Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I really miss Bubba

Right now I’d love to personally slap each and every person who voted for Bush in 2004. There’s a lot of them, and I’d have to go to places like Alabama to get them all, but it sure seems worth the effort now.

Today the Supreme Court made it that much easier for anti-abortion dingleberries to stand in front of clinics to interfere with my right to have a PERFECTLY FUCKING LEGAL MEDICAL PROCEDURE performed within the confines of my very own uterus.

Ay, my friends, there’s the rub. The dingleberries will not rest until the perfectly fucking legal part is no longer associated with abortion.  

Now this blog isn’t big enough to detail the ridiculous hypocrisies of those who say things like they want to “restore the sanctity of life in our laws and policy.” They’re completely full of shit, especially this group, in Chicago’s Greektown, who was instrumental in closing all but one abortion clinic in Mississippi.

I have to get a couple of cavities filled on Saturday and I’m worried. Who is to say some enamel preservation activists won’t blow up my dentist’s office? It’s not my poor teeth’s fault that the world hasn’t invented sugarless beer yet! I was a dental slut, drinking and eating with reckless abandon without using cavity control and now my teeth are paying for it.


Monday, February 27, 2006

iLuvs my iPod Shuffle!

I’ve now joined the legions of jerks walking around with white wires sprouting from the ears. Friday night I strolled into the Apple store on Michigan Avenue and came out a new woman.

This little plastic thing is amazing! If I didn’t know better, I’d say inside my shuffle it’s perpetually 2 a.m. and there is a teeny tiny drunk girl sitting on a floor covered with CDs playing songs for me. Sometimes she’s so drunk she tries to play the same song twice. But that’s alright. We’ve all been there. I just skip to the next song.


Thursday, February 23, 2006

I don't write. . . I don't call. . .

Miss Manners says it is rude to take an unexplained absence from one’s blog. So in the interest of being an overachiever, I’ve decided to offer you several excuses as to why I’ve taken nearly a week to post.

1. I was embroiled in a five-day fiddlin’ duel with the devil.

2. I was peppered with buckshot by a drunken urban pigeon hunter.

3. I was called up to active duty in Iraq. (The Green Zone has awesome margaritas by the way.)

4. I was surgically separating yet another set of Third World Siamese twins sent to America so some media whore hospital can get press coverage.

5. I was a guest host on the View.

6. My toilet overflowed and I was sitting on the counter top waiting for FEMA to rescue me.

7. I was explaining to Oprah why and how she needs to get over herself.

8. I was helping Madonna recover from her hernia operation.

9. I was on a Meth binge.

10. I was taken up to Heaven by the Rapture but returned quickly as Saint Peter realized they had the wrong person.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Finally, a use for my journalism education

David Gregory isn’t the only member of the White House press corps to get under the skin of Press Secretary Scott McLellan. As a citizen journalist, I used my credentials as dynamo lunchtime blogger to get a seat this week in the briefing room.

Here’s the actual transcript of my questions and McLellan’s answers. Really, it’s the actual transcript.

Me: Angie Tee from Blogdiggidy

McLellan: Blog-what? Never mind. What’s your question.

Me: I just wanted to shoot a couple of questions your way.

McLellan: I gather as much.

Me: I’ll just fire away then.


Me: Calm down. Let’s not make this about you, Scott. You’re trying to make this about you, aren’t you? Well it’s not about you.

McLellan: (to no one in particular) Who let her in here?

Me: Alright. (ahem) Question numero uno. Vice President Cheney’s gun wasn’t the only thing that was loaded on Saturday, am I right or am I right?

McLellan: The Vice President has said he only had one beer at lunch. He was not intoxicated.

Me: Yeah, but how big was the beer? (laughter in the room) Is the Vice President drunk now?

McLellan: Are you finished?

Me: Hardly. Last month the Pew Center for Research reported in a poll that the Vice President’s approval rating had significantly dropped among alcoholic bird hunters who had shot a friend at one time or another. Was the Whittington shooting, or excuse me peppering really a way to shore up support among this key Republican constituency?

McLellan: I don’t have time for this.

Me: Scott, focus. Last question. Should America be worried about copycat pepperings?

McLellan: (shouting) Security!

So anyway, at that point I was bounced from briefing. And I have to say it’s amazing how one can fly from Chicago to DC and back during the work day with no one noticing.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

I peaked at 13

I’m with these folks. Spelling Bees are not to be taken litely or excuse me, lightly.

In 1986, I won the Lincoln Junior High Spelling Bee at the age of 13. A tremendous moment it was, and my name is engraved on a plaque outside the gym to this day. I know this because I ask my niece, an 8th grader there, to check on it periodically.

Kayllatee is also a fantastic speller and has made it to the finals each year going as far as second place. Last month was her final chance at Spelling Bee glory, but she lost to a 6th grader. I couldn’t bee-lieve it. A 6th grader? I called her to find out what happened.

Me: So what happened?

Kayllatee: Uh, I lost.

Me: Any regrets?

Kayllatee: No.

Me: Is my name still on the plaque?

Kayllatee: Yes! They don’t put your name on there anymore anyway.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? Who do I talk to about this!

OK, so I didn’t say “fucking,” but I do want to talk to these people because Kayllatee lost on the word “aphrodisiac.” What are these people thinking? She’s 14 for chrissakes! What if she asked the judge to use it in a sentence? What then?

Our family does have some hope left. Kayllatee’s brother Zachtee is freakishly bright. At six he was able to take everyone’s birthdates and the wedding dates of their parents and figure out who was born illegitimately or not. It was a proud day for us. A spelling bee crown is clearly within his reach.

I talked to their mom about Zachtee’s chances. I told her she should have him up every morning at like 5 a.m. with flash cards and the like.

“Should he be reading the thesaurus?” Staceytee asked.

“Yes, definitely the thesaurus!’ She was on board, I could tell. We talked a bit more, and then she shrieked suddenly. I heard the kids laughing hysterically in the background.

“Ah man, Zach just farted,” Staceytee said.

“Tell him champion spellers don’t do that!” I said.

She did. He didn’t seem to care.

Monday, February 06, 2006

They're not the only ones watching you

Patriot Act got you down? Did you ever consider that bloggers, like the NSA, don't need any frivolous warrant to eavesdrop on your cell phone conversations or watch your every, seemingly mundane move? Be warned: what you do, wear, who you talk to, how you walk, what you smell like, what you order in a restaurant--all this and more could end up on some blog.

When I'm out among the masses alone, for the most part my attention is squarely on my internal dialogue. It's pretty fast paced, and frequently unintelligible so I have to focus to not miss a word. But with this whole blog thing, I have to admit I can became hyper aware of people around me. A girl needs her blog material, what can I say.

And hey, it goes both ways. I too could have become blog fodder. If I looked hard enough, I might just stumble upon the following blog passages.

Guest's blog from a wedding I was in last summer:

". . and then out of no where, this bridesmaid tackled the bride to the ground! I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with my own two eyes."

UIC student blog from Chinatown riding the #8 northbound:

"Again this morning, she's fumbling for money and balancing a zillion things trying to get on the bus--coffee, bags, and a CD WALKMAN that looks like someone walking her dog found in an alley somewhere. She might as well have a ghetto blaster on her shoulder. It's called an Ipod, old lady. Look into it."

2nd floor apartment dweller/video game lover in Pilsen:

"I love my video games, and I love 'em loud. My upstairs neighbor (who's stunning by the way) apparently has a problem with it. She knocked on my door around midnight one Saturday night last month when I was in a total gaming frenzy. I didn't come to the door though. What if she's planning to take me somewhere and kill me?"

Dell customer service dude:

"What part of 30 days from shipment doesn't this customer understand? Her many sad, yet eloquent emails haunted me. I put her rebate through."

Friday, February 03, 2006

My new found homicidal tendencies

I’m going away for the weekend and when I get back I plan to kill my downstairs neighbor. I have a high threshold for noisy urban apartment living, but this guy is more than any mortal can bear.

Loud music isn’t the issue. Nor is loud sex. These things I can handle.

This guy plays video games. Really freaking loud video games.*

Like I’ll be on my tip toes trying to put away a dish when all of sudden my entire apartment will start to shake. Machine gun fire is everywhere, and as luck would have it, I don’t have a fox hole to jump in. I’ll even look outside to see if those rascal gangbangers are giving someone a 21-gun salute or something. Nope. Not them. It’s the downstairs Asshole Man. And wowza, I sure do love it when I’m drifting off to sleep and I hear squealing tires, a crash, and then a high-pitched woman’s voice coming from under my bed.

I tried knocking on his door once when things really got out of control, but he didn’t answer and I’m guessing it was because he COULDN’T FUCKING HEAR ME! And let me reiterate, I do understand the tenets of living in what is essentially little boxes stacked on top of each other. But there’s a line, Downstairs Asshole Man has crossed it, and now he’s going to die.

I think I can get away with it. Some homicide detectives the ladies and I used to drink with told us if we ever killed anyone we’d so get off. The catch is, I’d have to lure him to their corner of the city. If anyone has any creative and relatively bloodless ideas on how to do this, I’m all ears.

*I have nothing against video game players, just those who think the world wants to play along with them.  


Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The lady doth moons too much, methinks

I’ve fully retreated into Angie’s world where State of Union addresses don’t exist. The inflatable pilot from Airplane! is president here and he’s not one for speeches.

While the rest of you were either crying or vomiting through Dubya’s performance last night, I met up with a pal of mine for a stroll through the Art Institute and some vittles. We found out a little late that the museum now closes early on their free night, so Tina and I happened upon this quaint and oh-so-authentic little Irish Pub for dinner and drink.

We had a great time catching up and headed to a nearby bookstore to browse and ridicule anything that crossed our path. I bought this very funny Chicago blogger’s new paperback (see, blogging can pay off!), and Tina helped me with the big words in a David Egger’s book. Good times.

On the way to our respective modes of public transportation, we saw a crowd of placard-holding, drum beating rabble making their way down Wabash. Usually as protests go in Chicago, cops outnumber dissidents 2:1 leaving Johnny Law a little bored. Last night was no exception. About six of them on bikes quickly swarmed a carload jammed packed with protesters. Something, as they say, was about to go down.

This girl in the passenger seat suddenly hopped out and shouted/stuttered preemptively to an officer: “MY UNDERWEAR WAS ON THE ENTIRE TIME!”

Excuse me? What in the fuck did I miss?

Tina again helped me out (I’ve been real slow as of late) and said she probably stuck her bare bottom out the window. Something called mooning, I guess. Sure, that’s one way to make a political statement. But talk about wilting in the face of authority! Abbie Hoffman probably turned over in his weed-lined grave with Miss Pants-About-Her-Ankles squirming her way out of trouble.

And anyway political mooning, I don’t get. But drunken ass-baring, totally makes sense. A few years back, the ladies and I were back in the ol’ hometown and got some beer to go after the bars along the Illinois River closed. One of us, probably me, got the bright idea to moon barges as the passed us.

To this day, I can still feel the barge’s radioactive search light on my bum. They were really looking for something, lemme tell ya.