As I've noted, Tuesdays are going to be a day for my wonderful blogging friends to use this space to let loose. There are no rules, not even that one rule about not talking about Fight Club.
First up is the ever-lovely Karensomethingorother. She writes at Ow, my angst, and is clever and witty and scathingly funny. These are a few of my favorite things.
Karensomethingorother is Canadian, which automatically makes her awesome, and she has a delightful view on things, such as the horrors of summer with children and her guilty pleasure and how awesome her daughter is and why she has such a twisted view of cherries.
Karensomethingorother graciously offered to be a guest poster in order to get this off her chest:
I'm So Mad at Amy Winehouse
I’m actually typing this in Word right now, instead of the much preferred blog editor, and that stupid Paper Clip guy just popped up. You know who the paper clip guy is: that idiot ass cartoon character who is supposed to be helpful when you have to ask a question like “how do I shut off AUTO CORRECT,” or “HOW DO I TYPE A GODDAMN LABEL FOR AN ENVELOPE? I USED TO HAVE A REAL JOB, AND I TYPED LABELS ALL THE TIME BUT NOW I’M A STAY-AT-HOME RETARD”.
So, that paper clip guy is kinda helpful, but then he just turns into “your anal friend who won’t get out of your business and can not seem to stop giving unsolicited advice.”
Anyhow, today should have been perfect. My two kids have gone off to their grandparents’ for a sleepover, where they can eat chocolate sweeties until they get tummy-tum aches, watch as many child-friendly videos as they like, and forget all about that awful word “NO” for an entire day. I’m happy because this means they can head-butt each other at someone else’s house.
So, that sounds right-on, right? Maybe I’d have mowed my lady lawn, mixed up some cocktails and forgotten that The Man keeps leaving his sweaty, mildew factory karate clothes in the laundry basket every. single. week. instead of taking a f*cking minute to hang them up on the line until they dry the eff out. And after some terrifying afternoon delight (terrifying because it would be in DAYLIGHT, and this party doesn’t roll these days unless it’s too black to see anything) we’d head off to the movie theatre to see THE LAST HARRY POTTER, YO! BOO YAH!
But no. I have wicked bad cramps, and I have to go out and look for tampons that are nearly as wide as a roll of paper towels, and fork over six bucks to the library for an over-due Wiggles dvd. I’m just waiting for the two aspirin to kick in.
In the meantime, I come to my friend Internet, to pass the time until said NSAIDS kick in, and see that Amy Winehouse has died. And stupid me? I’M SHOCKED.
How the hell am I shocked when her death is elementary, my dear Watson? But damn, she had a good voice, and damn, she had a cool vibe, and damn, that was one good album, and goddamnit, but that idiot Katy Perry will still be cranking out the crap forever, and when they stick the microphone in front of a group of young girls, and ask them who their favourite artists are, they’ll all cheep “ohmygod we LOVE Katy Perry!!!” And sadly, fantastic songs like “Back To Black,” will be overshadowed by whipped cream titty guns, and skin so hot it’ll melt yer popsicle, SQUEEEEEK!
Yeah, what a bummer.