Month: August 2006

I can still remember my mom sitting at our kitchen table, sighing loudly over the stacks of English papers she had to grade. “What’s wrong, Mom?” I’d ask. And she’d roll her eyes, pull out a paper, and read the latest literary atrocity committed by one of her students. I remember one in particular, where the student was supposed to use vocabulary words in a brief paragraph story. (Vocab words in italics here.)

So the kid wrote:

“Today is our anniversary. We have been spliced for 7 years. I am making my wife a breakfast of toast, orange juice, and scrambled ova.”

There was more to it that I don’t remember, but I do remember he did NOT get an A.

So check some more gems I found, from the brilliant pens of our future leaders and felons:

> While researching my topic, I have been able to swim in a pool of my own opinion.
> Gaining weight doesn’t happen overnight, but if you keep eating junk food constantly, then you are playing right into the government’s hands.
> Schlink illustrates his thoughts about illiteracy by showing the paradox of the juxtaposition-related issues of secrets in a relationship and illiteracy.
> Mimi had stage freight.
> Throughout history, breasts have been in and out of fashion.
> The 60’s had a lot of unexpected and tragic events such as the Woodstock Music Festival and World War II.
> They lie and tell us… that they love us, but it was all about getting into our panties.
> (His) words cut me deep, like salt on a womb.
> Adults still believe that youth are violet and bad.
> Capital punishment insures peace of mind.
> Most people look to the bald eagle for guidance.
> It can be a way to pay back African-Americans without actually paying them back.

*****
From a history paper on Anne Hutchinson…

“I’m not sure if she was a slut or what, but she had 14 children…it seems like she really got around.”

*****
I have two or three students who have shared new ideas in my American Lit. class and I thought I would pass the information along:

* Gwendolyn Brooks’ poem “the mother” is not a good poem because killing babies is wrong.
* William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” is not a good story because you shouldn’t hit your children.
* Hemingway is a bad writer because he yells at his wife in “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.”
* Whitman is gay, and this is why we shouldn’t read him. And Emily Dickinson might be a lesbian. And Adrienne Rich doesn’t like men at all. And there are naked pictures of Allen Ginsberg with another man on the internet.
* Kate Chopin must be “one of those feminists.”
* T. S. Eliot is stupid.
* Flannery O’Connor can’t be a Christian writer because her stories don’t have happy endings.
* Black writers in the Harlem Renaissance seem angry for some reason.

Shiver me timbers, people. Shiver me timbers.

(Frankly, real life is just too heavy right now. I’m choosing to be utterly frivolous here this week.)

So catch the spirit! Or not!

Here’s how this works: I’ll start with the first line of a song. It’s a song I learned when I was a little kid. Maybe you did, too. First commenter says the next line. Next commenter says the line after that, until we see if we’ve got the whole song.

Bonus: Name those HAND MOTIONS!

NO GOOGLING! Although conferring amongst yourselves and loved ones is definitely acceptable.

Ready? (sing with me, now)

Little cabin in the woods …….

Hand Motion: Cabin roof with your fingers, children. No, Timmy, not that finger.

Next line, anyone?

…. I am embarrassed to admit I don’t know.

I am a dummypants so I need to smarten my pants and, therefore, you Smartypants may procced to help me now.

‘Mmkay?

All right.

1) I do not know (ahem) how to get wireless Innanet provider for my Mac laptop. I do know my Mac has some magic thingie called Airport, but I do nah geddih.

But I need to know this because, apparently, I’m some kind of low-life Innanet thief who’s been stealing her wireless connection from God knows who for God knows how long. And I want to know because, well, how else am I going to blog from the hoosegow, people?

2) Also, I do not know how to post an audio file on dishere blog. And I want to know because, well, I want to post an audio file on dishere blog!

Okay. Wait a second.

Let’s all have a meditative moment in honor of my rank stupidity:

(d……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………uh)

All right, already! Close your mouth, Michael. We are not a codfish.

Annnnnd now …..

Ready.

Set.

HELP me, Smartypants, ELHP!!

Thank you SO much for the lovely, informative links regarding “big t*ts, round a**es.”

But, hey — you know what? All I need to know and/or enjoy about the aforementioned “big t*ts, round a**es,” I can learn and/or enjoy just by looking in me mirror.

And, really, no, I do not want to be “feiends” with you. I am deeply, deeply prejudiced against careless misspellers, raging idiots, and people who flatly demand I look at their “big t*ts, round a**es.”

Sorry.

Also, know what else? When my best friend Hedy Hanson showed me her butt when we were 6, SHE let me play with her brand new Barbie.

See that, feiends? You’re selfish and you suck.

People don’t like that.

Welcome to Word*Pie!

Some silly thing I made up while “taking my brain away” at The Beanhouse.

(Remember in the book The Princess Bride, by my crush man William Goldman, how Farm Boy Westley was being tortured on The Machine by the evil, six-fingered Count Rugen? And how he would try to take his brain away from the all the torture by thinking of that stupid bee-otch Buttercup? Because he loved her and he was trying not to die and all? Well, you know what? Cry me a river, Westley. You may have had sucky little pain cups all over your body draining your life away, but you never, ever spent one moment’s sucky toil at The Beanhouse. And, hey, don’t sit there saying, “Jeez, Trace, that’s harsh. What has Westley — um, a fictional character — ever done to you?” BECAUSE, chippies, if you’ve ever read that book then you surely KNOW that Westley did a lot, a LOT, to me and to you, too, by his dogged insistence that that flighty, shallow, queen of putrescence Buttercup was actually worth his undying troo luv. Annnyway ……. uhmm, I’ve been having problems focusing lately. But I’m pretty sure you can’t tell.)

So the silly thing I made up whilst taking my brain away at The Beanhouse is ….. Word*Pie. It has an asterisk. Because I say so.

And it goes like this:

First, a Word*Pie is simply a real sentence taken from a real book and scrambled, all cra-a-azy and willy-nilly like!

And, YOU, dear, clever reader, must arrange the words in their proper order to match the original sentence as found in the original book.

So, below, please find the lists of ingredients necessary to create some lucious and yummy Word*Pies.

See what delicious dainties you can whip up in the verbal kitchen, then unveil your literary confection in the comments for judging by moi, of course.

Let’s see whose creation matches the original. Match must be exact. Because I say so. And, well, because the author wrote it one way and not any other.

(Also, I’ll take guesses as to the title of the book, if anyone wants to take a shot at that. Uh, no, it’s not The Princess Bride.)

Ready?

********

Word*Pie #1: (1 comma) ** SOLVED BY SAL!

my
mockery
delicious
damned
looked
be
urine

Word*Pie #2: (3 commas)

eaten
pieces
will
disembowelled
torn
likely
flat
very
be
you
to
trampled

Word*Pie #3: (1 comma) ALSO SOLVED BY SAL!

mammals
of
heaped
parts
grotesque
a
animal
together
dead
were
pile
the
decayed

Wow. Strike that whole “yummy/delicious” vibe from above. The theme here is rather …. macabre, to say the least.

Okaay! Slight change of mood here!

Who can make the Most Foul Pie!? The Most Beastly, Bloody Pie!??

Seriously. Was I listening to “Sweeney Todd” while I put this post together?? Sheesh.

Dear Barista Tracey,

You can sign me,
Unhappy Slappy

Oh, Slappy. Such a thing to make you so “unhappy.” Barista Tracey gently suggests there may be some answers you need that are best sought from a different kind of certified professional; however she will confine herself to the more elementary question at hand. Slappy, there are simply myriad reasons as to why your local barista might hate you with a white-hot hate. Let us not waste one moment more before divulging them to you. Barista Tracey hopes her list will be instructive for you, but she has her niggling doubts. If she squinks her eyes quite tightly, she does see the merest of glimmers, though: Acknowledging you are hateable is the first step towards becoming likeable, in her impeccable opinion.

So she will proceed, dauntless. Tantivy-tantivy!

(These are in no particular order of hateability):

1) You insist your latte be “extra hot.” Now, there is a temperature, Slappy, at which milk will scald. And it is generally accepted amongst the human population that milk does not taste good when scalded. Asking this shows a barista that, a) your taste buds do not function properly, and b) you are shamefully high maintenance, and c) you fancy yourself a coffee snob but lack the requisite knowledge to actually be a coffee snob, and therefore, d) of course, your local barista will happily comply and scald your drink, just the way you want it. Cheers, Slappy!

2) Your coffee is “too hot.” You require precisely 4 ice cubes to cool it down. You complain loudly when you see 5 little icebergs floating in your cup. You want one of them fished out. You refuse to do it yourself.

3) You are unable to blend your drink with half and half or milk or that clear liquid in your pocket flask without spilling it all over the condiment counter. You are a rude and wretched slob and leave your coffee puddle spreading on the counter for your local barista to mop up. You leave your coffeehouse quite marchy and pissy, wondering, always wondering WHERE is the damn love???

4) Similarly, you are unable to add Splenda or Equal or Sweet’n’Low or any other powdery substance to your drink without leaving a dusting of fakey sugary snow aaaallll over the condiment stand. You are still a rude and wretched slob and leave these tiny white cancer flurries for your local barista to wipe up. Where is the damn love, you inquire, Slappy??? In the trash with your puddles and flurries and your fished-out icebergs.

5) You leave your dishes on your table. There is a bus tub 2 feet from your table, but still, this smacks of effort far beyond your meager capacities. The BLEARY DRUNKEN BUM manages to bus his own table, but you, Slappy, so distracted by your relentless search for the damn love, abandon yet another mess for your local barista to tidy up for you.

Ah, Slappy. Barista Tracey apologizes, realizing, as she now does, that this will likely be a multi-part missive. Her vast reserves of wisdom must not be tapped all at once; Doing so, Slappy, would place a millstone too heavy with sagacity ’round your senseless neck and the necks of any other cretinous, coffee-swilling Slappies who might be reading along. And because Barista Tracey is a Sharer AND a Carer, she would never do such a dreadful, onerous thing to you. She is sure that you will understand, with your special gift of understanding, that she is exhausted from the mental and emotional toll of pondering your question and crafting this primer and trying, but failing to sound …. Victorian, she thinks. She is not really sure …..

She just needs some damn sleep.

So cheerio ’til next time, Slappy! Keep a good thought!

(Here’s one: DO try NOT to be an ASS!)

This baby is just entirely too happy. Quick, someone! Fetch me … The Glass.

The joys of infantile alcoholism await!!

Because here’s where, first off, I ramble, and then, where I actually just throw out an excerpt from an email to a friend. This is not “O” for “Effort” material, just so’s you know.

(BTW, did you have O’s for Effort when you were in school? O meant Outstanding; S meant Satisfactory; and U meant U R Grounded.)

What am I talking about?? Oh, yeah ……

A friend of mine and I were emailing back and forth about a spiritual conference that she’d recently attended. I kinda tried to talk her out of it because I know the speaker personally, have been to her conferences, have seen audience members bark and roar and snort and, just generally, be jungle animals for Jesus. It’s insane. And useless. This woman — (let’s just call her Jane) — has a charismatic personality, a bigger-than-life type. She considers herself a modern-day prophet. She get “words from God” for people in the audience and then calls them up to what she calls “the mush pot” and gives them their word. You know, basically, a kind of Psychic Friends for Jesus. Minus Jesus, I think. Oh, and Dionne Warwick. I’m pretty sure I never saw her there. (Someday, I’ll tell the story of how I came to know Jane and share some of the words from God she gave me. They were just neato.)

Anyway …. who knows if this will make any sense at all, but here’s part of an email I dashed off to my friend yesterday, as part of our discussion of her night at the conference. I was a little, er, worked up.

(Anybody else feel this way?):

…… I have to confess that I so do not understand this whole “intercede for the nations” dealio she’s got going on. So we’re to pray for nations to come to God? Is that it? Do nations come to God or do individuals? I mean, Jesus comes into the heart of an individual, not the soul of a nation. At least I don’t believe that. I don’t see that borne out anywhere in scripture.

How can entire nations change until individual people do?

Jane’s been on this whole “governmental gathering of the troops” thing for years now. It creeps me out. I question it, but then, I question everything. (Not that this is news.) She’s big on things like “God is releasing a mighty sword; this is holy war; he’s releasing open heavens and visitations” — (Did she say that? I’ll bet she said that. Okay. You have to BUY ME LUNCH if she said that! Haha!) — and, seriously, WHAT does that even mean? The Sword of the Spirit is the Word of God. Does anyone anywhere talk about that anymore — about putting that in your heart and that being your sword? Or is it just passe now? I’m just sayin’ is all. Seems like more and more people want some supernatural ability that makes them feel important, sets them apart, gives them influence.

And what’s an open heaven? Are we seriously stupid enough to even WANT it opened? “Heeey, God! Open up your bling-y glory, babEEE, I want more! I CAN TAKE IT!!”

I’m sorry, but anyone who tells you they’ve had an “open heaven” experience and leaves out the part where they crapped their pants is not engaging in full disclosure.

I mean, if someone told me, “I had this open heaven experience and then …. I totally crapped my pants,” I just might believe them.

Just how tripped out do we want to be as Christians? Is faith so boring that we need to remake it as some kind of holy acid trip?

I dunno. Seems to me that God is close to the brokenhearted, the broken in spirit. That’s God’s measure, His economy. Not flash, but true substance; not show, but true depth. Those things cost, though.

I’m just sayin’ is all.

(Lemme know when you want to buy me that lunch — because I KNOW she said those things! Hahahaha!!)

*******

See? Lazy ….