Friday, October 31, 2008

Jeepers Creepers!


Jeepers creepers
Where'd you get those peepers?

Jeepers creepers
Where'd you get those eyes?

Have a Happy Halloween!

Even if your mother makes you wear a plastic witch mask for the third year in a row.
Even if you have to carry a brown paper Harry’s IGA bag to collect candy.
Even if you fall and skin your knees because you cannot see out of the damn witch mask.
Even when Bobby Joe Hammett steals your candy that spills on the sidewalk because the stupid Harry’s IGA bag breaks when you fall because you cannot see out of your stupid witch mask that you have had to wear for the last three years.

Have a Happy Freakin Halloween!

Out-T.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Happy Candy Corn Day


Today is National Candy Corn Day

Candy Corn has its own day. That is just wrong. Giving Candy Corn its own day is like having a national day for pimento cheese, or Braunschweiger.

Hot Tamales…now there is a candy that deserves a day.
Out-T.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Yes! We have no Bananas!

"Yes, we have no bananas We have-a no bananas today. Just try those coconuts Those wall-nuts and doughnuts There ain't many nuts like they. We'll sell you two kinds of red herring, Dark brown, and ball-bearing. But yes, we have no bananas We have no bananas today."

My apologies Dear Readers, it seems that lately I have no bananas. I do not have one little bit of funny, quirky, or clever to share with you. My brain is full of numbers and PPS's and due diligence, which admittedly makes for some boring ass blog posts.

I am currently worrying over a block of bond insurance shares that have been giving me ulcers for over a week now. Finally, today they have turned green. I am planning a not so graceful exit before I pull out every hair in my head. I will be back soon when I have something mildly interesting to talk about. Until then you can find me stomping around the WWW in search of bargains and opportunity.

Because I am the bloggy sort of chick that I am, I have been hanging out in chat rooms where boys who buy stock insult each other while they spit, swear, and talk about their balls. What balls have to do with purchasing stock I do not know, but from what I can gather you are not welcome in chat rooms without them, so of course I got myself a pair of imaginary marbles, adopted the moniker "Leroy brown" (The baddest man in the whole damn town), and proceeded to scratch myself, boast about my sexual prowess and talk badly about people’s mothers. I would have made an excellent caveman if I do say so myself.

I am currently wooing an insipid twit named "donna7734" who is understandably impressed with my vast knowledge, not to mention my golden balls. I am almost positive donna7734 is a man.

I will be back soon with bananas and hopefully some lettuce.
Not to worry, I will leave donna7734 and my imaginary marbles where I found them.

Out-T.

image: www.mirrordance.net

Friday, October 24, 2008

Keep Calm And Carry On

The stock market is down 550 points ahead of the opening bell this morning. Pre-Market trading is halted. World markets are plunging. A huge drop in futures trading raises the likelihood that circuit breakers to prevent panic selling could be activated during the regular session today. -- This has not happened since 1997.

In short, there is the perception that the recovery effort is failing. Fears of a deep worldwide recession are running rampant.

It is the anniversary of the 1929 crash. There will be carnage on the street this morning. Dollars will fall from Wall Street like ticker tape. Is now the time to jump off a building?

Hell no. Buy my friends. This is an opportunity the likes of which seldom (thank goodness) happens.

If you are fully invested, go play golf.

If not? Now is the time. Today is the day. You will be happy you did.

Keep calm and carry on.

Out-T.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Look Ma, No Hands!

*WARNING* The post you are about to read will confirm my lack of good manners as well as my general lack of respect, concern, and compassion for others. If you are easily offended (Yes, Mother I am talking to you), skip this one and come back tomorrow. Maybe I will write something. Then you will really be sorry.



If you can get arrested for this...just imagine how much trouble this guy is going to be in.



You deserve better than this. Really, you do. Especially after the Jesus pumpkin. This is bad. It is tasteless. And honestly? It cracks me the hell up.

Out-T.




Friday, October 17, 2008

Pumpkin Evangelism


It is time to start thinking about Halloween at the new digs. Today while searching for a creative decor theme, I came across this, a Jesus Jack-O-Lantern! What says ancient pagan festival of the dead better than the image of Christ on a squash? I am thinking of passing out fishes and loaves to all of the Trick or Treaters.

OK, Fine, maybe I should keep thinking. Jesus looks a little angry.

Out-T.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate

It occurs to me that if someone whom you address with a title other than their birth name, except on your blog, where you embellish their given name with an adjective that is not accurate, but still conveys the largeness of their role in your life; If this certain someone is perhaps the same person that married your father, and gave birth to your rat -faced brother, a person who, in this case, shall remain nameless, because this is, after all, a public forum, and matters such as these should indeed be discussed privately, (which I know because the woman who raised me has impeccable manners. She also has a low tolerance for public embarrassment, which I cannot say I blame her for, because I am sure this was a side effect, a post-traumatic stress symptom, so to speak, of having been the unfortunate soul who was charged with the responsibility of being one of my parents. I will not say which one.) If that person has body parts surgically removed, even if said body parts are somewhat extemporaneous, insignificant parts that in the end it was probably best to be rid of; if this persons fails to mention that she is several ounces lighter due to the fact that she has one less not-so-vital organ than she did last week, and the only reason you are aware of the fact that this person, who shall remain anonymous, was the recipient of an “ectomy” is because this particular individual has siblings who have no compunction about ratting out each other when the situation demands, which in this case it did... what we have here is a failure to communicate.

I would like to know if you would be upset or would you just be relieved that the afore mentioned person was not trying to sell a kidney on e-bay?

Monday, October 13, 2008

I Feel Pretty

I feel pretty,
Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity Any girl who isn't me tonight.






What could be causing all of these feelings of prettiness? I am not sure. I have never been a girl prone to pretty. As a child, when presented with a butterfly it would have been more likely that I would have pulled its wings off (in the name of science, of course) than admired its beauty. At the tender age of five, Yours Truly, the maladjusted borderline sociopath hell child was chosen as the muse in a Winnie the Pooh fashion show. A grand event in two parts: the first, a runway spectacular at White Lakes Mall where it was always a comfortable 72 degrees, then the Pièce de résistance, an appearance on the early news show on WIBW TV in Topeka Kansas. Big Judes (my mom) was understandably skeptical when I agreed to participate.

“You know you will have to wear the outfit they give you, even if it is a dress, or pink, you will have to wear it.” Judes warned. “You cannot change your mind at the last minute”. Translated, this means, "If you show your ass on local television and make it necessary for me to resign my position as kindergarten room mother because of your inappropriate behavior I will never forgive you". She had good reason to be cautious.

As predicted when the day of the fashion show came, I changed my mind. There was no way I was walking out in front of all of those people in a tartan plaid jumper and coordinating beret adorned with a giant green pom-pom. No amount of “Don’t you look pretty!” could convince me otherwise. I am not pretty! I hate pretty! I refuse to be pretty!
Judes was beside herself.

Judes: “Tobi, please just put it on.”
T: “No way.”
Judes: “It is pretty really, it is”
T: “No”
Judes: “Just do it for me… dammit, just… do… it…for. me...or. Else!”
T: “NO, NO, NO!”
Judes: “The shoes, have you seen the shoes? Look!”
T: “Can I keep them?”
Judes: “Yes, if you do this you can keep them.”
T: “Promise?”
Judes: “YES!”

The shoes clinched the deal. They were shiny brown loafers, the color of fresh brownies. Each one had a new penny in a slot on the front. They were pretty! I shuffled down the catwalk never taking my eyes off the shoes, enjoying each click-clack they made on the runway. Later at the television studio, I took my place at the right of Winnie. I inserted my left finger firmly in my left nostril. In spite of the frantic arm waving and mouthed admonitions from adults off camera including Big Judes, I kept it there for the duration of the broadcast. This was my silent protest, against pretty and Pooh. I am still slightly uncomfortable with pretty.

When Susannah informed me that she had nominated me for a blog award, well you had better believe I went right away to pick it up. And here it is--

“This blog invests and believes, in ‘proximity’ meaning, that blogging makes us 'close'. They are all charming blogs, and the majority of them aim to show the marvels of friendship; there are persons who are not interested when we give them a prize, and then they help to cut these bows; do we want that they are cut, or that they propagate? Then let’s try to give more attention to them! So with this prize we must deliver it to eight bloggers that in turn must make the same thing and put this text.”

Isn't it pretty? Anyone who thinks that I am not interested in a prize clearly does not know me. I would wrestle you for a prize, so I gratefully accept this pretty award, thankful that I did not have to wrestle anyone for it, and no, my finger is not in my nose.

I would like to pass it on to the following pretty bloggers.
In random order:

mackin ink


with love from pittsburgh


whale ears and other wonderings


house of beauty and culture


blue streak


lil bee


There you go, a prize as good as shiny pennies, with butterflies, in Portuguese, for believing in proximity... may you wear it well.

I feel charming, Oh, so charming It's alarming how charming I feel! And so pretty That I hardly can believe I'm real. See the pretty girl in that mirror there: Who can that attractive girl be? Such a pretty face, Such a pretty dress, Such a pretty smile...Out-T.

image:emrussian.homestead.com

Saturday, October 11, 2008

This Little Piggy

this little piggy went to the stock market
this little piggy stayed calm
this little piggy ate bear balls
this little piggy had fun
this little piggy went hehehe
all the way home


After much hand -wringing and consternation I made the decision to take the plunge back into the market yesterday. I must tell you the bargains to be had were better than an end of season sale at Filene's Basement! I am not sure that we are at the bottom, nor am I suggesting that it would be a good idea to reallocate long term investments into individual stocks. Nay, this is not the time for imprudence as the Masters of the Financial Universe have clearly demonstrated.

What I am saying is that I have decided not to care. I simply cannot pass up a good deal.
My new motto?
Screw good hair-- I'm buying shares.

For the next several weeks there will be no spa treatments, new shoes, cute fall sweaters, or most distressingly, extreme home makeovers at the new digs, that money is being used to hatch a nest egg.


What do you think? Am I nuts?
Vos opinions s'il vous plaît

Out-T.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Dead Chickens Do Not Cross the Road


One of the few benefits of surviving on this planet as long as I have is that eventually you learn your limitations. I have accepted the fact that I will never be Miss America. I know that I should never do my own taxes. I will never sing like Patsy Cline. I do not cook.

Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, when the seasons change it stirs some latent delusion that I have domestic abilities within me. Usually I am able to control these autumnal impulses. Hard lessons of the hazards of homemade bread and puff pastry were learned years ago. I am a firm believer that the purchase of brewer's yeast should require a license. The combination of yeast and gluten in the wrong hands is positively frightening.

Sunday the weather at the new digs could only be described as fall like. Before you could say Julia Childs, I was at the meat counter of my neighborhood Albertson's contemplating the best combination of chicken parts for soup. For the inexperienced, the choices can be daunting. Roasters, boilers, skinless, boneless, free range, hens, breasts--overwhelming. Naturally, I chose the cheapest chicken. (A gelatinous yellow bird covered in plastic that leaked toxic waste all over my new Domino magazine). This alone should have deterred me. Unfortunately, it did not.

Eighty-two dollars later, I was on my way back to the new digs to start my gastronomic cavalcade of the poultry kind. That is when the trouble started. If one does not cook, then one does not possess cooking implements. The largest pot I own is perfect for Ramen noodles, not dead chickens. The solution seemed obvious: hack the bird into manageable pieces. Brilliant, except for the fact that I do not own a sharp knife. Lucky for me I do have a drywall saw. I set about dismembering the foul fowl.


Vivian (the obstinate toy poodle) sat at my feet and smirked. When I reminded her that because of her petite stature she would fit nicely in the Ramen pot, she stopped taunting me and went back to licking her butt. In hindsight, I should have followed her example. Butt licking would have been preferable to the carnage that followed.

Wings are easily amputated. Legs pose more of a problem. After extreme effort, all four extremities were severed. The final challenge was dissecting the body cavity. After much determined hacking, I broke through the rib cage and pried the dearly departed open with gloved hands. "OHGROSSOHCRAPIMAYBARF, Sweet mother of God I have murdered a pregnant hen!” ...Wait... those are not baby chickens they are conveniently packaged guts. That was it! A pop tart sounded like a better idea.

All of the gore was deposited in the trash, where it stayed for two days. Until the stench that filled the garage was so vile that it had to be removed. All evening I kept an eye on the trash cart at the curb. All evening it stayed upright. I said a prayer before I went to bed.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the lord my reeking secret to keep

If in the dumpster cats should dive

I hope they all get sick and die

Amen.

My first look out the window in the morning revealed the entire contents of the trashcan scattered across the lawn of the new digs. OHGOODGODNOOOOO…. Having the discarded shards of your private life strewn hither, and yon like some crazy art installation on public view is traumatizing to say the least. Oh, the tampon applicators of it all!


Some women look presentable at 7am. I am not one of those women. As the sun was rising, I was running like a chicken with my head cut off (sorry, I could not help it) stuffing all forms of grossness in to a new trash bag. Thankfully, I only had to chase the trash truck three doors down the street, barefoot, in boxer shorts, and a wife beater Screaming "Alto! Alto, por favor!" at the top of my lungs.


The bag was deposited in the truck. I limped back to the new digs. That is when I got the pullet surprise. The dismembered body of the stinky chicken was scattered on the sidewalk of the house across the street. Did I pick it up? No, no I did not. There is no way in hell I was admitting that rotting carcass belonged to me. I do not think they will suspect a thing. After all, there is no way a dead chicken could have crossed the road.


Out T.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Strange Brew


Here is the dish. Some of my week in review.

Sugar Daddy (the boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo head) to Tobi:
SD: Why are you always... such a …such a …?
T: Bitch?
SD: Well, I was going to say democrat, but yeah, that too.
T: I am NOT a fucking democrat!


Tobi screaming at the television to Lauren on The Hills Monday Night:
ENOUGH OF THE DAMN MOUSTACHE! Waxgoddammit or stop drinking the grape Kool-Aid!


Mr. Fussy Pants (the a.d.d-- o.c.d. boss) to Tobi:
F: Just answer the damn question! Why do you keep calling me Joe? What the hell is in your eye?
T: It worked for Sarah Palin

Tobi to customer on phone:
T: Did you receive any kind of vocational training while you were in prison?
Customer: I wasn’t there long enough.
Tobi: Would they let you go back?
Customer: I won’t know until the twenty- fifth of next month.


Vice President of PTA to Tobi:
VP:Before you can attend a board meeting, I will need you to sign a confidentiality agreement. We do not want anyone to air our dirty laundry.
Tobi: Reeeeallly??
VP: Will you?
Tobi: Yes, yes I will.
VP: Do you need a pen?
Tobi: For what?
VP: To sign the confidentiality agreement.
Tobi: I’m not going to sign the agreement. I am just going to air your dirty laundry. Do you spell Muffy with a y or ie?


Office supply Salesman at Fussy & Bitchy Mortgage Inc. after seeing Shirley (the office cat) at the front door.
Salesman: Is this your attack cat?
T: Yes, don’t touch her she bites!
Salesman: Well, she looks ferocious. I was almost afraid to come in.
T: Well, then she almost did her job.
Salesman:

The great part is that it is only Wednesday.
I wonder how many people I can piss off by Friday.
Out-T.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Nip Tuck

I think I have officially crossed the line between quirky and crazy. Friday and Saturday while I was enduring the excruciating fifteen hours required to renew my mortgage license I gave this blog a little nip tuck, a face-lift, so to speak. I cannot take credit for the template; someone much smarter than I am did that. All I did was find it and install it, which is good because I am a total idiot when it comes to all things computer, so just the fact that I still have a blog makes me happy. I think it looks better. I like it. I am glad I did it.

So why has it been four days since the last post? The last post was on the old blog. Now, I feel like I am wearing a new pair of linen pants. They look great until the first time you sit down, and then, well, and then they look as if you slept in them. I am afraid to mess up all the new pretty with crappy.

Usually, I have no reservations about crap. This blog is nothing short of craptastic (as I am sure, you are aware if you have ever been here before). Most days, the letters fly off my two typing fingers and hit the screen like alphabet soup. All crap, all the time.

This sounds crazy-- I know, a bit like a soap opera. Therefore, as Jill Foster-Reynolds-Chancelor-Thurston-Brooks-Sterling-Abbott-Abbot would say, "I am going upstairs to sort out my feelings and turn my life around." (Classic over used dialogue from The Young and the Restless). I will return shortly to wrinkle my new pants with more crap (so to speak).

Out-T.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Monkey Business

After spending fifteen agonizing hours A.S.S. deep in acronyms I am pleased to report that yours truly has been licensed to do business as a mortgage professional in the great state of Texas for another two years.

In other words, I live to die another day.
The irony of it all.

If someone would kindly explain to me what any of this:

- Virgin Island and Puerto Rican Rum (Section 308)
- American Samoa (Sec. 309)
- Mine Rescue Teams (Sec. 310)
- Mine Safety Equipment (Sec. 311)
- Domestic Production Activities in Puerto Rico (Sec. 312)
- Indian Tribes (Sec. 314, 315)
- Railroads (Sec. 316)
- Auto Racing Tracks (317)
- District of Columbia (Sec. 322)
- Wool Research (Sec. 325)

Has to do with preventing a financial markets meltdown, I would appreciate it.

I can imagine that Sock monkeys around the country breathed a collective sigh of relief when their wool research earmark was approved. The arrogant little bastards.



Out-T.

image:http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidballromney/79024450/ , http://hotair.com/archives/2008/10/01/senate-bailout-bill-hits-the-internet/

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Oh Jeez, I Said Vagina


That sound you hear is Big Judes (my mom) tapping out a cease and desist order that will arrive in my inbox momentarily. "Tobi Renae, you are embarrassing your family! Do you have to use the V word?"

Relax Judes; this is a family oriented post.


Have you heard of the Duggers? They are a crazy Quiverfull following fine God-fearing family from Arkansas with seventeen children and one on the way. All of the Dugger children have first names beginning with the letter J. Obviously, after seventeen children naming number eighteen can prove challenging. The Duggers need our help people! What do you think Michelle and Jim Bob (Listen, I already told you they were from Arkansas, Stop that!) should name the newest little Duggette?
I think we can probably cross Jezebel off the list. My friend B of the A from Kansas offers the following suggestions:

Justin Sane
or
Juanita Condom

To which I added:

Jim Bob Musta Dugger
or
Jesus Getahobby Dugger

Your Turn.

Out-T.


image:http://www.purplepride.org/forums/index.php?topic=44838.msg777201;topicseen, www.kirtsy.com