Mom and Dad vs Bats Day

Okay, back story: Two years ago I innocently brought my Mother to Disneyland on the day commonly known as Bats Day. I thought she'd be horrified. Instead, she spent the day delightedly pointing out the different types of strange people. Statements abounded such as

A) Hey, look at that grandma goth!

B) Hey, look at that baby goth!

C) That dog collar looks uncomfortable!

D) Aren't they hot in all that black?

E) Why is that man wearing a top hat?

Fast forward two years. My mother has planned a birthday/Mother's Day trip entirely based on bringing my Dad to witness this Goth-topia for himself. They're from a small town. They're used to making their own fun. So off we went! And I filmed it.

Extra bonus:

My Dad's legendary WORST BRITISH ACCENT EVER makes several appearances! It's like Steve Irwin meets Monty Python meets a Dickensian chimney sweep. It's pretty ear-gougingly awful. Naturally I encouraged it.

BASK IN THE AWKWARD GAWKING! BASK!

Get Yo Gown On!

I love me some period dramas, people. That's when my inner drama queen and my fashion whore get together and make sweet sweet lavish imagination babies. My recent fix has been Downton Abbey on PBS.



And because there's one more part of me that I would be happy to add to that baby's genetic makeup, it's that delightful British comedy I love so damn hard.

Hooray for Red Nose Day! Bringing you...

Uptown Downstairs Abbey!





I just imagine myself back in one of these little fashion and fainting couch ensembles and ignore the fact that, seriously, if I had lived in those times, I would be the poor bastard getting slapped in the face by the cook for not cleaning the fireplace right. It could be worse, though. Even the chambermaids are brilliant because the actresses are brilliant. And, hey, look at Kim Catrall, getting her period on!

Okay, that just sounded gross. Plus we all know she's about eighty, so that's scientifically impossible anyway.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go feed my imagination baby some Upstairs, Downstairs.

The Cash Will Rise Again!

Money is trying to keep the black man down. I have proof:






THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN! Just ask the fine (fine = delusional and racist) ol' boys over at Dixienet! They took a few hours off from making those silly little ghost costumes to learn how to cobble together a website! Then they decided to make a little rubber stamp of a confederate flag and get all creative with their wrinkled twenty dollar bills. Before spending them on a carton of discount smokes. Because that's just good marketing.

I'm sure when they got done with their little craft project, stamping happily away on whatever change they had in their pockets--I bet doing the pennies was tricky!-- they all sat back, cracked open some beers, sighed happily, and pretended that little flag was fluttering proudly above the real White House. Then they went home to their double-wide trailers just in time to watch their favorite shows. Oops. Guess President Obama has a televised speech tonight. Sorry, buddies.

I take great delight in using this racist money to support the business of a nice Mexican man.

The Return of the Return of Crazy Shower

To recap: Meet Crazy Shower. It is made of bits of what I assume is PVC pipe and wood glue. It wants to bathe your nether regions, and it isn't ashamed to shout it loud and proud. In traffic.

I love Crazy Shower Car. Crazy Shower Car is the Sasquatch of North Hollywood. These frantic, traffic-dodging camera phone pictures are my version of the Patterson-Gimlin film. Minus the whole "actually a hoax with a gorilla costume" thing*.

Enough jibber-jabber. On to the Shower!





Shh. I'm sneaking up on it. I have to be cautious. I'm waiting for the time I pounce upon my elusive prey only to find Mr and Mrs Shower surrounded by all their belongings, having lost their home. Not because the Crazy Showers weren't selling, because that would be nuts. No, no, I'm referring to their compulsive need to re-wrap their truck with completely different advertisements every few months. Pimping their ride is what will bankrupt these crazy, showery dreamers, reducing them to a life spent sleeping in the back of their truck on a bed of bidet-parts and burlap sacks. Crying.





This season's theme seems to be Spanish. To lure in the bilingual clients. Yep, the problem with the last banner was too much English.



So remember, kids: Toilet paper leaves you dirty. If by "dirty" you mean "not having lukewarm toilet water blasted at your anus".

In related awesome cars I've seen today news, check out this awesome car what I saw today! If a giant had roller skates, this would be one of them! Hooray!



*Dear baby Zeus and Athena, let Crazy Shower Car have a fake gorilla next time.

Celebrate My Superfriends! Say No To Cults!

Dear EveryWebs,

It's no secret I'm pretty much your best friend. You can pretend it isn't true, but you're lying. I'm the Lila Fowler to your Jessica Wakefield. Or if I'm mad at you, Enid Rollins. And we both know that shirt is awful, and you should stop wearing it. What you possibly don't know is true is that my friends are even more awesome than I am. They do things like these things. THESE!









THOSE!

...right here would have been the end of this blog session, but I just have to add a moment of confusion as to what the hell is going on with the Youtube "suggestions" side-bar. You know the one that uses similiar keywords to list things you might be interested in? Based on shit you just looked at?

They suggested like five episodes or whatever of this.




In what universe is anything I typed in related to the fucking Rajneeshees?

For those of you in the dark on this, they were a cult. A Sunkist Orange-colored cult.




They walked around looking a little like that singing cult from Rescue Rangers that baptized dancing mice with soda.



They also bought their dear leader something like 85 Rolls Royces, took over a town in Oregon, and tried to poison 750 locals. But the clothes! So sunny!

I look forward to my next Youtube search. Maybe I'll look up my favorite clips from The IT Crowd and my old friend the side-bar will offer me some information on vacations to Jonestown.

Orangefully yours until next time,

Unwinona.

Books & Windbreakers

Dear Every Book Cover,

TURN THE FUCK AROUND.



Unless you're that new (again?!) Dean Koontz book he cranked out in three days (again?!) all about yet another guy who is lovingly described as wearing a ballcap, tapered jeans, white sneakers and a windbreaker. And Windbreaker Man's got a dog. And Windbreaker Man and Golden Retriever are chasing/being chased by some guy/woman/baby with NO FACE. In that case, feel free to take a picture of the back of someone's head and paste it on a book jacket! Have fun, Deany-K!

In conclusion, learn the lesson that Bonnie Tyler tried to teach you years ago. Right about the time Windbreaker Man's outfit was anywhere near socially relevant. Plus, think about it; If you're hiding from No-Face, isn't the world's noisiest jacket the worst possible choice? Why not just hang windchimes from your ears and wave trashbags in the air while shouting your exact location? Good thing he's got that psychic dog that can fly or whatever is happening in this one. I don't remember.

So here you go, Dean. Any time you want to--OH HOLY ZEUS BALLS--

Aliens and Birfdays

My sister got borned! It's been a bushel-basket of years since, but for some reason we're still yapping about it, year after year. So I made THIS.