Friday, January 16, 2009

Come Fly With Me

I'm sure by now even the most remote corners of the world has heard about the Flight 1549 plane crash into the Hudson river. New York sure doesn't have much luck in the "planes not crashing in their general vicinity", do they? I'd take it as a sign that the end is nigh and that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell me something. Maybe not jebus, maybe it's aliens, we don't know. Repent, earthlings of New Amsterdam, repent and you shall not be smited! And while the experience may have been terrifying and I'm glad that no one was killed and the pilot is a super genius and I'm Ok, You're Ok and Kumbaya my lord and all that touchy-feely warm feelings crap, I can turn this tragedy in a much more cynical direction. Shocking, yes it is.

You just know that at some point in the not too distant future, some butthead is going to insist on launching a dramatic investigation and try to sue the airline for a bajillion bucks for their "emotional trama". And you just know some assmonkey will get a book deal out of it, about their harrowing tale of terror in the unfriendly skies. And, if we're really lucky, you just know some numbnuts will eventually turn the story into a Lifetime Movie Event tearjerker, with Luke Perry playing the hunky-but-capable pilot, with some retarded title like "Not Without My Floatation Device: Coffee, Tea Or Lifeboat?"

Furthermore, let me just state that the cause of the crash was birds flying into the engines. Freaking BIRDS. I always knew a flock of seagulls could not be trusted and would be the end of us.


What kind of Flintstone-sized birds could take down a jet?! Did the plane get caught in some kind of time-space continuum screwup and end up flying over prehistoric New York? It's just like in the 1961 Twilight Zone episode! (You probably don't care to know it's titled The Odyssey of Flight 33. I'm a self-professed Twilight Zone nerd. Shut up. Don't judge me.)


Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Gin and Juice

How To Throw Up Your Gang Sign In The Suburbs:

East Side Housewives represent, beotch.


You know, it's not easy being a thug in the suburban 'hood these days, what with all the bundt cakes that need to be baked for the PTA fundraisers, the numerous phone calls that need to be made to the tennis court caretaker and to the mechanic who's currently pimping my minivan with tinted windows and gold rims. And someone has to instruct José how to properly groom the rose garden so that they can beat that bitch Mrs. Henderson's petunias at this year's Flower Fest. Do you know what it's like working 47 minutes a day, only to have to drive down the street to pick up your 2.3 children from soccer practice and come home to prepare a delicious and well-balanced meal of meatloaf and Jello surprise? It's exhausting. It is a hard knock life, yo.

And then there's our competition. Don't even get me started on our rivals, The West Side Homeschoolers. Those triflin' ho's are always steppin' to us, dog. Do you know how many times the East Side Housewives had to throw down with those fools through carefully-orchestrated dance battles to Henry Mancini jazz instrumentals and perfectly-timed finger snaps? Too many to count, y'all. And if those biznitches even think they're getting our blue ribbon Betty Crocker Pineapple Upside Down Cake recipe, oh it's on.