26 January 2009
Back to our Oscar-winning show. The movie was advertised as being based upon a true story. I have my doubts about this as I will explain later, or at least their definition of "based upon" and "true." Also, "story." The film begins with a snippet of what is later to come, I'm assuming to rope its viewers into hanging around. It certainly worked. I wanted to know how the hell two perfectly healthy looking individuals could be whining about dying. They looked fine to me, and I should know, since you all know I'm a trained doctor. The film goes back to two weeks prior in these healthy individuals' lives when we learn that Wife is turning 40, going through a midlife crisis (I'm assuming), and is insistant that she and Husband go hiking in the Himalayas in November. "We'll have two seasoned guides and a cook with us! What could go wrong?" they tell her wise, avalanche-nightmare-having mother who does not want them to go. We know what's going to happen of course, because Mom is worried sick for her daughter and son-in-law. And because we read the movie description beforehand.
These idiots show up and sure enough, set off with their crew, who are natives of Nepal and supposedly know what they're doing since they say so, and start hiking up this mountain. They camp overnight. The couple points out that one of the guides isn't wearing clothes, or at least not weather-appropriate clothes. Head Guide explains he's from the South (I don't think he means Mississippi, although that would explain it too) so he'll just have to learn the hard way to wear a coat the next time he goes up A MOUNTAIN WITH SNOW ON IT. Yeah, OK. Husband never ceases to vocally fret about Southern Boy. During all this, weather stations are freaking out because some weather system is coming--a hurricane or something (I don't pretend to know these things)--and everyone should get off the mountain in a hurry. And most do, except this troupe.
During the night, Head Guide says it's Bad Weather and they need to pack up and leave. They pack up one or two things, abandon the rest (like food and tents) and hurry off. Then the Weather System arrives in the form of the blizzard, followed shortly thereafter by the aforementioned avalanche. The avalanche misses them, but apparently covered up Head Guide's breadcrumb trail, because for some unfathomable reason, he has NO clue how to go back to the city they just came from, like, 12 hours ago. So these idiots wander around the Himalayans for days, looking for the city, and failing that, any settlement at all. During all of this, I am persistently quizzing the Husband about why they continue to climb UP the mountain when the city they just came from is below them. He assures me he has no clue, but it's thoroughly entertaining to him just the same. After another avalanche finally gets the cook and Southern Boy, the crew really starts taking this seriously. Well, after they miraculously find the two buried in snow (what, are they cadaver dogs or something?) after digging for two minutes. Southern Boy ain't looking so hot, so fretting Husband gives him his coat, and later his boots, and finally his gloves. Husband, or Martyr as I like to call him, goes largely without.
Having no shelter, these people who have been on this mountain with no food or shelter for about a week, cheerily build themselves a snow cave. And not even with impliments of any sort, but their bare hands. And within an hour or two they have a wonderfully spacious and firmly packed snow cave the size of a hotel lobby. They sleep comfortably and not at all fitfully, or you know, dyingly, like any other human would. Eventually, Martyr gets tired of Head Guide giving them an undesirable tour of the mountains and announces he's going to save them all once and for all, starting with following that there river down there. "Finally," I said to the Husband, "They're actually doing something sensible. I don't believe it." Not to worry pets, it didn't last long. Yes, the river does flow downhill and since most settlements can be found near watersources, following the river is a very good idea. But apparently these people don't know that you can actually follow the river on the side of it, because they insist that each and everyone of them, including those barely surviving hypothermia as it is, get IN the water and start following it that way. I'm convinced they would have slept in the water too, had they not already been so in love with their snow caves. Perhaps they were tired of walking in wet snow and were hoping the river would be less wet? I don't know.
Anyway, two minutes later Head Guide and Cook decide that the other three were slowing them down and they needed to beat feet. They take off, leaving Southern Boy half-dead and Martyr with obvious frostbitten hands and feet. Mind you, throughout the entire movie Wife is perfectly chipper at all times. Upbeat, never weary, hungry, cold, nothing. It'd be irritating if it weren't so funny. The three decide to camp for the night, and with Martyr and Southern Boy being out of it, Cheery Wife builds the snow cave with her own hands by herself in an afternoon. Perhaps not the Ritz-Carlton this time around, but at least a DoubleTree. SouthernBoy dies in the night and Martyr goes wandering off in a stupid haze and goes careening off a short cliff. He lies there and waits for Cheer Bear to show up and comfort him, despite the fact both of them look perfectly fine and healthy as horses. Oh, but the smudge of blood on Martyr's lip means he's dying! Right, forgot that. Then Wifey's dead father shows up in Mafia garb and throws up weird and disturbing gang signs and suddenly the couple see a band of a dozen hikers tromping past them up ahead. The couple argue about this, with Martyr saying things like, "Leave me, I'm done for! Save yourself! Get help!" And Wife saying, "No, I won't leave you! I can't! A soldier never leaves a fallen comrade behind, Semper Fi, Oorah!!" That last one may not have happened. But you get the idea. By the time Wife finally takes off running (again, through the river) to catch up to the hikers, she's completely lost them, despite the fact they were maybe five minutes ahead of her. And they left tracks in the snow for her to follow. Which she didn't. Of course.
We see Wife literally crawling through snowy mountains that have never been touched by humans, all the while thinking she can still catch up with the hikers. Hikers who had obviously never been there. The movie cuts back to Marytr, still on the side of the river (I wonder why she didn't just put him in it?), waiting patiently as he freezes to death, never thinking that perhaps that dead guy in the cave up there might have some coats, boots, gloves, pants, underwear, and whatever else Martyr gave him that he won't be using anymore. We're supposed to believe that Wife went crawling and stumbling forEVER, which she did, and did she find help? Of course she did. She accidentally wanders into the city they started from. No joke. These idiots have been lost for weeks and she crawls back in a day? Why wasn't she put in charge from the beginning? Oh wait, she was following those hikers, not trying to find the city, so logic would tell us had she been looking for the city, she would instead have found Hell. Or something like that. Anyway, she wasn't in charge for good reason.
So Helicopter guy takes her up and they start looking for Martyr. "I left him next to a river." "What, not in it?" (But I kid these retards.) She gives very helpful clues like, "We were around a bend in the river," and, "I think we were near some trees." Of course, they find Martyr, still waiting patiently for death. They yell down to him that they can't reach him on the banks of the river; he'll have to get in the river to reach him. Of course. What is it with these people and getting in the water in subfreezing conditions? When they get back to the city, they find Head Guide and Cook and Martyr more or less tells them they're going to hell for leaving them. Sounds good to me.
They get home to the States, Martyr loses his toes and fingers due to frostbite, and they all go on and on about how grateful they are to be alive. Indeed, Idiots. And it is here that I have to take serious issue with this being a true story. Without the aid of Hollywood (or whatever back alley company made this film) this couple would have died years ago with a collective hand on a fork in a light socket, and you and I both know it. People that stupid simply cannot survive something like that without artistic license on their side.
Even after reading this, if you have Comcast on Demand and a free hour and a half, check it out. You honestly can't go wrong with a movie like that.
22 January 2009
And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.
And now, for your edification, here are the answers:
1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.
2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.
3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?
4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.
5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.
6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.
7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.
8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.
9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.
10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.
Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.
15 January 2009
Hey, hey, hey, remember when I told you about that blogger book that was being made for the NieNie Recovery Fund? And how a bunch of funny blog entries were chosen from 43 different authors (even me if you can stomach that) to make up this book to make it as funny as possible? And that all profits would go towards helping pay for the Nielson's medical bills and such? And how I would give you more information once the book was ready for purchase? WELL HANG ON TO YOUR HATS, 'CAUSE THE BOOK IS HERE. Grab a Kleenex if you have to.SO. How can you procure this marvel for your very own coffee tables to wow and impress your friends, family, and unwanted houseguests (assuming they aren't all one and the same)? By clicking here, you silly ducks! Now, you'll also note that there is a downloadable version, allowing you to obtain The Brilliance within minutes rather than days, plus you avoid that mindboggling $5 shipping charge. On the other hand, you won't have anything to show off to people, plus it's hard to read it in the bathroom like that unless you drag your computer in there with you (if you do this, please don't tell me). But I'm not your mother so do whatever makes you happy. You know, just as long as you spend at least $19.60 (or multiples thereof) in the process.
BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE. If there are two things my readers have in common, it's that they're incredibly cheap and lazy. I am nothing if not accommodating in this regard. This is why I've sold my soul for charity and will host The First and Hopefully Only Delusions of Grandeur Giveaway!! Here's how this will work. This will work for all you tightwads out there since as the prize you will get one hardcopy of "Something Cleverish" for your very own on my dime. As an added bonus, you will be getting the Special Limited Edition of "Something Cleverish!" Why so special you ask? Because I will personally forge all 42 autographs of every other author in the book, accompanied by personal wishes from each and every one! I will now place my fingers in my ears since I hear you all screaming something about illegalities and lawsuits. LA LA LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MY CHARITABLE HEART IS DROWNING OUT ALL OF YOUR BUMMER WORDS.
For all you lazy folks (same folks mind you), you won't be as into this next part. You'll have to answer questions to get it, and don't tell me it ain't gonna happen because at least one person already said she'd do it; if you don't want her to get it, then get on the ball. The person who answers the most questions correctly (emailed to me; any answers posted in the comments section will be deleted) will get a FREE book either hand delivered or mailed to his or her very own residence! If more than one of you actually bothers with this and answers the same number correctly, I'll close my eyes and choose at random. Fair enough? Good. Then the rest of you hosers will have to buy the book on your own. (Remember! It's for charity! And it's funny! Buying it counts for 25+ points for getting into Heaven.) All of the answers for this quiz can be found within the bowels of this blog (i.e., you don't have to know me to get them right). All responses are due in my inbox by Tuesday (the 20th) night at midnight EST. And...GO!
THE DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR QUIZ OF A LIFETIME
1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis?
2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous?
3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert?
4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you?
5) What is Michael Phelps's real name?
6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF?
7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me.
8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs?
9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they?
10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants?
See? Too easy. Remember, no answers in the comments; please email your answers instead. Feel free to use the comments section to ask questions about the blog book, though.
Seriously though, buy the book. Everyone always says to themselves, "Gosh, I'd love to help but I don't know how!" Here's how. It even makes it easy by taking PayPal. Go on. Do the right thing: buy and feel good about it now, and then feel amused several days from now. It's win-win.
13 January 2009
I ran across a couple of images a long time ago when temporary crazy infiltrated my brain and I thought for a second that I could actually sew men's pajamas. Fortunately, that idea went away, but the images I found have stayed in my files for some time and I've decided now is the time to share them.
Image The First
I imagine the thought process leading up to this gem as something like the following:
"You know, my husband needs new underwear, but darn it, those department stores are so expensive, what with their fancy elastic waistbands and cottons and such. And what if I needed to make them out of Polyester or faux fur?? Where am I then?"
Image The Second
I'm going to show this next one without explanation. Be sure and compare their "detail" box with the actual photo. Enlarge the photo by clicking on it if you need to. Take your time.
Back when I was a young whippersnapper at BYU I lived in an apartment complex. I'm sure most apartment complexes/student congregations did something similar, but I never cared to check so I'll just stick with my own experience. In our complex we had what we called a Meet Directory, which everyone usually referred to as a "Meat Directory," what with the photos and names of every available person in the thing available for all to peruse and stalk. They usually lined us all up at the beginning of the school year and snapped our mug shots for this thing and a few weeks later the directory came out.
It must have been several weeks into the semester when I was leafing through the Meat Directory, noting those students who had failed to have their photo taken. In lieu of a photo these people had random designs in their box-that-would-be-a-photo. I was taken aback by one fellow's random design, thinking it looked awfully familiar. It finally dawned on me that the random design was my fricking shirt. As in, you could have taken this guy's design and put it directly beneath my own picture and it would have made a complete picture. And not only was it my shirt, but it was a picture of my boobular region specifically. My roommates were never so pleased to see this and one of them who knew the guy who put the directory together had him come over immediately. He apologized after I pointed out my boobs to him (the ones in the picture, not the ones on me at the time) and he explained that after taking our photos from the chest up they cut out just the heads and let the rest fall to the floor. In looking for something to put in place of this fellow's face, he looked down on the pile of cuttings, saw an interesting design, and inserted it.
It's not so much that the entire complex stared at my boobs for the rest of the school year in place of this guy's face, but the fact that Roommate's Friend didn't even realize they were boobs in the first place. *sigh* Cow lady, you have my sympathies. Except for the part where you agreed to dress up in cow pajamas and have your photo taken.
While I was searching for a higher resolution of cow lady's "detailed" photo I came across this interesting lass:
There's just something about that pose that seems just so wrong. Can't...quite...put my toe on it. Ah well, it'll come to me.
10 January 2009
Your Word is "Hope"
You see life as an opportunity for learning, growth, and bringing out the best in others.
No matter how bad things get, you always have at least a glimmer of optimism.
You are accepting and forgiving. You encourage those who have wronged you to turn over a new leaf.
And while there is a lot of ugliness in the world, you believe that almost no one is beyond redemption.
So for all you jerkfaces out there who thought I was a mean, cruel, heartless and uncaring monster, you can FRICKING SHOVE IT. I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL, JERKS. Oh wait, no I won't. BECAUSE I'M NICE AND HOPEFUL AND CRAP. TAKE THAT.
08 January 2009
I was at the base thrift store this afternoon. I pop in about once every six months just to make sure I'm not missing anything (I'm not). I did, however, come away with a $15 leather jacket that should fit Peanut in about 15 years, given his incredibly slow growth rate. I'll let you know if it looks cute on him.
While browsing the shelves I noted two music boxes. They're the kind of music box that has a resin figurine on top and on the bottom a prominent rotating circular plastic disk for a base that you wind for the music that also makes the figurine turn when it's set down again. You've all seen those, right? I'm not the only one, am I? Both of them were labeled "statue." Really. Statue. The people working here were likely born during the Coolidge administration and yet they've never seen this style of music box before? It's not a new-fangled technological wonder or something, it's a fricking music box. It even plays a little on its own when you pick it up. What is wrong with these people? And yet, you'll be happy to hear, they got the Dale Earnhart #8 mug description right on the money. I guess white trash, new or old, can't be bothered with contraptions like musical statues.
My other favorite label came in the toy section. Tangent: is it just me or is the toy section of the thrift store the scariest section in the whole building? Gives me the willies just looking at that stuff, riddled with disease and various bodily fluids from strange children. Blech.
Anyway, I noted a child's accordian on the shelf. It was in very good condition, and for $5 I briefly considered rescuing it, until I realized I would hate that sound after about two seconds. So I put it down. But not before noting its label description: "Noise Maker." I love it. What I would love more would be to walk into a music store and see a piano labeled the same thing. I think we should declare all musical instruments "noise makers," just for kicks and giggles. Who's with me?
06 January 2009
The first doctor I relished critiquing was Dr. Frat Boy. Dr. Frat Boy seemed as though he generally knew what he was doing within his ENT specialty. Life in general? Not so much. This is the man who, when I asked him to explain my medical condition to me, stopped in the middle of his very first sentence, stared at me, said, "It's complicated," and got up and walked out of the room and didn't come back. Now, I realize I look as smart as a loaf of bread, but you couldn't dumb it down for me and make due?! Also, this is the same man who argued with me for 15 minutes about skim milk. He had forbade me from drinking my favorite drink on earth, milk, for six weeks. At the end of the six weeks I finally asked him why milk would make such a big difference. He said, "Because of all the fat in it."
"Wait a minute. You wouldn't let me drink milk simply because of the fat? So you're saying I could have been drinking skim milk all along, which is what I always drink anyway, but because you didn't explain why, I deprived myself of milk for nothing??"
"Skim milk has fat in it."
"No, it doesn't"
"Yes. It does. It has a small amount."
"NO, it has none at all."
"YES, it does. I suggest you actually look at the label the next time."
"I HAVE looked at the label and there's no fat in it!"
"You read it wrong."
You can then understand why I would go out of my way to drive to three different stores, buy four different brands of skim milk (eventually drink them all over time) and carefully cut out all four labels that specifically claim 0% fat on each one, and mail them to him at his office as a final kiss-my-butt gesture. No, I'm not spiteful, why?
Oh yes, I rated him. I RATED HIM GOOD.
And then there is The Doctor. If you ask me who the worst doctor on earth is, the doctor who took classes from Dr. Nick Riviera at the Hollywood Upstairs Medical College and managed to fail every class, the doctor who is also one of the worst people I've ever met, and the doctor that changed my young and innocent teenage view of doctors from trusting them to suspecting them of all manner of treachery, it is this doctor. Her name is Dr. Fusan Fiff (names have been changed, but I'll gladly provide a real name per an email request) and she practices in the Denver metro area. However, I will not do her the honor of giving her a proper name so I will merely call her Dr. @#$%&*$%.
The first time I met Dr. @#$%&*$% was for a routine physical. She asked if I had any medical concerns. I said I thought I might have a UTI. I think you'll agree that most doctors would automatically ask, "Really? What makes you think so?" But not this doctor. She responded to me by yelling (yes, you read that right--yelling), "YOU'RE NOT THE DOCTOR, I'M THE DOCTOR AND YOU DON'T DIAGNOSE YOURSELF! THAT'S MY JOB!!" I was too shocked to say anything at all to that. I was absolutely terrified and at once horrified that this person was practicing medicine. The rest of the appointment went way, way downhill after that, with every passing minute me wondering if she was in fact a real doctor. There were things I knew as your average patient that she had no clue about...medical, doctory things mind you. By the end of my appointment I was frantically searching the room for any hint of a diploma from an accredited medical school, expecting to find one instead with someone else's name scratched out and hers inserted above, or one simply written in crayon. It was an absolutely horrific experience.
Then, I had to go back again. I fell one night and sprained my ankle. I knew it was sprained and I knew it wasn't broken. The only thing I didn't know was how much Motrin I could safely take without pooping my own liver. So I made the appointment the next morning. When she came in and asked what the problem was today, I recalled her previous insane outburst and instead of daring to assist her with my own diagnosis, I told her my ankle really hurt. Note: I did said my ankle. She removed my shoe and sock, noticed a tiny faded bruise on top of my foot and asked, "Is that it?" You have no comprehension of the self-control I exhibited then. I slowly said, "No...I think it's more around the side. Where the ankle is." She turned my foot and seeing the ankle swollen to the size of a frickin' baseball, exclaimed, "OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, THAT'S HUGE! OH MY GOSH!" *sigh* She finally calmed down long enough to show me how to wrap it and tell me how much Motrin I could take. Despite the ankle, I hobbled out of there as fast as I could.
Fun story. I was talking to my dad about doctors one day. He got on the subject of bad doctors and he said the worst doctor he'd ever had in his life was Dr. @#$%&*$%. "Oh my gosh! Me too!" He revealed that she had told him (remember, he was her patient, in an actual appointment) that she hated being a doctor and never wanted to be one, but her husband made her go to medical school so she would make him more money. Nice, huh? I can see why she failed every course in school, what with the distraction of having her husband holding a gun to her head the whole time.
Oh yes, I rated her too. Not quite as theraputic as slapping her internal organs out of her, which is what I plan to do if I ever see her in person again, but it's still something against her and it made me giddy.
Do you know what Dr. Referral said to me in my very first appointment? "Doctors don't know everything and sometimes we make mistakes." No, she doesn't know a whole lot, but she also knows when she doesn't know and she willingly admits it. That's why I chose her as my doctor. She's a good woman. I rated her accordingly.
Now go visit the doctor-grading site and have all manner of fun yourselves. Go! Shoo! And let me know if there is any other possible way I can screw doctors who deserve it because I think I've discovered my calling in life.
03 January 2009
I just wanted to share our joy with you. "Our" refers to "my kitchen linoleum and I." We are thrilled because we're quasi-famous over on the Cake Wrecks site! Woohoo! The hideous Rudolph Christmas cake I bought from the grocery store down the road was featured on Christmas day (among other wrecks). I had to buy it because I was afraid it wouldn't be there when I came back with my camera. It came with a red plastic bow on top of the cover, supposedly either to distract your attention away from the cake itself, or apologize in advance for what you were about to see. Go see the wreck in all its glory here (it's about halfway down).
FYI, we did indeed eat the cake (it was chocolate). We saved the piece containing the poop-like head with creepy smile just for Peawhistle. She loved it. Then she ate it.
Question: what is all that crap in Rudolph's antlers? Anybody? Anybody?