny, golden statuette. For example, Halle Berry. Even though I dislike the way Nicole Kidman keeps melting her face, I admit that she has put forth some incredible performances, and I don't just mean her marriage to Tom "Scary as Charlie Sheen" Cruise. Nicole really was robbed of the best actress Oscar ® for Moulin Rouge! in 2001 because Halle Berry turned in her inspired masterpiece in Monster’s Ball. So because Halle got the gold, that makes it TRUE that she was the better actress that year. But not really. I mean, there should have been a freaking TIE just like the year that Katharine Hepburn won for The Lion in Winter and Barbra Streisand won for Funny Girl. See, that right there is an injustice. (Damn.) So much for the truth-is-a-tiny-golden-statuette argument. But I digress.

My point is that even though I despise injustice and used to fight tooth-and-what-would-have-been-nails-if-I-hadn’t-chewed-them-down-to-nubs for every, single grade point I knew I deserved in school, I hate WHINERS more than I hate injustice.

I may or may not have a student who is a class-A, mother-fucking, ass-licking whiner. He or she may or may not have emailed me today something similar to Why did you take off ¼ of a point? My OTHER teachers have never taken off points for that before. This same person is highly likely to whine, My OTHER anal lovers let me suck the dick afterwards! or MOTHER always cut my crusts off! Yeah, well, then you should still be living in Mommy’s house with your head in her panty drawer. Ass.

I don’t give a rat’s butt-seepage about what OTHER teachers/wives/girlfriends/employees/customers do! I have very high standards for EVERYTHING other than clean, wholesome language and disturbing images.

I’m so sick of the dumbing-down of every institution in America, especially our educational system. God forbid we fail to reward mediocrity with a tiny, golden statuette. We might hurt someone’s tender, fucking feelings if everyone doesn’t walk away with a prize for “participation,” or if we have the nerve to criticize. So when some dumbass writes 5(3 x 17/43 x -.03) = 17, I’m just supposed to IGNORE that?!? Come on!

Or some fucktard writes, In this essay i will write about my son illness and who the doctor toll us we sopose to do and reason for illness, and I’m required to say, “I think you have a great start to your essay, and your introduction makes your paper’s focus clear,” and what I reallllllly want to say is “Please, please, please for the love of God, don’t procreate, and stop sending me cryptic messages that are obviously encoded for Al Qaeda, you fucking terrorist.”

One of these days, I’m going to have some hideous Freudian slip when I mean to say, “Good luck in your future classes and career,” but what comes out is, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck and your fucking mother for fucking that garden slug and giving birth to a smear.” Seriously, I have to be constantly on my toes.

In the meantime, I’ll be all nice and maintain my composure. I will just allegedly think alleged evil curses against your alleged paternity and species-identification, but I will smile sweetly and say, “I understand your point of view. Let’s see how we can reach a resolution that makes sense.” Even though you wouldn’t understand sense if it crawled up your ass and out your eye sockets. But I promise to keep that to myself.

What the @*! are These Women Thinking?!

Ohhhhhh, Gwyneth. And Reese. And Beyoncé.  Is it not enough that you are so well-known that you can go by one name?

Do you not realize that because you are celebrities, people look up to you, emulate you, want to be you. And by people, I’m referring to teenaged girls and other speculative members of our species who have a spotty sense of “self.” (Closeted gay guys, I’m looking at you.) 

Why do you celebrities insist upon thumbing your noses at good sense and common decency? Disclaimer: I swear like a fucking gangbanging career criminal with an incurable case of crabs, but if our featured ladies exhibited only a dirty mouth for bad behavior, I’d invite those sistahs over for snacks and shit. The prob is that they just drip and ooze with poor choices. 

Disclaimer 2: Okay. It’s not like I’m saying I’ve never made any poor choices. God. I mean honestly. I have a string of ex-husbands as long as my arm, and have you seen my hideously lumpy thighs lately? But I’m not on magazine covers.

First up. Gwyneth Paltrow, who has to be THE most clueless woman on the planet besides the mother of the Tsarnaev brothers, who claims that “America stole her sons,” and that “they were framed.” I did not know women of her faith were even allowed to smoke weed. 

But I digress. Gwyneth. Gackkk. Even her name makes me want to puke up food I haven’t eaten yet and re-eat it just so I can puke again. It’s like her parents prayed to the god of myshitdon’tstink for a name that would just scream Park Avenue and organic-produce-that-costs-more-than-your-car-payment-because-I-can. I am entirely convinced that she pays people to clean her poor children’s asses with gold-infused and lavender-scented moist-wipes so that their psyches will not be soiled. 

The woman—who just received the prestigious “World’s Most Beautiful Woman” award from People magazine because after a series of American Idol-like rounds through which every, single female on the planet was judged on beauty, Gwyneth WON!—posts her every whimsical idea about how people should live and “nourish their inner something or other” on the most condescending website ever created. Is it ironic that its name rhymes with poop?

Ms. Paltrow enlightens her subscribers with all kinds of useful advice like how to make life all meaningful and cozy with yoga at the $1000-a-month gym, and $90 t-shirts, and $300 family dinner ingredients. And then she shows up on the red carpet for the premier of her latest superhero sequel—for which she is a shoo-in for another Academy Award nomination, I’m sure—in a dress that has peek-a-boo panels, like, all over. 

I’m thinking somewhere along the line, the meaning of “penthouse view” in her mind went a little wonky. One little fabric slippage, and we’d have been all up in her business. Frankly, I don’t want to be that intimate with Gwyneth’s “inner something.” Although I’m sure it smells like lilac and crystal stemware. 

Speaking of wardrobe issues, is there something that celebrities have against pants? Maybe they give Beyoncé a rash, but that girl hasn’t seen a pair of pants since 1982. Has there ever been a woman more in love with her own crotch? She seems to be stuck in an eternal pose that is hell-bent on proving how good her Brazilian waxer is. I’m thrilled shitless, Ms. Knowles, that you have the stubble-less bikini zone of a toddler. Yay. You don’t have to keep showing everybody. 

And speaking of “showing everybody,” boy did that Reese Witherspoon prove to the world what a “somebody” she is. She went down to Georgia and may or may not have gotten her ass good and drunk, and then when her husband got pulled over for drunk driving, she played the old “Do you know who I am?!?!” card. Yes, yes! We know who you are! Just another in a long line of entitled, spoiled, rich girls whose souls were on the bargain table at the devil’s garage sale. 

Now that we’ve all seen way more of these class acts than we ever wanted, couldn’t we get a little reprieve? I promise that will be all the inner nourishment we need.

Boston Bombers REDUX.

Okay. One of the most incredible take-downs in the history of law enforcement happened last week in Boston after a swarm of good-guys shot and/or captured the two asswipes who killed and maimed Americans with pressure-cooker bombs at the Boston Marathon finish line. After the bombings, disembodied voices on NPR droned on and on about how this would be a “lengthy investigation” that would take “years” to solve. Well-heh-heh-hellllll, maybe for NOT Boston. As much as I rue the overuse of cell phones, I hereby acquiesce temporarily so that I can pay tribute to their part in throwing a super-nova spotlight on the Tsarnaev brothers. 

Dear Terrorist Asslickers, 

As long as we exist, you will not escape our ever-vigilant surveillance. We see you. We record you. And suddenly, everybody knows your name. Especially in Boston, you fucking morons. Didn’t you watch Cheers? Oh. Wait. Nevermind. You aren’t baseball-, hotdogs-, apple pie- and Chevrolet-lovers, now, are you?? No, no. You are turdlets; steaming, putrid, and mustardy-yellow. And you are going DOWN.   

Boston Strong, bitches.

Love, cellphones

NOW. Can we STOP with all the pictures of the murderers? Every freaking time I turn on the news or open a news site on my computer, I’m assaulted by the faces of Tsarnaev 1 & 2. Give it a fucking rest. 

How about plastering up the face of the 26-year-old MIT cop, Sean Collier, who phoned in a disturbance and set up the downfall of the Brothers Grim? His face is one we shouldn’t forget. Likewise, we need to focus on Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell and Lu Lingzi, who were killed; and the scores of bombing victims who were seriously injured. We’ve gotten so negative in America. We're so fascinated with evil. And all we do is carp, carp, carp. There is a never-ending stream of negative voices filling the airwaves with so much shit, it’s no wonder the ozone is thinning. 

And another thing with which I’ve got a grain-fed beef: What happened to patriotism in America? It takes a terroristic wake-up call for Americans to stand together and declare their love for our country. What is wrong with you people? Yes, yes, our country isn’t perfect, for God’s sake. But America is the best place on earth. If you disagree, then go somewhere else. No one is stopping you, and plenty of people are waiting in line and jumping fences to take your fucking place. 

Don’t forget it.