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5 Observations Moving From a Large City to a Small Town

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 13:51:28 -0600

Posted by Laura

Recently I moved from Denver, Colorado to Portland, Maine. I decided to leave behind my semi-big-city ideals and settle for a simpler life amongst more rural peoples who naturally held better concepts of relaxation and old-tyme entertainment. But while there’s very little to hate about the town, I find myself plagued by new annoyances that I never anticipated.

You might say, but Laura, Portland is the largest city in Maine! Right, but it’s just barely the size of the small suburb of Denver I grew up in and rivals the size of some back woods Virginian towns. You can drive completely across it in under 20 minutes (5 minutes highway). Despite the convenience of locale, most of these annoyances have to do with the fact that the town is a popular retirement destination…

1. A new, more aggravating kind of traffic….

During rush hour in Denver, CO, it would take 45 minutes to drive a mile long stretch of 1-25 directly through the city. Several of the lanes became right-turn only lanes and despite having driven that road God-knows-how-many-times and the two miles of preparatory signage, everyone always gets to the very end and jerks their wheel in a frantic panic, cutting off two lanes of traffic to avoid premature exit. And it was always either a mini-van or a Toyota Camry, always.

Every goddamn time.

I attribute most of my drinking and smoking problems to the traffic in Denver during rush hour. Between the assholes trying to dodge lanes and the endless stretch of parking lot on the highway between you and the leftover Chinese food waiting for you at home, it’s a wonder it didn’t take longer than an hour for my stress levels to come down after I returned home. Thus, this stretch of highway was some kind of complicated puzzle for the less logically sharp and everyone who knew what was going on could only helplessly sit in their cars and yell obscenities.

I thought moving to Portland, Maine, would eliminate my traffic woes but as it turns out, “traffic” here is possibly more aggravating for a variety of reasons…

-All of the roads are old and consist of approximately one lane.
These roads were created back when the town was getting on its feet, and they’re surrounded by historical property and old graveyards, so expanding them is out of the question. This means that if you’re stuck behind someone slow, you’re pretty much stuck tailing them until your destination.

-There’s a school zone every 1/2 mile.
In Denver, school zones are kind of a free-for-all where you quickly scan for a cop before flooring through it at regular speed (10 miles per hour over the posted speed.) Here, it’s a mandatory 15 mph, which I didn’t even know my car could do.

That’s something between the speed of walking down an aisle at the liquor store and the speed of crawling to the toilet at 2 in the morning. The school zones here are also heavily policed, and they’re not complete without an elderly cross-walk do-gooder feebly helping the children across the street and taking their sweet-ass time.

Like this only the kid isn’t black. If there are black people here, they’re scared to come out and I don’t blame them.

Getting the oxygen tank over that cavernous crack in the road can be a challenge, luckily you can figure that out while holding up a big stop sign and getting children safely to their destination. No running, or even brisk walking, don’t want to trip or anything. In the meantime, I’m goddamn late for work.

-Elderly people out for a drive.
Need I say more? Only you can’t pass them. Why the hell anyone over 70 would be ready at 7 in the morning and be driving anywhere at all is just a mystery to me.

Red hat club brunch starts in an hour and is at least 3 miles across town, don’t want to be late.

-Middle-aged women in Minivans out for a drive.
This is pretty much your typical family town. After dropping the kids off, Martha is certainly in no goddamn hurry to get to her knitting circle or coffee club or drop off those library books.

-Oil tankers.
I don’t really have any good theories as to why these are always blocking the road early in the morning, but they are. Maybe not leave right at the time everyone is trying to get to work?

-An accident here literally shuts down the whole road.
Hell, even the presence of a cop visible on the side is enough to make everyone slam on their brakes for no reason at all.

Combine this with drawbridge traffic and it’s a veritable hellscape of bullshit just to drive 4 miles.

2. Recycling just somehow got more complicated…

I thought Denver was into recycling, but boy, was I apparently mistaken. In Denver we just piled our beer cans and beer bottles and paper into a large bin in front of our home. It was simple enough. Here everything has to be separated, but not into any kind of category that makes sense.

Let me directly quote the “bins” visible from the college computer I’m typing this at…
-Trash
-Waste
-Recyclable bottles
-Perishable items
-Paper goods, bottles, cans
-Newspaper

Nothing is more embarrassing than standing there with my garbage staring at these bins with confusion as everyone else mindlessly separates their items. I SWEAR three of those bins are the same thing. In fact, two of them have the same ”helpful” icons on them.

My landlord is also picky about this. We’re supposed to check the bottles and paper goods to see if she can take them to the grocery store and get 5 cents back for them. Even if we drank 3 beers a piece a day, you wouldn’t have enough for $2 worth of a return within a week. Nevertheless, it’s important to her that we do this. We could just put them in the bin to be recycled, but she needs to carry all the nasty bottles and paper goods to the grocery store for maybe a $1 rebate.

There was ONE can bank in Denver. I collected cans for months expecting to at least be able to fill my gas tank and didn’t even leave with $5. You would think the more you complicate these things, the less people will want to deal with it; yet, here it’s like figuring out the recycling and lugging it all for penny rebates at the grocery store is a popular past time with the elderly.

3. The veins of every New Englander run thick with pastries, Tim Hortons, and Dunkin’ Donuts…
Telling your friend “I’m at the end/corner/street with the Dunkin’ Donuts/pastry shop” likely describes 5 different locations within a 1/4 mile radius. There are so many donut and coffee shops up here, you can get lost on your way to the bathroom at night in the dark and suddenly find yourself ordering an egg sandwich and small coffee in a well-lit lobby while some zit-faced high schooler chews her gum at you.

And don’t expect to go to any of these places and have an order done correctly or with any level of promptness. People here move slow. I’m not saying I used to live in NYC or anything, but the breakfast joints of downtown Denver at least knew how to get it in gear when they needed to not spend 15 minutes preparing a small coffee and toasted bagel.

4. I realize just how convenient and simple large corporate retail stores are…
Local stores are great. You’re supporting a local family and helping the local economy, until, well….you actually need something, fast.

I have to hand it to Maine, they’ve stayed local for the most part. Portland doesn’t even have a Wal-Mart and the only location with anything corporate is the one mall they have and some stores surrounding it. Everything in the downtown area is local. It’s cute and serene with cobblestone streets and everything you need should be right there, except it isn’t.

I never realized just how much I depended on large corporate stores for my shopping. Trying to find an item at the minimal selection of stores in this town is a challenge. Borders, the only major book retailer in the town, just went out of business.

You don’t realize just how much you depended on something until it’s gone. I tell myself, “Oh, let’s just go grab that new study guide or magazine or book I’ve been wanting.” But then I remember that there isn’t really a place I can go where I know it’ll be. Sure, there are local book stores, and I could get online and call all of them, but I used to just be able to waltz into a Borders or Barnes and Noble and there it’d be, ready for me to grab.

In addition, local isn’t always better. Sure, there is some local fare around here that is just fantastic. Like family-owned diners and knick-knack/hipster stores, but only if you’re in the market for hipster bullshit. I’d say you have about a 50/50 chance of walking into a place and it being run by some grumpy old couple or hard-up struggling family.

I’ve been into several places and just received straight-up glares, like they can smell the foreign on me. They want your damn order already so stop staring at the menu. I suppose you also want a side with that, bub? Give me a half hour or so, Uncle Jimmy just walked in and I haven’t talked to him in years.

“Yeah, we tried finding, what was it, ‘Battleship Galaxy all seasons’ or whatever in our inventory for you, but we’re not having any luck, we could order it, but it might take a couple of weeks. You could also try that internet thing.”

Or, I could drive the extra distance out of town and find a Barnes and Noble… choices, choices.

5. People will buy anything you tell them to buy. Especially elderly people and especially elderly people day-shopping or fresh off a cruise ship parked in the harbor…

I have the special treat of working retail in this town and comparing these customers to those from the lower-class suburb of Denver where I worked in the past. From the minimal amount of time I’ve been peddling premium teas (I won’t say from where but it’s in the mall) I’ve noticed one simple thing…

People will drop unbelievable amounts of money on total bullshit.

In Denver, every other customer haggled about the difference of a couple of cents or whether or not their coupon was scanned or what the price rang up as compared to what was on the shelf. They didn’t want add-ons, they didn’t want extra services. They’d already researched it, goddammit, they knew how to spend their money wisely.

Here, people will literally buy whatever I shove in their hands. I’m a new employee so my sales skills aren’t exactly to par yet, but I topped the sales in the store just because I pushed people to see how much they would actually get.

It was like a fun game. They never once stopped me or questioned my authority in the matter. And guess what, they were all women over the age of 50 (many of whom were wearing touristy garb they had purchased already) who spent upwards of $300, for tea.

I’m not sure if it’s the population of old-money families, the large bored retirement community, the elderly cruise-ship tourists, or the combination of all three, but peddling bullshit up here is unbelievably easy. I even sold 3 figures worth of tea to younger women as well, with boyfriends or husbands in tow.

“What was that tea you liked honey? The black chai? Oh, no, that was just terrible, we’ll take the Tummyberry Pineapple Pop, you like pineapple pop, right honey?”

Old money, elderly people and boredom make for the perfect storm of local fuckery. Take some notes, Boulder, CO.

8 Reasons Why Having Curly Hair Totally Rocks*

Thu, 01 Sep 2011 09:56:31 -0600

A Helpful Picture Guide by Nicole

8.) Instant Halloween Costume

How often do you find yourself waking up in the morning to the horrific realization that there is a Halloween party in 20 minutes and you forgot to buy a costume? Well, if you have curly hair: NEVER. That’s because morning hair lends itself to a wide variety of costumes, of which I have laid out here:

God, I hate those end of August sneak Halloween parties.

7.) Instant Hygrometer

Blogological: teaching you new words since, well, right above this picture.

6.) Fun Facebook profile pics

Be jealous.

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Okay, of course it’s awesome having curly hair that you haven’t combed since Clinton was president. But fashion nowadays is all about smooth hair, sideswept bangs, chunky highlights, cell phones attached to belts, and scrunchies.** What about curly hair that’s actually been styled?

Luckily, I got you covered there as well.

5.) You will meet so many new friends when strangers decide it’s okay to boing your ringlets.

Also, you will discover new verbs, like “boing.”

We curly’ers ain’t short changed on friends. Say you, as a stranger, are standing in line behind me for the self-checkout at our friendly neighborhood SafeMart. You’re studying my hair and my shopping basket (an Econo-Pak of Super Hemorrhage Menstrual Corks poorly hidden underneath a copy of Popular Science) and I know you can’t help yourself. Go ahead, reach out for one of those suckers and give it a pull.

Remember: it’s not a true boing unless you say “boinnnnggg!” during aforementioned action.

4.) Flirtation Aid

I mean, we’ve all seen it on cartoons: the best way to hook a man is to twirl a chunk of your hair around your finger, flutter your eye lids, and then do what you do every night, Pinky, try to take over the world.

So you should be envious to know that having such springy locks lends itself to an even more dynamic, three-part hair-twirl flirt. Observe:

Hope you’re ready for some “kinky” sexy times. Yeah I did.

3.) Instant De-Ager

I have a brunette fountain of youth growing out of my scalp! The moment I whip those ringlets out, I’m automatically de-aged back to eight years old again. Boy, do I love all the attention I get from club bouncers, bartenders, and those guys who wear fancy jackets in casinos.

Here’s me this past weekend… oh no, wait, that’s me in third grade.

2.) Making the world a better place

Of course, it’s not all spiral rainbows and boingy unicorns for me as a curlied. With great hair comes great responsibility. I have to think about the next generation, after all. With that in mind, I have created a complex mathematical theorem that, once understood, will make the world a better place. It is thus:

Therefore, my altruistic gift to the world was my post-marriage hysterectomy.

You’re welcome, humans.

1.) It only takes an hour of straightening your hair and then another half hour of re-curling your hair to get yourself ready to hit da clubs!

Aw yeah. First we’ll stop by Portland’s hottest new club PENETRATION…

Dance with the beautiful straight hair, motherfucka!!

…then we’ll hit the Shari’s, because that’s how I roll.

Feed me pancakes and bacon, motherfucka!!

So that’s it. Eight well-thought-out reasons you should not only be jealous of me, but also should be developing a confusing hatecrush on me. In conclusion, having curly hair is basically the coolest thing ever.***

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* Not.
** Blogological is not responsible for any fashion disasters/ass kickings that result from following Nicole’s fashion tips.
*** To anyone with straight hair.

Read ALL of the Things!

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 16:23:32 -0600

Posted by Nicole

I wanted this post to be a deep, thoughtful essay wherein I gush about how much I love bookstores, while underneath I am, in fact, gushing about how much I love the written word. I wanted to bring you along as I journeyed into the world of books, a world I love so much that I still childishly think I will become a writer someday. After several false starts, I can’t seem to frame my thoughts any more profoundly than this:

I just, like, seriously you guys, really fucking love bookstores.

I love walking down every aisle, gently running my fingers along all the books’ spines, stopping every moment something catches my eye.

I love the inspiring serenity of it all and finding a quiet corner to revel in the scent.

I love how so many worlds can fit on those shelves, and how my buzzing eyes drink in as much as they can but still feel wanting and hurried.

I love how I am still convinced that as long as books exist, I can learn how to do anything if I really dedicate myself.

I love how, when I’m alone, I go to the section of the store where my (unfinished) novel would sit. I pick up the two books that would sandwich it and judge them with all that self-loathing fury only other struggling “artists” can really understand.

I love how — wait, I can’t possibly be the only person who does that, right?

…right?

I wish I could be more articulate n’ shit, but that’s all I got. I just love me a bookstore or two, ‘cause when I’m in one, I find I just wanna read, like, every book.

O Wesley, Crusher of My Heart

Wed, 17 Aug 2011 12:18:00 -0600

An Ode to Wesley Crusher

Posted by Nicole

That day in July two thousand one one,
no way I, so pasty, could face the sun.
I scrolled, half asleep, all ‘round my Netflix
when – could it be? I totes just shat bricks!
There, all laid out as if just for me
all seven seasons of the Trek: TNG!

The universe stood still on Stardate
four one one five three point eight.
For on that day, the world did see
a ginger-haired doctor’s young son: Wesley.
Those curious eyes had my heart in fetters,
pure sexiness in even sexier sweaters.

O, those frills,
such great thrills,
give me chills!

O, cruel fates put my destiny
On NCC 1701-D.
Always busy with homework for class,
but not too busy to save the ship’s ass!
O, and that uniform, so friggin’ divine!
You take me from zero right up to Warp 9!

I don’t want to be too forthright…
but you’ll be making that face later tonight.

Is it wrong that while my mind’s adrift,
I wish for a Season 3-type temporal rift?
So then I won’t be such a pedobear
when I find myself trying not to stare.
I mean, I know I shouldn’t be bolder,
as I’m three hundred sixty two years older,
but you ignite my antimatter streams,
that bouffant stars in all my wet dreams.

O, how I seethed with jealousy
of that traveler from Tau Alpha C!
Did he not know what I would do
to travel the whole universe with you?
So screw him, transdimensional chode.
Wes puts my warp core on overload.

And Ashley Judd, too.

Let not this fact bring you haze:
That, in truth, I was aged minus six days
when your startrekking premiered —
Wait… shit, that’s too fucking weird.

I don’t fucking care if you’re Mary Sue,
all my base are so goddamn belong to you.
You say there’s no basement on the Enterprise?
That you’re a loner, a rebel, and so wise?
O, my dear Acting Ensign Wesley,
I can’t help but completely agree.

In conclusion, while I cool what’s been heatin’,
allow me to apologize to that guy, Wil Wheaton
for this here ode, and what it put in perspective:
how much I wanna violate Wes’ Prime Directive.

Crossing the Street Downtown, A Simple Guide

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 16:11:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

I see you, you tourists, you family exploring the wonders of urban life, you group of elderly women clutching onto your purses like anyone gives a shit about the dead parakeet and package of mints you have in there. I see you, about to get hit by a fucking car because you’re total morons.

You would think that crossing a road would be simple. It’s one of the first things we learn as children behind walking and before forming full sentences. Wait for the walk signal, look both ways, and cross. As we get older we can get braver and use our judgement to cross when there’s a break, time ourselves just right, or understand the basics of traffic signals to make sure we won’t be in the way of any cars. Well, some of us do this. Others of us, it seems, would blindly follow just about anyone into oncoming traffic without even giving a second thought to whether or not this person’s judgement is sound. They may be timing it just for themselves, not for your stupid group meandering out behind them. The act of crossing the street without making cars slam on their breaks or endangering everyone you’re with is apparently so complicated for people, that I’ve developed this simple guide for use in those trickier situations.

1. The Walk Sign

What this means: Walk. Begin immediately when this symbol appears.

What this doesn’t mean:
-Stand on the curb and stare around, pointing at shit and yacking.
-Wait for it to go away, then start walking.

If you’re in a large, wandering group that includes elderly, fat, stupid, or generally slow people, push them the fuck into the street when this symbol appears. Whip them if you have to. Make sure no one is left behind that will pull their heads from their asses later on and hold up traffic as they try to catch up.

2. The Flashing Do Not Walk Sign

This one is usually paired with a convenient timer that tells you just when it won’t be ok to walk anymore.

What this means: You have X amount of time to get your fat ass across the street before traffic needs to go, so hurry the fuck up. This means run if you have to.

What this doesn’t mean: Slowly step off the curb with your elderly grandma, group of slow children or pack of retarded work friends with anything less than 10 seconds remaining.

This one is a total judgement call and involves something called “thought”. If you absolutely have to be that prick that walks out with 3 seconds left, either run or piss off traffic on your own fucking time. If you’re with a group of people, don’t pull this stunt and chance it. If running people over was legal, all of you would have been dead already, if not by someone else then by me. If you’re handicapped, don’t chance it on this then get all pissed off when cars are honking. I’ll take your crutches and beat the shit out of you with them, and I don’t even live in New York City.

3. The Solid Do Not Walk Sign

What this means: Do not walk, unless you know what the fuck you are doing.

What this doesn’t mean:
Wander into the road
Blindly follow anyone into the road

This one couldn’t be more simple. You know that, when this is up, traffic might be coming from somewhere to mow you over so you have to at least take a glance around before you walk against it. This means having some basic knowledge of how traffic signals work. For instance, if cars aren’t coming from one linear direction, they could also be turning, so you have to glance at the signals to make sure this isn’t the case.

If you’re downtown, cars could also be coming up to turn from behind you, so look back there as well.

When to walk against the signal:
-You’ve checked all directions
-You have timed space between the cars just right as to walk across without stopping traffic
-You are alone, or with one person (or rarely, two people) who understand your intent, think on your level, and can keep pace.
- For Advanced Walkers Only: You know when the light will turn yellow and cars have to stop. This is done by using the timer on the other side’s flashing walk hand. If you have no idea what I’m talking about here, do not try this. Also consider pulling your head from your ass.

When not to walk against the signal:
-You have no idea how traffic signals work.
-You rarely deal with one-way streets.
-You’re with any group larger than 3 people.

Many people, groups of co-workers or hell, an entire fucking family complete with young children, grandma, and strollers, will simply follow any random person into the road without paying any attention whatsoever. Do not be tempted to follow suit. Chances are that the one person either A) Wants to die or B) Timed it just for themselves and not for your whole stupid family/group. The group thinks, “Well, that hobo/crackhead/teenager/random person just walked out there, it must be ok! Tum da dum da dum”.

Morons or “sheeple”. They cannot think for themselves, and rely on others to make decisions/judgements for them. Let us suppose for a moment that I’m drunk as shit, driving through downtown in the middle of the day from lunch at an indian buffet.

“WHYYY, WHY hobo/crackhead/teenager/random person, did you lead my family into that death trap?!!!!!”

You deserved it, that’s why.

Posted by LauraAnother hard day at my business admin job. Making...

Wed, 10 Aug 2011 13:11:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

Another hard day at my business admin job. Making cash money and not giving a single fuck.

The Big Picture: Comics, Riots and Wimpy Children

Tue, 09 Aug 2011 16:11:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

If you were keeping up with Comic Con like I was, or are the raging alcoholic feminist that I am (not,) you may have read about Batgirl presenting a very valid question to the DC panel; “Where are the women?”

DC’s response was somewhat shocking, because instead of saying something along the lines of “You’re right, this shit is tired,” they offered some backlash and got the whole crowd in on berating her. In my opinion, she poses a question that has more precedence in this day than it ever has. The point is: in a world where comics (or at least movies based on comics) are gaining popularity, it’s important to distinguish what’s tired from what this industry could accomplish. So I’ll ask…

What is a female superhero?

What does does a female superhero look like in today’s society? What is her power? What does she do? What does she say? What color is her skin? How big are her tits? How skinny is her waist? Does she have a boyfriend? Does she kick ass like the best of men? Does she take maternity leave? Does she have a college degree? Does she stand in the shampoo aisle at Target and look back and forth between a bottle of Ultra-Moisturizing Oatmeal shampoo and a bottle of Super Lux Shine Enhancing Citrus shampoo?

Better yet, what’s her moral weakness? What quirk does she have to constantly overcome again and again to solidify her character?

For men in comics, the answers have always been clear. Men have written and illustrated comics since the beginning and have, for the most part, stuck to the same themes. Men are strong leaders; boys, females, and animals are sidekicks. Females are mostly tit platforms who throw a few punches from the sidelines and, above all, carry those huge tits everywhere. For DC this problem is especially obvious. They do have Wonder Woman, the catch-all, do-all female superhero. But it’s time to get creative.

Sexy sidekicks can remain, but we need new female superheroes for a new generation. We’re still stuck back in the original ideals of the superhero birth in the late 1930’s, where Superman and Batman started the two most everlasting moral themes in comics:

1.) Dealing with the strengths and weaknesses of a man who can physically do everything but is too alien to relate to society, and
2.) Dealing with the strengths and weaknesses of a man who can figure out everything but is too brilliant to relate to society.

I hate to be that asshole who brings up Watchmen, but this graphic novel hit the nail on the head about realistic problems that would plague superheroes, right down to the sexy female hero getting raped and her sexy female hero daughter carrying the burden.

Women started off in comics in an effort to sell to adolescent girls. Comics about romances, prom night, dating, fashion and the like were all popular. Soon the she-man, jungle-woman phase began, followed by the cynical feminist, anti-men heroines phase, and then the Ms. Whoever-female-sidekick-versions-of-male-superheroes phase. Again, this is all stated with the exception of Wonder Woman.

So this brings me back to my original question. What does a current female superhero look like? Is she a product of the stereotypes that plague her decade? Is she taut and sexy?

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Blogological has combined their brains and come up with several female superheroes who represent the female stereotypes of their decade:

1950’s
Gertrude aka The Amazing Housewife -A woman with the power to clean the entire house, wash all the laundry and cook all the food while being pregnant with infinite babbez. She’s a good Christian woman with the power to buy the freshest coffee and look good next to you at church. She’ll turn the blind eye when you fuck the secretary and even still have dinner ready when you return with an appetite.

1960’s
Susan aka Opinion Woman- The amazing voices-opinion-in-public lady. You got shit? She has something to say about it. Her biggest weakness is pants, but they offer a nice shield for her husband who used to slip in there a bit too easily.

1970’s
Rose aka Lunatic Hippie- With the amazing ability to do a shit ton of LSD and still be able to smoke a shit ton of pot and take down a handle. All while bitching about everything under the sun. And wait, nope, that’s me.

1980’s
She does cocaine.

1990’s
Deborah- That’s just her name, Deborah. And not Debbie, Deborah. She has the extra ability to control a mass transportation device called a mini van. She can also crochet wall decorations in the shape of bunnies and baskets of flowers. Unfortunately she met her demise when she accidentally crocheted a noose and hung herself. This superhero is plagued by weaknesses like the desire to wear flannel and be grunge as fuck.

2000’s
The Amazing Self-Righteous Bitch- Breastfeeding is now a super power, childbearing is now the pinnacle of achievement, filing papers is back to being a career again. She has that career, that bachelors degree and her kids are better than yours by far. She also takes art classes at the local YMCA, didn’t you know? She’s really starting to hone her skill at still lifes. Don’t even fucking confront this bitch on Pizza Hut night, she’ll cut your balls off.

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If we get serious for a moment, I can list all of the qualities I’d like to see in a current female superhero: smart, cute (but not overly cute,) flawed, stand-alone, not plagued by men or frailties associated with her gender. In other words, not Bella Swan.

Also, to what extent would introducing females (or any genuine characters, really) back into the realm of mainstream comics help today’s floundering youth? Might these problems stem from the fact that television and Ronald McDonald are our most trusted babysitters?

What could we possibly do to get kids back into reading things that keep their interest, are well-written, feature genuine heroes, and aren’t Twilight? We already see some promise in the introduction of the new black/latino kid who takes over for Spiderman after he is killed by the Green Goblin in an alternate universe spin off. Better yet, what could we do to get girls interested in anything beyond being princesses?

By posting this, Blogological is now on some sort of FBI child pornographers list.

I think about modern superheroes in the wake of these insane riots all over London, sparked by what appears to be a complete misunderstanding. Youth are rising up from their middle class homes and quaint London apartments to loot TV’s and burn property to the ground. Once again, for seemingly no reason whatsoever.

One minute they’re partying, going to work, having lunch with friends, and the next they’re animals destroying the windows of shops to steal DVD players. This is especially ridiculous when segments about this come immediately after segments about children and families starving to death and dying in Somalia.

What better time for a genuine superhero? I’m not saying someone should descend and kick their asses, I’m just wondering what the hell kind of culture we have these days that produces youth who don’t give a fuck enough to think a week or two into the future or use simple logic.

I imagine a superhero with a knack for responsibility and logic, who’s the kind of smart ass who can shut down some dickhead and make him drop the television he stabbed a 12 year old for.

The media we present to children and youth could have some profound effects on the type of people they’ll be some day, so maybe it’s time to get our heads from our asses and make some real heroes. Real mainstream heroes who know all about the bullshit of life. And maybe make some female ones, too.

Blogological travels deep into YouTube and dies just a little...

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 22:14:16 -0600

Blogological travels deep into YouTube and dies just a little inside.

I cannot fathom what is the most shameful part of this contraption for a dog. Is it the inflating poop accordion? The closely-hugging anal frame? The around-the-waist ass ring suspenders? Or could it be, just maybe, the fact that after your poor dog walk-craps on the sidewalk, you quickly seal the poo up and then STICK IT IN THE EMBARRASSING, RED SHITPACK strapped onto its back?

A Brief Bitching

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 16:36:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

This week in conducting meaningful conversations….

Things not to confuse the major Psychology with or bring up when someone tells you they are majoring or did major in Psychology:

1. Mind reading and other similar bullshit.

“Whoa, are you like, totally reading my mind right now?”
I think the word you’re thinking of is ”psychic” and no, such skills are not taught at accredited universities. If I seriously just spent 4 years of school and thousands of dollars so that I could listen to the fly buzzing around in your skull, I’m just going to walk off a cliff. Next question.

2. “Figuring people out”.
No solitary statement pisses me off more. In all the history of mankind, no one has “figured out” anyone else or even come close to “figuring out” how people work mentally. It shouldn’t be the goal of anyone in psychology to “figure out” people. If you tell me this is why you like psychology, I’ll tell you I’ve figured out that you’re a fucking moron.

3. Sigmund Freud
He’s a hack, his research was biased and none of his methodologies have ever been proved effective in clinical research for therapy. THE END. If you try and tell me he was a genius because he was interesting, I’ll tell you he’s a genius just like the shit I took this morning was a genius. It looked interesting. If you try and tell me he’s the father of psychology, or that he made psychology what it is today, I’ll ask you where your mother lives so I can slap the shit out of her.

4. Bullshit popular psychology.
Yes, I know Oprah told you to write out a list of goals for the day, garden more, paint your nails brighter colors, drink milk after sex, stand on one foot every morning and light a candle while chanting mantras or whatever, and I’m here to tell you you’re a vapid, mindless drone.

5. Donnie Darko, A Beautiful Mind, Memento or any other fucking movie that features a mental disorder.
It’s a movie. About a person with a rare mental disorder. We’ve all seen it, we all know it’s “cool”. It’s like saying to an architect, “Hey, did you see Inception, there’s totally shit about architecture in that movie, was that your inspiration for becoming an architect?” Don’t be an idiot.

6. The Psych 101 class you took back in undergrad.
Yes of course, that brilliant, mind-blowing course where you sit and learn paths of cognition, basic features of the brain and limited information on mental disorders. I don’t give a crap what you learned. There’s not a person alive who’s been through undergrad and not taken that stupid course. I don’t even remember what I learned in that course.

7. Your boyfriend’s friend’s dog’s trainer’s girlfriend who has A, B or C mental disorder.
I don’t know anything about this person. I can’t tell you anything at all about it. Don’t get pissy with me when I tell you I don’t know anything about it. Stop telling me all about it, because I doubt you know this person either.

8. Your own A, B or C mental disorder, phobia or clinical depression.
I told you I majored in Psychology, not the art of becoming a trash dump for your drama. No, I don’t care what medications you take.

A Brief Bitching

Tue, 19 Jul 2011 15:30:00 -0600

Today’s topic: Google+ and how much is too much.
Posted by Laura

A friend of mine graciously extended an invite to me and I accepted. I spent some time browsing around the new site.

I’ve been using gmail for ages. I’ve been using it since back when it required an invite and it was just emerging from its “professionals only” stage and getting popular with former aol and hotmail users. My generation kicked off the social networking craze. The internet was just becoming a mainstream pasttime when I was in gradeschool. Chat rooms, AOL instant messenger and online journals were the place to be in Jr. High and High School, where I soaked up every last word my friends typed and carefully crafted responses while hiding behind the dim glow of our hurky house computer that I practically had to peddle at to keep running.

But today, today I felt something entirely new upon launching yet another profile and filling in yet more bullshit information about myself and trying to come up with witty one-liners for “About Me’s” and “Taglines”. I felt a lump starting to form in my stomach and experienced a level of apathy I haven’t before, even after browsing twitter and the thousands of useless statuses, even after the facebook roaming and the blog posting and the picture stalking. I’ve done it. I’ve finally reached my social networking breaking point.

Google+ has it all. It can sync to your facebook, your twitter, your blog, your youtube, your myspace, your music page, your fake music label, your blog all about yourself in the third person, likely is always watching your cat to make sure it isn’t doing cute things that need to be filmed and probably fingers you while you’re asleep. If it could suck my cock and make me a cup of coffee, it would almost rival my Wii.

You can organize your friends into little “circles” which I’ll call “body piles”.

Where you drag their face and rank them. See, google+ already has some circles created for you like “Friends” “Family” and “Coworkers” so you can limit what you share with certain people and your boss doesn’t get that photo of your tits that was meant for…I don’t know, everyone else. But you can also create your own circles. Meaning you can organize your “friends” how you know you already see them. Such as:

Friends Who Matter
One Person in World Who Is Allowed to See My Tits
Friends Who Don’t Matter

The latter body pile is pretty large. I just drag their dead weight in there and leave it be, hoping it’ll just go away before it starts to stink.

Alright, so I organized my maybe 10 friends currently on google+ and already I’m feeling kind of like a tool for even taking the time to do it, but I press on anyway. Now it’s asking me if I would like to have my location tracked on my phone so my equally clueless friends can see me inadvertently check in at the Possum Posse show or Golden Corral or Hairy Twatter the Nerdy Bikini Wax Salon. At this rate my phone might also just somehow take a video of me and post it too, and by the time I’m going back for seconds on carved turkey I’m the laughing stock of my, ugh…one friend currently online. Alright so I like a little endless free soft serve and chicken legs after my Possum Posse, fuck off.

This is about the point I got scared. Somewhere along the line in installing google apps to my iPhone, it found my number and was now sending me links to add the Google+ app. My phone had also defaulted to leave my tracking device on.

After successfully shutting that down I get to uploading a photo (or more) of myself and writing witty catchlines to go under my name for all to see and chuckle at. And apparently I can also write bullshit posts and things just like on Facebook, only it’ll update those for me as well.

With my head swimming, I turned to the internet for advice. I googled “what the hell do I do with google+” (irony check) and a myriad of forums come up discussing what features are best, what to turn on and off, how to tweak it just so and rub it in the right spots until it comes.

Then I realized, Jesus titty fucking, I don’t even care anymore. Life is bullshit. No one gives a shit what I have to say because I don’t give a shit what anyone else has to say. We’re all going to get caught up in this tangled web of nonsense to the point where what we say won’t even matter anymore, because we say way too much shit for far too much of the day. We’re far too obsessed with how to be read or heard online, or whether or not our friends know where we currently are or what we’re currently thinking.

Voicing my concerns to my boyfriend, he replies with the following quote:
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, mystical, naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix…” -Allen Ginsberg, “Howl”

5 Reasons To Cancel Your Cable (That You Probably Haven't Thought Of)

Thu, 14 Jul 2011 15:00:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

My internet got shut off at my apartment last weekend. About 3 people paid another person to use their wireless signal and they up and moved and unplugged it all one morning, leaving me to consume my morning cocktail bleary-eyed in front of a Netflix-less blank screen and scratch my ass in confusion. I’m sure there are plenty of things I could have done in my apartment like, ugh, have a knife fight with the sentient dish-organism living in my sink or hop on my Wii Fit to be guilt tripped by some adorable little character about the 0.5lbs I’d gained, but why do that when I needed to check important shit, like blogs… and news… and cute baby animals?

After searching for any open local signals and going as far as to attempt to hack my phone and set up a hot-spot without having to pay Verizon for it, off I went to my moms until the drunkards in my apartment complex started rubbing shit together to make fire and someone set up some internet. I would, really I would, but I’m moving in a month.

I came in to my mom in her usual spot, parked in front of the TV watching prime time shows and local news and commercials (mostly that last one, it would seem). After a weekend of that I realized that not only is TV unbearable to even watch, it’s now on my list of the top 5 things that are most wrong with society today.

“Breaking local news, a birthday clown attends a child’s birthday party and some children are entertained while others cried, more at 10.”

I’m not trying to get on a high horse here, I used to have cable. A few years back my ex and I, upon seeing our Comcast bill nearly reach $180, realized that maybe we didn’t need to sit and be sold Swiffers and suspiciously nondescript prescription drugs every night. So we shut it down (to the confusion of Comcast) and our TV sat dark and dusty.

For a couple of weeks I missed it. The drone of the voices, the ability to just veg out in front of it in my underwear. I sat bored and looked around my apartment blankly. But pretty soon the boredom led to some else: learning to entertain myself. At first, I was just hopping on my bike and going around the neighborhood because there was nothing better to do, then that escalated to hopping on my bike and going to the nearest park to read, then that escalated to continuing to read at home, setting up things to photograph, organizing, writing, making collages, sewing… and the list goes on. The world was a fresh, new place with a myriad of things to do every night. Granted, I was forced to do them to avoid losing my mind, but they were now things I enjoyed doing.

Now you might be saying “But Laura! The internet is the same thing!” It’s a pretty stupid place to be most of the time, yes, but it’s not quite the same thing. It just depends on what you do with it. The internet has the added benefit of forcing you to read, and it also lets you pick and choose what you want to watch, read, or hear and when. You have to actively search.

I spend 75% of my time on the internet reading. With inventions like Netflix, where you can watch any show or any movie you ever wanted on a whim without commercials, why would anyone ever pay to watch Family Guy re-runs and ads for local colleges?

So here’s my self-righteous and probably presumptuous list of reasons why it’s time for Americans to turn the stupid TV off:

1. Listening to people talk about what they watched on TV last night is depressing as fuck.

We all have our favorite shows. I have one or two series that I keep up with online. When the episode comes out, I simply go online and watch it, the end. When you turn on the TV to watch the show you want to watch, it turns a 30 minute show into an hour-long show because you’re being sold extra large pizzas for the whole family and Rascals from a guy with (say it with me now) diabeetus. Not to mention you have to specifically plan out your day and put this block of time aside for your own brainwashing. Besides, you’re already on the couch, so why not continue and watch whatever stupid crap comes on next? (It’s Two and a Half Men, by the way. It’s always Two and a Half Men.)

But seriously, everyone has them. Friends who seem to do nothing but watch TV. They even go to the extent to have parties over stupid bullshit like American Idol and The Biggest Loser. Let’s sit for a moment and soak up the irony of Americans sitting on their asses watching people lose weight on TV. Admit it, you just like watching Jillian Michaels ride fat people around like horses as they vomit down the front of their shirts.

But nothing is more depressing than coming in to work in the morning and listening to your coworkers gab about what happened on last night’s Bachelorette or whatever stupid reality show is popular these days, only to later listen to them complain about their weight, lack of boyfriends (as you’re well aware my office is all women), or lack of excitement in their lives. Can’t anyone talk about a good book, or what’s on the news that day, or the fact that half of this office does not have health insurance?

“OMG did you see Bachelorette last night!?”
“No I was puking up blood and frantically searching WebMD.”

Watching TV is not a hobby, nor does anyone else give the slightest fuck what you watch. You just came into work and admitted you spent your post-dinner time on the couch watching Jillian Michaels crack a whip over some morbidly obese person’s fat rolls. The world is a sad, sad place to be. Which brings me to my next point…

2. The TV is probably your best friend, sadly.

While this article paints this aspect of television in a positive light, let’s sit back and think about this. If TV is good at supplementing social interaction and fending off our loneliness, what do we do when we’re facing genuine social interaction? Oh that’s right, we talk about TV.

“A common experience following a threat to interpersonal relationships, such as a fight, or social rejection, is lowered self-esteem and negative mood. However, the researchers found that those participants who experienced a relationship threat and then watched their favorite TV show were buffered against the blow to self-esteem, negative mood, and feelings of rejection.”

Replace “watched their favorite TV show” in that sentence with “drank their favorite cocktail” or “ate an entire sleeve of oreos” or “rolled a big fat blunt” or “did another line” and this is all starting to make some sense. TV itself isn’t as bad as all those things, but the sloth that accompanies it just might be…on a broader and more long-term scale. And not to continually bring up the state of America’s health, but it may be that the one “drug” causing the downfall of society isn’t an actual drug (or junk food) at all; it is the very device the entire country tunes into hear about what drug is causing the downfall of society.

What on earth did depressed, lonely people do before TV? Before drug companies provided a wide array of prescription drugs for treating loneliness and depression?

They masturbated. One more point for internet.

3. Commercials highlight everything that is wrong with our society.

Remember when commercials used to just sell shit? They’d put the product on the screen and sing a little jingle, and when it came time to pick between that and the other product at the store, you’d hear that jingle in the deep depths of your subconscious and pick that product. Or if you’re me, dig to find the cheapest, shittiest stuff possible because you’re broke.

Should have just continued to rip pages out of that Oprah magazine.

But now we’re treated to short little stories, non-stop sex, or any other elaborate method that marketers can think of to keep you entertained while still selling their product. Commercials these days feature snide, spoiled little children, asshole adults and a wide array of characters that are becoming as famous as TV actors.

All in all, the point is to make the average suburban family feel as if they NEED these things or they’re not the right kind of family. Get these expensive SUV’s with TV’s in them, so your kid can remain glued to the screen for the five minute drive to the Taco Bell (and never learn to recognize any major landmarks in their own hometown.) Buy these goddamn “dark colored” indoor trash bags. Get it? It’s so you don’t have to look at the trash while you’re looking at the trash. Don’t they already have this? It’s called a lawn and leaf bag.

Apparently this is a genuine concern of people today.

Commercials don’t just sell products anymore, they sell ridiculous, useless bullshit that just takes more money from your wallet. Judging by our commercials alone, we’re fat, we’re lazy, we’re self-absorbed, we’re obsessed with beer and our children rule the world.

MOAR.

4. It’s ruining your baby’s future.

No one would argue that kids watch too much TV these days, but as it turns out, babies watch too much as well and it’s destroying their development. The bigger problem? The things babies watch come from shows marketed as “developmentally helpful” and meant to turn your baby into a genius. Had anyone buying these products or the developers taken 15 minutes to look at child development research, they’d see that any child under the age of 3 receives approximately zero stimulation from moving images on a screen.

Children require play and interaction to learn the world around them and develop normally. But this brings me back to my original point: we’re seriously lazy. So lazy that we’re letting our TVs raise our kids (given the above article, I guess that’s the same as letting your best friend raise your kid.) Point is, TV has just crossed the line from sad to downright intrusive.

Also known to suck them up and chew them like jerky. Those poor, poor children.

I may be biased because I spent a year and a half researching child language development, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize you need to spend time with your children. If they’re out of control, then that’s your problem and you’re a terrible parent.

5. Your cable box sucks up more energy than any other electronic device in your home.

And it’s constantly on and running, even when your TV is off and you’re not watching it.

Let’s ignore the social problems TV simultaneously causes and supplements and just focus on the entertainment system itself. Turns out it’s a gaudy, energy sucking piece of shit. While some people have taken up a massive effort to use less energy and recycle and re-use, it turns out your cable box alone has been the most wasteful piece of garbage in your home.

“One high-definition DVR and one high-definition cable box use an average of 446 kilowatt hours a year, about 10 percent more than a 21-cubic-foot energy-efficient refrigerator, a recent study found.”

So, I ask America this, how far will you go to save energy? Recycle that cable box and shut it all down? Sit with your family and have a conversation instead?

Let’s break it down:
Your cable box is sucking up your energy, it’s supplementing your human interactions, it’s selling you crap, all the shows you watch are on the internet (which you likely also have), it’s ruining your children, it’s ruining your babies and on top of all of this, you’re paying out the ass for it.

THE CHOICE IS YOURS.

We May Have Found the Worst Sweater Ever

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 15:59:00 -0600

Posted by Nicole

I fear we may have found the worst sweater ever.

It’s horrible in a subtle way, a way that makes you grab it in the Goodwill, hold it up to your blog wife, and laugh. It’s so bad it makes Bill Cosby’s sweaters vomit.

It’s terrible in a way that, ten minutes later, you find yourself still holding it while you walk through the checkout line.

Look at that thing. It’s so bad, you can’t even wear it ironically, even in the Hipster Capitol of You’ve Probably Never Heard of It, Oregon.

Do not get your picture taken with it. Even after five liters of Franzia, you will still be the fashion equivalent of puppy murder.

A sweater so bad, it gives third world babies cleft palates. It sucks the beauty and life out of everything within a six foot radius. Also, I’m pretty sure I’m barren now.

A sweater so bad, it’s a turtleneck.

A sweater so evil, it forced Laura to take this picture of me, and forced me to put it on the internet.

A sweater so bad, my cat is now plotting my murder.

So please, world. If you come across this sweater, don’t fool yourself into thinking it can toe that line between horrible and humorous. You cannot handle its loathing hate of all that is decent and after-some-Photoshop-kinda-beautiful.

BWAMY: Mighty Morphin Power Rangers

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 15:34:00 -0600

Posted by Nicole

Anyone with Netflix has noticed it, sitting there in the “New Releases” section, innocently beckoning. An instantly streaming window to your past.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am talking about “Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers: The Movie.” So let me introduce a new bi-whenever series called Blogological Watches Awful Movies for You. Or, for the time-constrained: BWAMY.

The movie begins, Star Wars-esque, in space with words scrolling up the screen explaining that ZORDON, and his little helper ALPHA 5, hang out in a tiny discothèque on top of a mountain. They help lead a group of six teenagers, the POWER RANGERS (who will, on occasion, morph mightily,) protect the world by giving them the ability to summon dinosaur robots (“colossal assault vehicles”) called ZORDS. Duh.

SLAM CUT TO: An airplane. We meet our six heroes:

CAST OF CHARACTERS: (from dark to light)

—BLACK RANGER: Some Asian dude named Adam. Zord: Mastodon
“Go go hairy elephant!!”

—BLUE RANGER: White guy named Billy. Zord: Triceratops.
“Go go that bitchy character from Land Before Time!”

—RED RANGER: Another white guy named Rocky. Zord: Tyrannosaurus. They had to give him the coolest Zord because they gave him the lamest name.
“Go go T-Rex! Seriously, guys, stop laughing at my name, I’m trying to become a Power Ranger here.”

—YELLOW RANGER: Only in the show because of affirmative action; the black female named Aisha. Zord: Saber-Toothed Tiger.
“Go go angry kitty!”

—PINK RANGER: Brunette bombshell Kimberly. Zord: Pterodactyl.

“Go go 90s midriff!”

—WHITE RANGER: Dreamboat Tommy of a just-ambiguous-enough-race to still be attractive to the WASP preteen girls watching him. Zord: White tiger, which, I hate to be that person, is not a prehistoric creature.

Tommy gives exactly zero shits that his Zord makes no sense.

Don’t worry about memorizing those, because Rangers #’s Black-Yellow don’t matter. The movie is all about White and Pink. Take the first scene, for example. Rangers Black-Yellow jump out of the plane FIRST, all with their quirky yet forgettable one-liners; but when it’s down to the Final Two, Kimberly clasps Tommy’s shoulder and they share a moment. Aw.

“Don’t you love how Angel Grove condones skydiving high schoolers? I sure do.”

So, after your average, lame, skydiving-onto-a-big-target-on-the-ground-for-charity entrance, our heroes decide they need to be somewhere important. So they strap on the roller blades and, along with a rock tune on the soundtrack, wheel out of there. The Rangers, by not summoning their respective-colored cars to drive away, were protecting the environment before it become cool.

On a scale of one to Spice Girls, how 90s is this screenshot?

For all you who used to watch the show, you may well know that the Power Rangers live in Angel Grove, the only city in the world to have not just one, but six superheroes. Course, it also has a wide assortment of poorly dressed bad guys so it’s not as cool as you’d think. Property values? Way low.

Maybe that’s why some construction people are digging a big hole in the middle of the city and happen to come across what appears to be a big, ancient, decorated man-hole cover in the ground. Naturally, since I’m sure no one here suspects foul play in a city that attracts evil monsters every weekday morning from 9:00 to 9:30, they open the hole.

Up from the ground rises a very foreboding-looking egg with a stone claw wrapped around it. Wisely, the construction workers decide to touch it, and one goes flying just as they determine that touching the egg causes a massive electrical shock.

Like all cities would in a situation like that, they leave it overnight with two rent-a-cops posted on guard.

At the discothèque, ZORDON (it always has to be in caps lock, for some reason) is no fool. He senses the evil in the world and interrupts the Rangers (right in the middle of their roller skating stunts infomercial) by calling Tommy’s watch. Because using Billy’s, Rocky’s, or Adam’s watch? Inconceivable. Using the females’ watches? LAUGHABLE.

“ZORDON, why won’t you love me?”

So when ZORDON calls, you answer. The Rangers beam to the discotheque for a night of drinking and dancing!

Or, they’re there to be ordered to save the world again. ZORDON explains that back in ye olde tymes, about 6,000 or so years ago, an evil man named IVAN OOZE ruled the earth with an iron hand and a great amount of actual purple ooze. Fortunately, the six Rangers back then, in appropriately colored loin clothes I assume, captured him inside an egg (they never really explained why the egg) and buried him so he’d never be set free again.

“But, seriously, what are the chances they buried the egg right in the middle of where Angel Grove will be built thousands of years later?” Aisha asked, completely baffled. Naw, I’m fucking with you. No one questions it. Plus, we all know Aisha isn’t allowed to talk.

This is Aisha for 90% of the movie.

Right then, at the construction site, the bad guys from the TV show appear. You got a guy that looks like a pig (hereinafter PIG MINION since I didn’t catch his name), a guy who looks like a monster with wings (hereinafter WINGED MINION since nobody cares about him), RITA REPULSA (no joke, that’s actually her name on the movie), and LORD Z-SOMEKINDOFEVILNAMETHATBEGINSWITHZ.

Lord Z opens the egg and releases Ivan Ooze from his oozy prison. Oh no!

I just shat my lime green leggings with baggy sweatshirt tucked inside. I hope he doesn’t try to kill my Tamagotchi.

Back in ZORDON’S party house, Alpha 5 interrupts with a useful “eye eye eye!” and dances around in panic as the camera slowly pans over the Rangers’ shocked faces. Why they are shocked still about this sort of stuff, we will never know.

Tommy says something cocky but G-rated about assertively pushing with his foot Ivan’s backside parts, and they beam out of there to the construction site. Ivan’s been released! He has summoned a bunch of evil minions and beamed away unharmed! How come everyone can beam in this world?!

Cue first scene in which our Rangers become their latex-clad, colorful counterparts. It’s not that stimulating, but takes an average of two hours and fifteen minutes to complete.

Tommy: Let’s do it, guys!
All: Right!
Tommy: It’s MORPHIN’ TIME!
(All go through the motions moving their fists and yelling out their Zord species but, remember, no one cares about them.)
Kimberly: Pterodactyl!!
Tommy: White Tiger!!

Who would have guessed a show about superhero teenagers could represent high school so well?

Let us fast forward because I think we all know how this fight ends. Punch punch, comic one-liner, kick punch, hi-ya, punch karate chop, another comic one-liner.

Here we see proof that all other Rangers are pointless but Kimberly and Tommy. Don’t get too excited, ladies: Kimberly’s only purpose is to throw a cumulative total of one punch before becoming cornered and calling for Tommy. Tommy’s purpose is to not only shove off all the minions hoarding him, but to get to Kimberly in time to save her sorry, pink ass.

So the Rangers win, big surprise. But, oh no! While they were fighting, Ivan oozed into ZORDON’S disco and destroyed everything! Without ZORDON’S power, the Rangers melt back into their high schooler selves.

“High schooler” being a very respective term, given that Billy the Blue Ranger looks like a 30-year-old Russian ballet dancer and Tommy looks like he could have four children and a mortgage.

“Guys? According to my watch, we’ve been in high school for 11 years.”

ZORDON, no more a mysteriously translucent face in a time warp cylinder but a bald guy lying on a bed of crystals and wearing what appears to be a silver potato sack, is dying.

…of laughter!

But, wait, um… there just might, maybe, coincidentally, be a Massive Source of Power on another planet that could, possibly, save ZORDON and give the Rangers their powers back. Perhaps.

Alpha 5, who somehow is still alive even though he has the aerobic grace of a lead pipe, uses the last of whatever the hell is still lying around to beam the powerless Rangers to the planet to save ZORDON, who is slowly dying and becoming just Zordon. Or worse: Zordon.

New, from NeurosesBots Inc, the makers of C-3PO, comes the ALPHA 5 model. Now with extra uselessness.

Meanwhile, on the moon where Two-Minions-No-One-Cares-About, Rita, and Lord Z hang in their off time, more trouble is afoot. Ivan appoints himself Emperor of all Evil Things and Lord Z and Rita aren’t gonna have that.

‘Course, they should have thought of that before they released a dude more evil than they. A mild skirmish ensues, and in the end Rita and Lord Z are banished into a snow globe while Pointless Other Minions decide to serve Ivan instead.

You thought I was kidding about the snowglobe, didn’t you?

The Rangers land on the planet and wander around aimlessly until they are yet again attacked, this time by a group of bird-like creatures who will surely make the people who fear the Red Robin shiver. Without their powers, though, the birds begin to win and Tommy is too busy running after Kimberly to work his White Ranger magic.

Fortunately, a Mysterious Figure who has been lurking in the darkness chooses this time to appear and whip off a robe: revealing XENA! WARRIOR PRINCESS!

Power Rangers TV: making your pee-pee tingle since 1993.

Or at least a very liable knock-off. Bikini Warrior uses her Staff of Beauty and Righteousness and All Things Soft and Cuddly Amongst Them Puppies and Certain Rodents to ward off the birds. With the help of Lady Bikini, the Rangers find themselves atop a cliff looking out towards a great monolith that, maybe, has the power inside it. No one has ever really lived to find out.

“So wait… where is The Great Power again?”

Lady Bikini has more news, though. Turns out that every single person has an animal deep inside them and with a little inspirational music and some sparkly dust you can summon up the animal spirit and, I guess, that makes you better somehow. So they close their eyes and magically all become Animal Spirit Samurai Power Rangers (copyright). Same colors, different outfits, and they’re off towards the monolith.

More fast forwarding. They get to the monolith after a quick encounter with evil dinosaur bones and are met by four more evil dudes with weapons. More fighting. Blue Ranger? Who cares? Rocky? Rocky who? What the heck is up with Kimberly and—

Fonts brought to you by the 1990s.

On Earth, Ivan uses his mass-produced ooze to brainwash all the parents of Angel Grove. The kids, naturally, decide it’s time to party. All kids but one, who is suspicious that his dad is missing and has Strong Moral Values (part of a complete breakfast.)

Strong Moral Values Kid finds out that Ivan is building not one, but two Big Evil Machine Creatures. Blah blah, no one cares, so what is up with that kickass White Ranger?

The Rangers defeat those bad guys, Kimberly and Tommy exchange coy smiles, Aisha gets a raise in salary so she doesn’t sue Tommy, Billy does a pirouette, and Adam and Rocky continue to develop their “friendship.”

They open the monolith and discover that, gasp, the Massive Source of Power just so happens to be a blending of all their animal spirit powers. Thusly empowered for the second time that day, they beam back to earth.

Angel Grove has got some serious issues. Ivan’s two Evil Machine Creatures have destroyed a great majority of the city, all the kids are dancing at a restaurant somewhere doing blow off each other’s hairless chests, and the brainwashed adults are slowly staggering towards a cliff Ivan ordered them to jump off of.

“A fucking cliff? Really? In the middle of a city? Jesus, I can’t wait to graduate.”

Strong Moral Values Kid tells all the partying youngsters that their parents are walking toward certain death! Let’s go save ‘em! Why do you guys have all that white under your noses?

“Seriously. ‘Cause if there’s free donuts I can stay for a bit.”

The Rangers, a couple hours later, have just finished summoning their Animal Spirit Samurai Zords and have combined to become Animal Spirit Samurai MagaZord, LLC, and since Earth cannot contain that much awesome, the fight takes place out in space instead. Finally, the showdown. Ivan versus the Rangers. By now, you should be on the edge of your seat, audience, since we honestly have no idea where this will go.

The Rangers and Ivan are entangled and drifting through space, right in the path of a comet. A Ranger That’s Neither Kimberly Nor Tommy decides to hit the “Emergency” button…

“Wait, has anyone noticed this button? Maybe I should just….”

…which causes the MegaZord to knee Ivan in the robodick.

Aw yeah. Right in the purple-ooze-maker.

Hilarity ensues as Ivan collides with the comet and is blown to smithereens.

Quality family movie.

Of course, the parents are one step away from the cliff’s edge right as Ivan’s Ooze spell is lifted. The parents look around with free eyes, and do what I know I would do after surfacing from a brainwashing stint: laugh and hug everyone around me.

“I swear, Roger, if i get brainwashed and try to commit suicide 14 or 15 more times, I’m outta here.”

Yay. The city’s rebuilt overnight and the Rangers, back in their high school aliases, are eating dinner together while reflecting over the events of the day with SMV Kid. Probably should mention this is all happening during a celebratory, The-City-Is-Still-Intact fireworks show that Angel Grove hurriedly threw together.

The Rangers and SMV Kid smile and talk about how thank goodness the Power Rangers were there to save everyone.

Oh, right. Forgot to mention the Rangers use their Deus Ex Machina MegaZord powers to save ZORDON, too.

They all laugh and watch the fireworks, and we get the one piece of romantic action we’ve been desperately waiting for the entire movie, aside from Adam and Rocky throwing aside all pretenses and just making out already: Kimberly places her head on Tommy’s shoulder. More smiles. Somebody’s getting some action tonight while his wife is at home breast-feeding quadruplets.

He’s going to “show her his great power,” if ya know what I mean. His “monolith.” His “penis,” if you will.

….and she so will.

Roll credits. Blink heavily. Drink more cough syrup. Repeat.

A Brief Bitching

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 15:33:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

We are starting a new segment, previously titled “Sounding Off” and now titled “A Brief Bitching.” This will be a brief post bitching about some daily occurrence, article, or any poor sad sack of a victim who falls in our radar.

Today the victim is you, unnamed female Budget Office employee.

Feel free to respectfully tell me your opinion about tattoos, but if you call them “disgusting” in front of me I’m inclined to tell you to pull the stick from your ass and screw yourself with it.

Crawl back to suburbia, eat some Bennigans, and watch some prime time crap before weeping yourself to sleep, thanks. Then when you wake up at 2:38 am because of your irritable bowel, go ahead and take a long look before you flush. Know that the contents of your decimated toilet bowl accurately represent what everyone thinks of your opinion on this unobtrusive and pretty mainstream form of self-expression.

Offices, Vaginas, and Vaginas in Offices

Fri, 24 Jun 2011 16:50:00 -0600

Posted by Laura

If you haven’t already noticed, a consistent theme of this blog will be to make fun of office life, office work and all the asshattery therein. It’s easy for someone who has never worked in an office/cubicle setting to imagine what office work might be like. Something like the movie Office Space but less exaggerated, right? Well I’m here to tell you it’s exactly like the movie Office Space only the levels of bullshit often go even deeper. Inches and inches deeper into deep, dark areas of your backside to expose that one species of bacteria in your colon that hisses and coils up when light hits it. It exists, trust me. Not only does it go deeper but if you work for any government job, it’s using your tax dollars to do it.

Naturally, I was delighted to see the following pamphlet for a conference in my boss’ mailbox:

“Create the highest, grandest vision possible for your life because you become what you believe.” Now you too can pull that child from your tit and become what you’ve always dreamed, another woman in another office sending yet another email. Learn all the secrets for $150! Right from the student activities fund. BAM.

Office life is hard shit. But apparently it’s even harder to write emails, fill in paperwork and eat catering when you’re doing it with a vagina. IOfbwbvuvbiowou v90uy23r Oh sorry, that was just my huge tits flopping onto the keyboard and preventing me from working efficiently (see post about boobs). But guess what, women of the office world, this conference is here to fix all your self-esteem problems and office feng shui issues. It boasts about help with it all: Communication! Assertiveness! Conflict management! More!

I’m not much in the way of a feminist because it’s a dangerous word that means a lot of different things to different people. Don’t get me wrong, women have historically been mistreated in the work place and to this day receive less pay on average. There are offices out there with glaring sexism issues, and this office isn’t one of them, or at least not for the reasons you might think.

My Office Breakdown:

This place is a taco stand. If a male walked in here right now who wasn’t named Enrico his eyes would start watering from the mixture of perfumes laying heavy in the air, he’d slip on a tampon someone dropped on the ground and he’d stumble forwards to face plant right in someone’s bowl of Dove Dark Chocolate Bliss candies right before they threw aside the copy of Twilight they were reading on their lunch break to get on their knees to thank God a man has finally landed in their life and asking him if he likes the wedding colors they picked.

I see conferences like the one described in this pamphlet as counterproductive. It’s like saying “Hey, I’m a woman and I need my office environment to be catered to me and my special needs but don’t treat me differently or you’re a sexist pig.” I mean, for fucks sake, it’s office work. It requires a baseline level of consciousness somewhere between watching Jersey Shore and taking a nap.

Conferences like this are in place to reassure women of the office world that they’re doing important things and going important places. This one is set up into little “workshops” lead by “inspiring women” designed to push you to success. But here’s what these workshops are really saying when you read between the lines…

Session 1: How to keep difficult people from ruining your day…
-Take charge of difficult situations and impossible people.
-You can express anger in healthy, constructive ways.
-How to manage the anxiety that goes hand in hand with difficult encounters.
-5 fears that keep women from confronting people who rub them the wrong way.

What this is really saying: Women just need to grow dicks already.

Women are emotional creatures who could snap at any moment. What with all these hormones and bleeding and baby baking and tits in the way of our faces, it’s a wonder we manage to successfully interact with anyone throughout the day at all. Successfully managing our rage AND keeping our tampons from falling out is just taking it to new levels of extreme. According to this conference there are “bullies, dictators and con-artists” ready to ruin your career at every turn and you’ll need the anti-boner-killing skills of someone likely named Debra or Tina to get you back on track. Wipe those tears, put in a new tampon, put down that cake and replace it with some low-fat yoplait because it’s time to go win at life, in the conference room at 3 o’clock because we’re all having cake and ice cream to celebrate Stefanie’s baby announcement.

Session 2: Are you doing what you love—or even loving what you’re doing?
-You CAN develop a passion for your work!
-How to find out what’s really important to you.
-Answering the Big One: Am I living the way I want to live?

What this is really saying: Let’s not kid ourselves, we all secretly know this is bullshit.

I cannot imagine what could possibly be said by any stranger at a conference like this to convince me that I can have a passion for filling out paperwork or that attending training sessions for new Human Resource portals is my calling in life. If I were the speaker of this session I’d have every last one of those women calling their husbands and children to say goodbye and walking off naked into the sunset within 25 minutes. This section boasts “proven” ways to bring value into your present position. This is another way of saying your current position has such little value we have to dig deep into our bag of tricks to delude you into thinking it does. This is just depressing, in every way. There better be booze, or at least a couple of women in the back row casually advertising a lesbian orgy at their hotel room later.

Session 3: Personalize your workspace to feed your spirit…
-How the placement of items on your desk can affect your mood and ability to get things done.
-What hidden messages is your work environment sending? Decode your decor.
-How color, furniture placement, greenery and lighting can affect your vitality and enthusiasm.

What this is really saying: Go purchase as much bullshit as possible. Desk toys, yodeling pickles (Nicole and I’s office totally had a yodeling pickle that she made leiderhosen for), brickabrack, and nonsense like the world has never seen. Bug the shit out of your other coworkers with it and sit at your desk with a shit eating grin like you’re the funniest person alive while everyone in the room secretly wants to strangle you with your own intestines. Make sure your children’s smiling faces are plastered in front of whoever is visiting your office.

Jesus christ, working in an office is more complicated than I ever thought possible. I used to sit at a desk that a retiree worked at a couple of days a week. Between the dusty dolls, jars of years old candy and baggies of snacks, it was a miracle I didn’t break anything. On occasion I flat out threw away things that were scaring the shit out of me and she never even noticed. If there’s a way to make filing worksheets, hanging pictures and using basic office supplies like pens and staplers complicated, women will find it. I took the liberty to draw what my ideal office would look like….

You’re goddamn right. A shittily drawn cartoon bed that defies all perspective rules. If I were to list the things that would make my current office tolerable it would involve breaking down a wall so I would have a window, a mini bar, and likely involve me getting drunk from the mini bar and streaking off naked into the city through the hole in my wall.

Session 4: Presenting yourself as a woman who’s going places….
-Why your personal appearance plays an important role in whether you’re taken seriously at what you do.
-How to foster an appearance that shows you’re in command, yet approachable.
-How to project an image of self-confidence and assertiveness without seeming “pushy”.

What this is really saying: Don’t dress like a slut, a redneck or a slutty redneck.

For people like Nicole and I who share the exact same obscure bra size, clothes can get complicated but not complicated enough to make wearing something “office appropriate” hard. Like I’ve said before, it’s a goddamn office and I’ve seen everything pulled off. Hell I’ve stumbled in here in shit resembling pajamas on more than one occasion and no one noticed. I’m currently in a black baby doll dress with holey fishnet stockings and someone said I looked cute. “My my Laura does that banana suit really bring out the green in your eyes. Wherever did you get the idea to pair that with military-grade combat boots and draw dicks on your face, I wish I had your confidence and ability to pull things off.” Nothing phases them. When you’re surfing the internet in a chair all day, that Calvin Klein suit isn’t going to make a damn bit of difference.

Session 5: How to communicate like a pro.
-Tips for delivering confident, powerful and persuasive presentations.
-How to present your ideas to upper management.
-You don’t have to be pushy to get your point across.

What this is really saying: Like with everything else, vaginas get in the way of you simply interacting with other human beings in successful ways.

I took the liberty of making some images to help women with their communication problems in the workplace:

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Right.

8 Reasons Why Having Big Boobs Blows

Tue, 21 Jun 2011 16:05:00 -0600

Posted by Nicole
With supplemental cynicism by Laura

I just got back from the dark recesses of the bra section at Kohls, and like all bra-shopping trips I take, I feel like I’ve learned more about myself and about the world. Namely, how most guys (and girls too, I’m assuming) think big boobs are the tits (figuratively.)

They aren’t. I got 8 reasons why, and not just because 8 looks like a pair of sideways boobs. Though, hmm… funny.

8.) Say goodbye to low cut shirts if you ever want to have eye contact with another human being again.

It doesn’t matter what kind of bra you’re wearing or your posture. If you stand up straight, you find your boobies entering the room several minutes before you do, and if you slouch you’re just creating primo cleavage viewing conditions.

I’ve also become accustomed to the occasional boob gaze. If I’m showing them, I’m not going to give you the boner-killing death stare for a casual glance. Anything longer than a passing glance, however, I’ll say something horrible about nipple hair just to get you back on track.

And yes, I have had people from all walks of life direct their speech to my boobs like they’re my personal translators. Men, women, babies. Those sneaky babies.

7.) You know what? Say goodbye to high cut shirts too.

“Oh yeah, Nicole,” I imagine you saying since the only people who read this blog are imaginary. “Sounds really tough for you.” Well, let me also mention that wearing high cut shirts is out too.

Somehow, it turns out if you wear a crew neck shirt with a decent rack, it makes the funbags appear even bigger. It’s like having a large person wearing a super large jersey to disguise himself. We’re not fooling anyone, DudeWithJersey. Not to mention you spend a grand majority of your day pulling the top of your shirt down so your bellybutton doesn’t show.

6.) Clothes assume: you big tatas = you fatty boombalatty.

Since this whole post is an overshare, I should probably let you know that I’m not fat. My bra size is a 34DD. That is the holy grail of bra sizes in that (a) men have died in an effort to hold it and (b) it’s impossible to find.

I look at those cheap bra sections in department stores with a lustful jealousy. I see some skinny 13 year old fingering an A cup and bitching to her mom about how small she is, and I just want to give her a running-start-flying-elbow to the face. Buying a shirt that fits on both halves of my torso correctly and can pass off as “kinda fashionable” or above is like an epic quest of Tolkien proportions.

If I find a shirt that fits over the ladies, I must also be pregnant with a pregnant baby to properly fit my waist into it. If I find a shirt that hugs around my waist, my boobs are squished in so tightly that my left nipple is under my armpit and my right is smashed up against my back somewhere.

5.) Button-up shirts are cruel jokes.

I haven’t worn a button-up shirt correctly since my kajungas inflated seemingly overnight back in high school. I always have to have a cami underneath (a real cami, not this sort of bullshit) because all buttons above my underbust are merely decorative.

Let me take this moment to apologize to: that last straining button below my bustline.

And my mom said nothing good can come of putting pictures of your boobs on the internet.

That’s the one I can only button in the morning before breakfast during a very deep exhale. I know all day you will courageously soldier on, even after I’ve accidentally killed so many of your brethren. Thanks, pal.

Let’s say I do manage to find a button up shirt that fits over my chest AND isn’t an XXXXXXXL. Well, then you get the bonus “peep hole” effect.

It’s there so my boob troll can see what’s happening throughout the day.

I call it the “Michael Bay Hole” since it looks like at any moment your boobs could explode out of your shirt in slow motion.

4.) Bra companies assume: Any woman with a cup greater than C will never have to take her shirt off in front of someone.

See, for girls B cup and below, bras are just cutesy little accessories that they don’t really need. Mere decorations to augment and impress. For anyone D cup and above, however, bras are industrial-safety-code-compliant harnesses, meant to keep your chesticals from flying out of control (before they gain sentience and murder someone.)

All my bra shopping trips start the same and end the same.

I start in the section with the cute bras, with polka dots and fancy lacy thingabobs and only two hook closures on the back.

Awww! It’s so cute!

By the end of the trip, I have journeyed so deep into the bra section that not even the helpful salesladies with their measuring tape could find me before my forgotten corpse began to smell. Finally, I have found the DD section! The only problem?

OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS IT???

Any D or DD bra must look so unflattering that even the armless mannequin that is modeling it looks like it should be tagged with a tranquilizer dart and released out onto the African savannah.

I mean, look at that fucker! Assuming I could even make through airport security with all the metal that must be sewn in there, I would be safe to use one cup of this monstrosity as a parachute should the plane go down.

Cute colors? Nope, your bra is made from the finest in white or flesh-colored drapes. Lace? Nope, federal regulations forbid importing a lace shipment of that magnitude. Finally got a guy who’s interested? Better bring a sudoku book to the bed while he spends three hours cursing and fumbling before he can finish rounding first base.

3.) You know how big boobs are distracting? Well, imagine if those things were attached to your chest.

Hell, I’ll admit it. Even sometimes I get distracted by these things. I could be wearing a particularly lovely push up bra that works so well that when my neck becomes strained I can just nestle my chin ‘twixt my tits and have a quick nap. I could be absentmindedly poking at them out of boredom as someone comes strolling into my office.

The point is, having two jiggly things right in below your eyeline would distract even the best of us. Bonus distraction: finding any intact foodstuffs you accidentally dropped down there during breakfast and having your boss walk in while you’re executing retrieval procedures.

2.) Your bras become your children.

Bras are expensive. They require maintenance. You have to wash them and care for them like livestock. Before you know it, they’ve all developed their own personalities and worse, you actually begin to notice.

There’s the bra you wear because it makes your boobs look smaller. The bra you wear because it makes them nice and perky. The one sexy bra that you won at Victoria’s Secret’s semi-annual bloodbath/sale after you kneed some plastic, top-heavy robo-blonde in the vaginaplasty. The black one you wear with black shirts, the fleshy one you wear with white shirts, the white one you can’t wear with anything and you wonder why you bought it in the first place.

1.) The knowledge that the future is coming.

Sure, I whine now. But I know it’s coming.

I dread the day when I wake up, feel something tickling my feet, lift up the covers and find that gravity has finally won the battle. I dread the day I’ll have to heave these suckers over my shoulder before I chop veggies on the counter.

The day I realize I’ll have to tuck my boobs into my socks before I go biking.

The day I… okay, what the hell, internet?!?!

That will be the day I will be grateful for that basketball transporter/modified tablecloth bra up there.

An Average FB Chat with Laura and Nicole

Tue, 21 Jun 2011 11:32:45 -0600

(Two shady Budget Office characters, both of whom are liable to snap and burn down the place at any moment, are lingering outside the boss's door, making awkward conversation. Laura reports the situation to Nicole because that's just what we do.)

Laura: Yeah, they're just standing outside her office, making awkward conversation as I sit here all uncomfortably, beads of sweat falling down my face.

Nicole: Every click of the clock behind you echoing throughout your brain slowly...

Laura: My hands clenching slowly around the pen I'm holding, my eyes rolling into the back of my head...

Nicole: The copier behind you sparking as it shorts out dramatically over the sounds of your heavy breathing...

Laura: The clock slows down and stops as the paint starts peeling from the walls and all I see is their mouths moving up and down in slow motion...

Nicole: Your entire office buckles under the pressure, swallowing you up into a gigantic sinkhole...

Laura: My chair is ripped out from under me and I fall backwards into the blackhole created by the copier imploding...

Nicole:...Then the clock hits 12 and you head out for a two hour lunch.

Only in Portland. No, this picture isn’t from the bowels...

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 21:06:00 -0600

Only in Portland. No, this picture isn’t from the bowels of the internet. I actually took it, which means this outfit totally exists.

Photo

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 10:00:00 -0600

In response to this hilarious book, Nicole came up with the...

Thu, 16 Jun 2011 08:34:00 -0600

In response to this hilarious book, Nicole came up with the idea to write our own book; Please Don’t Shit Your Pants

The schoolyard is filled with kids so pouting:
Filled with ‘no’s,’ ‘uh-uh’s,’ and ‘can’t’s.’
Jesus, you’re kidding me, we just started this outing!
No, just a little further…. please don’t shit your pants! -Nicole

We’re already gone, packed up the car
With sites and great monuments at a glance,
You just went back at McDonalds don’t tell me this shit,
Rest stop in 15 miles…please don’t shit your pants! -Laura

We rush to the bathroom, perhaps we’re not too late,
Just throw off your pants and sit!
What the hell is that smell? Oh, fucking great!
I just bought these pants… now so filled with shit. -Nicole

Huffing and puffing we run through Wal-Mart
Why the hell is grandma in the rascal so slow.
That’s the last time we eat at Casa Bonita,
Out of my way fuckers, this kid’s gonna blow. -Laura

I… goddamn… motherfuck… I just… I can’t…
There’s shit, just,fucking God, EVERYWHERE, I swear.
Honey, can you just… I can’t handle her right now.
Take a deep breath… the fuck…? IT’S IN MY HAIR!! -Nicole

Off into Disneyland, why the hell are we here again
Is that princess costume I bought you sagging?
It looks like lunch was a bit heavy on the grease
Fairest of them all, this kid’s ass is dragging. -Laura

How could one thing hold so much fucking crap…
Where was Plan B when I needed it.
Hun grab the hose, I think I might hurl,
Is that two pink lines? Shit…. -Laura

FIN.