Find Your g-Spout

You know, your g-Spout.  The kitchen utensil that helps you pour stuff, and is otherwise unrelated to any sort of sexual activity. 

See that grease going into the can?  That's called using the g-Spout and saving the earth.  When you dump that same grease down the drain, it pollutes the water.  It also ruins your pipes.

No one likes a clog.  So find your g-Spout today, and get rid of buildup without making a mess. 

The g-Spout promises to prevent drips, splattering, messes, and general unhappiness.  Take this woman, for example.  Now there's someone without a g-Spout.

But let's be honest, she's not the only one.  We've all had burnt muffins before finding the g-Spout.

What most people don't know is that good baking starts with good pouring.  Say you make enough batter to feed a small church congregation, and forget that it won't all fit into one little circle of the muffin tin.   

Darn!  You need a g-Spout.

Even those of us smart enough to use spoons aren't perfect. 

And your oven knows when you fuck up, right?

Well so does your stove.  And so do your kids.  Aren't you supposed to be a good mother?  Or at least a respectable human being?  Then stop dumping chowder everywhere with one of those soup shovels.

What are you going to do next, lay that messy spoon on the counter like some sort of neanderthal?  How about you join the rest of civilization and get a spoonrest?  Luckily, the g-Spout has one built in.  See?

Now you can stop being a slob and start being perfect. 

The g-Spout even allows you to aim with precision, so you can pour batter into molds, and stop eating boring, roundish pancakes.

All for only $19.95.  Now there's a lady who's found her g-Spout.

To order, go to http://www.g-spout.com/.

Special thanks to Terry at http://biloxxxi.com/biloxxxi/ for alerting me to yet another great invention.

Pro Con Pro

Being part of a sorority means you get to openly judge which girls are good enough to be your friend.  It's called rush.  When we had a girl we weren't sure about, to be really nice, we said two good things about her and only one bad.

So if we were talking about Marcy, someone would say "She was really nice."  Then someone would say "Her breath smelled like bacon, and she couldn't walk in her Manolo's."  Then someone else would say "But that's because she's anorexic." 

Good thing, bad thing, good thing.  We called it Pro Con Pro.  Since it's such a nice way of doing things,  I figured I would break my day down in the same way.  Here's today's Pro Con Pro.

Pro: I found $25 in my pocket.

Con: A bird took a giant dump on my sunroof.  I chunked it off with the squeegee at the gas station, but it was so much that it ran down my windshield and one window.  There's still a white streak that wiper fluid won't fix, and I was paranoid the whole time my sunroof was opened.  What if that happened again, without the glass barrier?

Pro: LAST DAY OF SUMMER SCHOOL!!!!  To make sure I didn't murder an eighth grader today, I made a general announcement that they would not be punished for missing the last day.  To make sure certain students didn't come, I gave personal invitations to stay home.  Examples:

I told Andrew to stay home and rest, since he had worn his winter hat both outside (where it's a hundred degrees) and inside (where I told him a hundred times he couldn't wear it).  He clearly had a fever, and we could not allow him to risk his health or expose his illness to others. 

I called a mom to tell her that her son pretending to masturbate in front of the class was far too convincing, and we could not allow him to be around other children another day. 

After Brandon tried to argue with me over the color of turtles, my age when I got my ears pierced, and whether or not taco is a noun, I told him I was going to do him a favor.  If he came to school today, I would let him stand in the hall and argue with his left shoulder all day so he could finally be right.


Success.  I only had four kids in each class, but this day would have been a success even without the last pro.  I would take bird poop for twenty-five bucks any day.

Highway User's Guide

Directions: Complete guide incessantly while operating a motor vehicle on any state highway or interstate.  Begin at one of the three boxes at the top, and follow arrows according to your answers.  Repeat until exiting the highway.

Note: Number of questions increases as your vehicle moves left. If you are not able to answer these questions without swerving, slowing down, or otherwise endangering lives, please reserve left lanes for people who are.

Note: “But I’m going (insert speed here)” should never be considered in answers, even if you think you are going really fast. Any other arguing with this guide indicates you are a nuisance driver, and you should exit the highway immediately.

*Excludes laziness, having an expensive car, and "because I'm awesome".

The Almighty Torso

For those of you never blessed with the opportunity to visit the largest known replica of Jesus in the United States, let me try to recreate the experience for you.

You are travelling north through Ohio on 75, and pass through Cincinnati and its suburbs.  There is a giant flea-market on your right and a Hustler store on your left.  You realize this is somewhere you could score fireworks and a cheap pistol, but you drive on.

Then, the billboards disappear.  The unmowed fields turn to manicured lawn.  Traffic slows as you reach the next city, and...

Jesus Christ!

That's right, there he is.  Right in the middle of a pond, reaching up to Heaven.

You gasp in awe and wonder how much that thing cost, before quickly reminding yourself that no amount of money is too great for God.

People complained about the statue when it first went up.  They said it was an eyesore, and was tacky.  Others ranted about the sinful nature of worshipping false idols instead of God himself.

Others of us knew the truth though: this was God.  Or at least his torso.  So when people started using nicknames like Touchdown Jesus and Big Butter Jesus, we knew they were going to Hell for making fun of God's only son.

Or at least for stealing, because the name Touchdown Jesus was already taken.  More appropriately located behind the stadium of Notre Dame, the original Touchdown Jesus features Christ as a teacher, in a mural made of granite.

Hmm, granite attached to a cement building. Interesting, if you're an engineer. But where's the fun in plain old stone? Where's the creativity? This was the job of an artist, and so the designers of the Ohio Touchdown Jesus would use a craftier combination: Styrofoam and fiberglass.  Plastic fiberglass, wrapped around metal poles, to create an effect similar to that of paper mache.

Which is cool, if it's a fifth grader replicating James and the Giant Peach for a school project. But when the project grows to be a six-story bearded man, it gets creepy. 

And dangerous.  Styrofoam and plastic: flammable.  Metal: conductor.

But obviously none of that matters, because this is a statue of Jesus.  God will protect it. Which is why we were all shocked when Jesus was incinerated by a bolt of lightning last Monday.

How could God let this happen?  Why would he burn his only son so publicly, all the way to the stake? 

The pastor's wife says it was God sacrificing himself, pointing out that the shelter for at-risk women next door wasn't damaged.

Science says that the Hustler store wasn't damaged either, because it's not six stories tall and wrapped in foam.

While we may never understand the mysterious ways of God, we can look to the church for answers.  And the church says Jesus shall return.

So, what will he be this time?  Terminator Jesus, like the billboard suggests?  Toothpick Jesus, covered in lights and doused in gasoline?  PETA's idea is to have Jesus holding a lamb, with the inscription "Blessed are the merciful.  Go vegan."

Church leaders haven't made a commitment yet, but they have made one promise: Jesus will return, and will be at least as big as before.   

Put-In-Bay

I didn't believe it at first.  An island in Ohio?  Impossible.  But my friends stuck to their story, and so I played along.

When you reach Port Clinton in Northern Ohio, you are immediately blinded by the rank of dead fish. 

That's right, blinded.  You carry your luggage toward the water, hoping a dragon, or maybe a magic carpet, will carry you to this unknown land. Instead, with each crashing wave comes a fresh gust of death.  You try to stop breathing completely, but when that fails, all you can do is scrunch your nose up to your eyes until your entire face is shut.

For that reason, I'm not sure how we reached this chunk of the universe.  Either we passed out into the water, where friendly pirates seized us and drug us to shore, or we rode the ferry with everyone else.

Either way, our first sightings on this island version of Narnia proved that we were indeed within an unidentifiable realm of existence.  The first thing we heard was screaming, which turned out to be a crowd of bikers huddled around a bar.  Atop this bar was a rather large woman, displaying her ability to do center splits while wearing jean shorts.

Impressive.

Cut-offs of all kinds seemed to be accepted here, and were often paired with airbrushed, or other hand-decorated clothing items.  People of all ages were intoxicated.  A grandma stumbled by us with two men at her sides, carrying her because she was so hammered.

Where the hell were we?

We proceeded to The Edgewater hotel, where we were given keys to room number eight, and I used Abby's hair extensions to fashion myself a blonde beard before putting them to bed.

.

The next morning, we headed to the pool bar, where we agreed to help these guys meet their $500 cabana minimum.

You're welcome.

Around noon, we started to understand what happened to people upon spending time in this realm of bars and pools.  Regardless of your age, or the time of year, you become convinced you are on Spring Break. 

What else could explain the fist-pumping, or men peering over the pool from a balcony, or the barfing before dinner?  What about the injuries during the waterfall photo shoot? 

These usually go so well.

As we started to question our antics (Are we too old for this?) Captain Morgan showed up to wash away our fears.  Yay, let's go meet him and take pictures!

Like any respectable Spring Breaker, I had already chosen my twenty-four hour boyfriend, so he and I frolicked toward the bar with dreams of red velvet hugs and free shots.  When we got there though, The Captain ignored us when we asked for a picture, and he wouldn't even give us a T-shirt. 

But I thought The Captain loved drunks.  Where was the jolly pirate who inspired millions to hike a leg?  Where was the barrel-chested hero who delivered happiness in a bottle? 

This man was no Captain Morgan, and his ability to use weaponry as simple as a T-shirt gun proved it.  That aim would embarrass any hunter of the open seas.

After a quick break to shower, we went to a bar called Roundhouse.  Right below the Roundhouse sign is a neon light that says Whiskey, which makes the unwritten rule pretty clear.  Upon entering the bar, one must take a shot of whiskey, and then immediately deliver a roundhouse kick to the face.

Duh.

So we did some of that, and then kicked everyone's ass in flip cup.

The next day involved tequila, which I learned is never a bad idea, as long as you chase it with pineapple juice.  See how much fun she's having?

There were some later effects, however, including Michelle turning Asian,

Lindsay becoming an Italian pizza maker,

and the rest of us growing platinum facial hair.

By the end of the weekend, we fit in really well.

Sex and the City II: Dried Up

Remember "Saved By the Bell: The College Years"?  When they took a group of friends who had clearly gotten older, put them in a different setting, and tried to act like everything was the same? 

That's what Sex and the City II was, with tackier clothing and much bigger problems. 

Problem #1: Worldwide female oppression.  Good thing they are going to the Middle East so they can address the issue.  And what better way to do it than by singing "I Am Woman" to a bar full of whistling men? 

   

Way to go, ladies. 

Problem #2: A dry vagina.  How is Samantha supposed to save feminism, when menopause has her sweating like a heroine addict, and she isn't even turned on by humping a camel?

Luckily, Aladdin's buff grandpa hops a sand dune in his jeep to land himself right in the middle of their desert picnic.

And just like that, Samantha's mojo is back. 

She returns to her sleeveless state, gives a hookah a blow job in public, and gets arrested for fucking the guy on the beach.

Meanwhile, Carrie meets up with Aiden (yes, in Abu Dhabi. Where else do you find magic carpets?)

and Charlotte cries because she has kids.  One of them even stained her vintage white skirt before she left-- the skirt she likes to wear with her pink cupcake apron while baking hundreds of pink cupcakes.

Unlike Charlotte, Miranda finally embraces motherhood, and gives up her career like any good mother would.  No wonder she is uncharacteristically fun by the time they get to Abu Dhabi.

Well, as fun as the smart one can be. 

Miranda was actually my favorite in this movie, only because she was the least whiny of the four.  I also enjoyed Charlotte falling off a camel, and the three seconds of the movie with this guy.

Besides that, I would rather watch every episode of "Saved By the Bell: The College Years" while making out with the mullet in the Canadian tuxedo than ever have to watch this movie again.

Delilah

Yeah I listen to Delilah.  I also watch "Wheel of Fortune."  So?

If you don't know who Delilah is, you are obviously not the mother of three with an "80's, 90's, and now" station pre-set in your mini-van.  If you were, you would know that the most listened-to woman on the radio comes on every night at seven.

Lucky for me, I was able to happen upon this gem of a radio show despite my usual disdain for any station that promises to keep it clean for the kids.

I was driving home from the gym one day (the gym near my school, so forty-five minutes away) when I decided to use the seek button to entertain myself.  When it led me to "Hero," I did what any goddess-loving American would do, and turned it up loud enough to drown out my own voice with the sweet sound of a Mariah Carey ballad.

Considering the rarity of such music outside of a gay bar, I kept listening in hopes of more.  A woman who was clearly one valium away from a coma told me to "slow down and love someone tonight,"  so I obviously thought this was some sort of sex line.  Then she said something about God, and I realized I recognized her voice as the schizo radio version of Dr. Phil.

From just the first few times I heard her in high school and college, I could tell she was crazy.  Not like haha silly crazy, but belongs in a rubber room crazy.  Then I googled her, and removed all doubt.

Crazy.  Remembering this, and having nothing else to do with my time, I kept listening.

Her first call was from the mother of eight whose husband had been shipped to Afghanistan.  There was a good twelve minutes of sighing, and I almost changed the station to keep myself from falling asleep or vomitting on my steering wheel when "My Heart Will Go On" snapped me out of it. 

Are you kidding me?  This is awesome. 

I soon discovered that not only is Delilah really not all that caring, but actually quite a bitch.  Every line of cheesy advice she gives is laced with condescension.  One guy called crying (literally sobbing) because he wanted his girlfriend back.  Her words of encouragement? "Well, I don't perform miracles.  Only God can do that."  All with a smile behind her voice, and no doubt behind those crazy eyes.

Let's get another thing straight about Delilah.  She does not take requests.  She says she does, because that sounds like a way to use music to help people, but she really just sits there, maybe sighing occassionally depending on if she likes them, while someone talks.  Then she plays whatever song she wants. 

Take the woman who called about her mother, for example.  She wanted to thank her mom for overcoming the obstacles of her life to raise her and her siblings in a loving, though impoverished home.  The woman went on to say thank you to her daughter, and to all of the women in her family.  Delilah thought that was beautiful.  Inspirational women.  She told her she would find a song for her and her mother, and played "Man in the Mirror" in her honor.

Then there was Donnie, who called to pay gratitude to his wife.  She stays home with their three kids while he is away for weeks at a time, working in the mines.*  She cooks for them every night, and cleans the house, all while having a full-time job of her own at the town's library.  For them, Delilah played "Uptown Girl." 

What a whore.

I don't know what kind of power this woman has over people that allows her to convince them that she cares deeply at the exact same time she is making an ass out of them, but it is hilarious.  It is hilarious and inspirational, and I'm not sure what else you can ask for from a late-night radio show.


*People still do that, apparently.