Power of Seduction

It's been a great night. From the moment she stepped into that overpriced Italian restaurant for your date, you could feel a desire to eat breakfast together stirring in your loins. Her infectious smile and silky voice only cemented that desire into an aching need.

But you can't count on scrambled-eggs-for-two; truth be told, you want her because she is not guaranteed. She's a strong, intelligent woman with high standards and there's no telling if you can hold in your idiosyncracies long enough to close the deal.

So when she slips away to "freshen up" in your bathroom, you quickly thumb through your guide to seduction.

Sliding this one on and off the shelf feels a little dirty. 

You're confident that by the end of the night you'll be engaged in illicit activities.

But you realize there are a few steps between now and then. Perhaps you should start with a massage?

Best review the chapter on massage techniques first. (Claude Serre)

Spine Reading

You might say I'm a bit of a reader. (Though, full disclosure: I was a couple books shy of my 40-book goal for last year.)

I'm not picky -- I read billboards on road trips, storefronts in town, realtor mailers featuring the inexplicably popular fist-under-the-chin pose, etc. And when I'm near a bookshelf, you best believe I'm going to peruse the titles.

Hilarity often ensues.

So big it's 72pt.

Sauntering through shelves of books, I discover a strange juxtaposition of elements.

An authority on fiction.

And seemingly-significant adjacencies.

Bake poetry at 350°F.

Other times, it's a blend of confusion and intrigue:

Probes & Prayers.

But all too soon, my waltz through the words is over.

[Insert pause here.]

My attention quickly returns to my appetite.

Om nom nom. Repeat as necessary.

The Curse of Roommates

Humans are weird. Roommates most of all.

Maybe your roomie keeps himself barricaded in his room all day, only to start moaning like a dying cat around 2AM. Perhaps she drinks milk straight from the jug and keeps a jar of pickles underneath her bed. Honestly, there's no telling with these weirdos.

Apparently this same rule applies in thrift shops: 

Porcelain skin, porcelain heart.

Now I'm not one to bash on the goth crowd -- it might not be my thing, but I've met plenty of great people that subscribe to the counterculture -- but given the expression on her shelfmate's face, I'm willing to bet there's more to this little lady than a pale face.

Cellophane cannot contain this fear.

What do you imagine is this ghostly girl's backstory? Does she have literal skeletons in her closet?

Oops, I did it again.

But which is luckiest?

This shit is bananas

...and the bananas are shit, according to the lack of variety on the Goodwill bookshelf.

Maybe the blurb on the back of the book can explain the repulsive power of Eliot's Bananas...

"Things should be peachy. Junie isn't entirely sure what her problem is. She's just moved into a Brooklyn apartment with her cool longtime boyfriend Leon, a drummer who adores her. She flits through a string of temp jobs in funky thrift shop clothes. But beneath her veneer of quirky humor there's a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction with her life.

She's about to go bananas. When Junie meets Eliot, who is twice her age, and his cat, Alfie, at the vet's office, she's convinced she's found the zest that's missing in her life. A burnt-out sci-fi writer in search of a muse, Eliot is apples to Junie's oranges. It's not long before Junie's in his kitchen being offered a banana...and then some.

Losing herself in the mayhem of a fling, Junie slowly realizes that kinky diversions are a poor distraction from what's really eating her.
Only when she stops obsessing about Eliot and starts peeling away the layers of her family's past will she see that what she really wants has been waiting for her all along...and that her future's ripe with possibilities."

I love puns, but this blurb is a mess. My guess? The book's a lemon.

Mold imconvenience

So the computer is dead but now I have this fancy smartphone that presumes to know what i'm typing. I downloaded the blogger app to tide us over until the computer gets fixed. (For what it's worth, the computer should be an easy fix, but since it took me a week to convince myself to go grocery shopping -- fall is beautiful! -- it may be another week before it's fixed.)

That being said, bask in the hilarity of this grammar Nazi's predicament (and that's to say nothing about the limitations imposed on my tangential cerebral pathways) and look at a few photos with me.

Alright, so it appears that the mobile Blogger limits me to a single pic. But perhaps that's a better way to get the job done. I mean, feng shui is about clearing out the clutter so your chi doesn't get clogged. It seems that headless Supermom is my chi's laxative.

Yum.

(Though I could definitely be more regular. In blogging...or whatever.)

So about Supermom: Wouldn't you think a headless body the antithesis of a hero? I mean even when Superman died -- it's not a spoiler if it happened over a decade ago (just don't tell the Neo-Nazi amnesiac what came of Hitler unless you like eating curbs) -- his head was still attached. Pretty sure even zombie superheroes retain some part of their heads...but not Supermom! Who needs a head with a brain to question traditional gender roles when your womb churns out boys that your breast milk (nectar of the gods...er, Christian God) turns into moral and upstanding citizens? Why not replace your finely-coiffed mane with some metal hooks...God knows you could use some more places to hang your pots and pans.

Stop Staring at Me!

Short and sweet, as I've got to be in to work in less than six hours and I still want to get a little reading done. Being a thrifter of some frequency, I tend to see emerging patterns in store stock across the board. I found this little kitty at Big Lots:

Meow. (Translation: With my x-ray vision, I can see your nipples. Only two? How strange.)

 

I found this big-headed vampire at a local Goodwill and was fully prepared to pass him by...

...until I realized his mouth opened to reveal:

Bloodsucking is old news. I flash people instead.

Finally, we have the gator who is both happy to see you and fully-caffeinated to get the job done.

How you doin'?

Oregon's Organ's Origin is not the Orient...or Is It?

It's 1:50 and I need to wake up tomorrow at 6:30 to get all my shit done so I can lie down and relax at the spa. (Yes, I am fully conscious of the insanity of that last statement.) In other news, the spa visit is to be followed by some pretty epic noms at a Chinese buffet and even more epic window shopping which I am confident will turn up some rich blogging inspiration.

Rather than strain my brain by carefully selecting 1000 words (okay, not all that carefully; it's pretty much just stream-of-consciousness here), I would like to once again admire a beautiful organ.

Pretty standard organ, aching for some In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida.

Perc, attack!

Who are you kidding, turning that knob halfway? Turn it to eleven, damnit!

Just ease it in...

It's not the size that matters, blah blah blah...

Time for a solo. (Again.)

Sightseeing

I wasn't sure I'd get something published before the clock struck midnight, but it turns out I've got 10 minutes to blow on my lunch break. (Very apropos, this turn of phrase.)

When I stop into these thrift stores (does it count as "stopping in" when you spend upwards of two hours there?), I like to check out the discarded dishes and mugs. A few years back, I found a three-handled "safety" mug for my dad -- which was relevant because he's a safety director and because Mom's diminutive for him is "Mr. Safety" (or, if she's feeling saucy, he's promoted to Captain).

I thought that would be the apogee of my mug adventures. But it seems I was wrong. I imagine you can follow the thought process without much input from the Mrs:

Um, what is that? 

No, really...what is that? 

Oh, of course. (They don't call it the Taint of the Middle East* for nothing.)

*Pretty sure no one calls it this, with the possible exception of my friend Shaun.

Are these on your reading list?

For those who don't know me, I majored in English and -- true to type -- rarely have my nose out of a book. That being the case, it's strange that I haven't featured books in this bloggity bloggerson. (The previous statement was false, but let's pretend otherwise...as the challenge of rewriting this intro might defeat me and this post altogether.) That changes today.

First up, a book that I initially scorned...because I have prejudged the Fifty Shades series to be a bad thing because I semi-consciously cling to the puritanical idea that erotica's status as a genre is a baby step away from romance and shouldn't be lauded, let alone discussed in public by grown adults (or, God forbid, by their preteen daughters). Truth be told, I feel like my initial disinterest (which, embarrassingly enough, is crumbling under the stress of self-driven reverse psychology) stems from the fact -- if it's even true -- that the books were originally written as Twilight fanfiction. (Which is as fictive as fiction can get, if we're going to be honest.)

Just occurred to me that I haven't shown you a photo yet.

After having stepped away from this one for a few weeks, I'm now a bit anxious to check out the book again. (Not that I need any chicken recipes at the moment; I've got my hands full with cookies right now.) 

Extra points for F.L. Fowler writing a book about fowl. It seems I've screwed things up for myself by marrying a Chilean -- single Emily could have written about palm trees or palm reading or religious pilgrims...but what the hell is an Abarca supposed to compose?

Moving on.
  

I love the cover of this book (such enthusiam!) but he doesn't appear to be puzzled. No, he appears triumphant, or possibly bat-crazy (are bats as crazy as colloquialisms would have you believe?) after having spent an hour trying to find one stupid word.

Another crazy book (on sale for a mere $20 at the local thrift store):

 

In case you can't read the small font, the book is called Character Sketches from the Pages of Scripture Illustrated in the World of Nature. Whose highdea was this? ("Dude, Jesus is totally a woodchuck because he could have chucked through the wood of his cross but he didn't because his dad told him not to.")

Get ready for another helping of crazy!

Good ol' Screech, proving that some things do not get better with age. Has anyone told him yet that's he's not a magician?

I appreciate the fact that the key word of the subtitle is "behind the" label. (I take pleasure in the little things.)

Damn, I am definitely letting the team down tonight. I had 11 more photos in the queue and am too sleepy to continue. (Damn you, Dustin Diamond!) I suppose we can all point out at least one reason why a 15-topic blog post is a bad idea (not enough nudity, for one) so I'm going to assume that you're okay with this arrangement. Off to bed where my crazy noodles up top mix these four topics. 

The question is, WILL IT BLEND?

Inane Insanity

I need some help interpreting this shirt. What demographic was Ray-Ban shooting for here? It seems appropriate to organize a poll, given the upcoming Ukranian elections.

Take a look at your two candidates and their platforms.

I PRESENT CAMOUFLAGE SUNGLASSES!

You hear "camouflage" and expect a game of hide-and-go-seek in the rugged wilderness. Not so with me! I defy my purpose, choosing instead to embrace temples of Walmart patrons. 

Never hide when you were clearly designed to accompany a Nascar jacket!

NOW, CONSIDER COREY HART!

You're sure to stand out in the nightclub when your fashion accessory of choice serves no purpose. One-hit-wonders like myself have to take any attention they can get. And in case you're still not confused, check out a list of reasons that I wear sunglasses after the sun sets:
 
 So I can (so I can) watch you weave then breathe your story lines,

So I can (so I can) keep track of the visions in my eyes,
So I can (so I can) forget my name while you collect your claim,

and
So I can (so I can) see the light that's right before my eyes.

You got it made with the guy in shades, oh-no!

Since comments boost my ego much more than email notifications, I am going to refrain from embedding a poll here. Act accordingly if you wish to -- as the youngsters say -- rock the vote. 

Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommy! ...

I wish I could say I found this design printed on an orange shirt without a blurb to remove it from Chris Hansen's radar. Not because I'm a fan of molestation (who isn't?) but because it would have made for a much more interesting blog post (I'm...just being honest). So it is with some regret that I share the anticlimactic FRONT of the shirt with you:

Cute shirt, you say. What else could there be to add to a weiner joke? (Another weiner.)

My question here is...how can they top this gag for next year's t-shirt?

Put something between your buns

Everyone's a Wiener at Wienerstock!

...the list continues in your comments below (nudge nudge)

Body Dysmorphic Disorder...?

...or just an artist ignorant of/unconcerned with body proportions?

Having just returned from the gym, where body image is a very hot topic, the following piece of art appealed to me. (Or perhaps I should say "appealed" to me, as sarcasm is a main ingredient in every soup du jour I offer here.)

Me thinks the proportions are a bit off (not to mention her missing arm -- though I suppose she could be an amputee and I could be seriously insensitive). I realize inverted triangle (or "apple") figures exist, but this exaggeration just sets up false expectations for those young girls aspiring to the body of Ms. Heart of Gold. 

Okay, I'm out of things to say without getting too critical of the technique here. I have no right to critique drawings when I've got minimal talent in that area myself (though my Lion King paintings from back in the '90s were pretty fancy and my WALKING TACO posters at work were perfectly mediocre). Check out my brother's art here or my sister-in-law's here (name-drop me & my blog in your friend request if privacy settings keep you from the photos) if you want to see something good. 

I wanted to take a moment to share some art with you; now for some Neil Young.

You're welcome for the nude paintings a few links ago.

Go to Goodwill for a good time...

Last month, I wandered through a Goodwill and found a couple over-sized stuffed animals lounging on a couch. Their positioning was that of two creatures who don't quite know how foreplay works. (Though, if I must be honest, my knowledge of canine foreplay is not quite at Cesar Milan level, so maybe this is it.) I brushed it off as toys left behind by a kid waiting for her parents to finish inspecting the lightly-used khaki pants and Hawaiian shirts...then I walked away to inspect the lightly-used khaki pants and Hawaiian shirts. 

Not quite sure why I took a picture...

...But thank goodness I did! It turns out my local Goodwill is a hotbed of sin. Just yesterday, on my way to the book section, I passed a wolf that appeared to be studying his prey.

Having grown up in the '90s, I am not oblivious to the circle of life (Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba). But I had to be sure that the rabbit didn't have any little babies. My initial look showed nothing out of the ordinary...but wait! Was that a brown bunny peeking out on the left?

Not quite.

The scene that unfolded was a bit unsettling and left many questions unanswered. Was the wolf seeking a meal...or did he just like to watch? I walked to the far end of the store, hoping to wipe my memory of the horrible images I'd seen. 

Then I found this.

Now I'm all for loving whoever your heart leads you to regardless of race, religion, sex, etc. (Though it has been a bit difficult to watch Capt. Jack Harkness make out with everybody on Torchwood when all I really want to see is a hot, sweaty coupling with Gwen -- but I hold that that's not contrary to my previous statement when the writers have been hinting at it since day one.) 

But in the middle of Goodwill? C'mon girls, have some decency!

Hell of a bachelorette party, I'd say.

Ignorance is ignorant, ignoramus.

I already had enough crazy on my bookshelf in my copy of Dianetics -- school project; promise -- so I didn't bring this book home with me. I unfortunately can't tell you anything of the inside of the book.

Oh wait, sure I can: BULLSHIT.

Okay, maybe that's a little harsh. (But it's still true.)

In other news, this needs to come to Atlanta.

Padawanian Star Wars Musings

One might assume all INTPs are Star Wars experts. This one isn't. I've watched the movies and have a grasp on theme, characters, story...but I've never worked up the Willpower to turn from the Federation to the Rebellion (or even to the Empire, despite their storehouse of sweets). That being said (and half my readership gone as a result), I present you with two interesting finds...

I realize that Darth Vader possesses all kinds of dark powers and can kill with the The Force. But without his light saber, this Sith Lord just looks like an emo kid cursing the world. (Cue self-pitying monologue.)

Nothing warms the heart better than Darth Maul. His story tells us that if you turn to the dark side you'll probably kill some powerful people but you'll die in the end (which, it turns out, is a pretty common ending for human beings -- what a worn out cliché). 

In other news...If life is like a box of chocolates, I sure hope it's not this one.