In Other News...

This must be a couple years old, but since my brain doesn't cooperate with creativity these days, I'd thought I'd post something long-forgotten and completely irrelevant.

In other news

I attempt to read the newspaper every weekday morning. Well…at least the first section. I’ve tried reading the local page, but since it seems to have the odd affect of neutralizing my morning coffee, I have given it up. I often peruse the classifieds quickly, ensuring that I am not missing out on greener grass, or off-street parking, but I am almost always left with the sickening reality that I live in a place completely devoid of opportunity, prosperity, and single females over 30 who aren’t advertising for a man.

However, lately I’ve taken to the habit of skipping almost everything. I refuse to read anything with “Suicide” or “1## People Killed”. I regret that I don’t seem to care who is ruling Northern Ireland, or how much the euro is worth in dollars.

So, I make up my own news. It’s much more interesting, and while not factual for the most part, is in my eyes, a decent example of why creative humor-journalism could save lives and end wars. Afterall - doesn't a spoonful of sugar help the anti-psychotic pain-killing happy pill go down?.

Today’s News A la Jessica:

Los Angeles, CA – Paris Hilton has been pardoned by Governor Schwarzenegger today after promising him retribution in the form of a series of sex tapes starring herself, Nicole Richie and Justin Timberlake. Hilton’s newly fired-rehired publicist, Elliot Mintz was quoted as saying, “Everyone makes mistakes. Paris is excited about performing this community service and helping to bring sexy back to the mundane lives of the general public.”

The pardon has catapulted petitiononline’s “Sick of Paris Hilton Petition” into the Most-visited website off all time.

Atlanta, GA – As Northside Hospital, long touted as the East Coast’s most voluminous “Baby-Delivery hospital, prepares for the largest baby boom since World War II ended, parent’s across the nation are making OB appointments for their post-prom teenage daughters. Once thought a mere myth, the “Prom Baby” phenomenon is expected to drop female College entrance rates by over 50%, single-handedly rebuilding the glass-ceiling and throwing the United States into a June Cleaver-like state, mirroring the 1950’s, and making the common housewife the largest growing career over the next decade.

The term “Prom Baby” has also been added to Wikipedia in an attempt to educate teen girls, and discredit the theory that “ignorance is bliss”.

“A prom baby is a child conceived on the night of its mother's senior prom, particularly a child conceived deliberately as a means for its mother to avoid the actual or perceived pressures of attending college.[1]”


Crawford,TX – President Bush, said in a press conference held today impromptu from his Prairie Chapel Ranch, that he will not fight with Congress over a timetable for bringing troops back from Iraq. Eliciting little applause from the gathering, he stated they would continue their efforts overseas “until the cows come home”.

Washington DC – The National Weather Service reported today that what were thought to be severe non-precipitating thunderstorms across the northeast last night were actually the disproportionately large thighs of a woman in the western part of Massachusetts, which have grown overnight to such proportions that people all across the New England states were awakened by a late night trip to the bathroom. No further details were given.

Boston, MA – Jessica Jones, would-be renowned blogger and head of a Massachusetts Lobbying Organization called “American’s for a Tomato Free Pasta Salad”, meet with state officials to jump-start a campaign for legislation outlawing the use of fresh-diced tomatoes in pasta salads. She cited the practice as “yucky” and will be traveling the state speaking against the evils of seed-filled rotini.

I Can Resist Everything...But Temptation

(Written for MS!)

It’s been almost 2 years since I posted my first blog about smoking cessation. I’ve tried to quit once since then, with the “miracle drug” Chantix – which has since been proven to cause death, which in my mind is worse than most side effects of smoking. Otherwise – I have gone about my stink-cloud business, and managed to continue smoking without selling any of my kids to support the insanely ridiculous Taxachusetts state treasury.

But its time again. Not because I am less willing to spend half of my take home pay on my own pleasure, and not because I no longer wish to age rapidly, dehydrate easily, or fill my lungs with enough tar to repave the Autobahn. I can’t even say it’s because I am ready to quit.

The hospital I where I spend most of my waking hours earning a paycheck is going “Smoke Free” as of March 1st, and oh, have they gone all out to communicate this to its staff, patients and flower delivery guys. There have been tent cards on the cafeteria tables for months. There have been memo’s enough to ensure an entire square mile of the rainforest is now gone. They have distributed their wretched offers of free cessation counseling and have given us an aerial view of what is included in “the campus” that cordons off about half the city.

In any case – most of the smokers have spent their recent smoke breaks in a rage about the whole thing, while squeezing into a tiny little piece of muddy/icy lawn across from the main building equipped with several butt receptacles and “Thank you for not smoking” signs. There’s a huge sandwich board that’s been counting down the days for us just as you walk back in. I hear rumblings of strikes and smoke-ins and burning the head honcho in effigy with a six-foot Bic.

But I am calm. I am a pinnacle of tranquility. I am a fortress of I-don’t-give-a –fuckedness.

Smokes are going up another 75 cents in April – and shelling out almost eight bucks a pack just isn’t going to work for me. The entire state seems to be against us. Before long, I expect a prohibition-style denial of ALL my rights wherein everything I like to do will become illegal. I’ll be one bitchy, smoke and alcohol free, internet-deprived, asexual cunt with plenty of spare moola and decaf coffee.

In preparation for all this, I pulled up the MYSPACE BUTT OUT blogs from August 2007, and was going to repost them. My buddy ISIS and I had a great list of tips for quitting, and we had fun banging our heads against the wall of nicotine for half a minute. But, I read through them, decided the whole thing was a crock of shit, and revised them a bit – which had to be done quickly, because it was almost time for a smoke break.

How To Be A Quitter....

Oral fixation: If you don’t have a man, find one. If you ARE a man, get a Slim Jim – and be realistic – the short ones that don’t last long are best. Gum, candy and lozenges are useless.
Planned weaning: Cold turkey is impossible for most people. Set a date. Preferably after you’ve been to a good psychic and have confirmed your expiration date. Chose that date and mark it on your calendar. Nothing like waiting till the last minute.

List the benefits of quitting and post them in places you are most often, your desk, your bedpost:
a. Longer life
b. More energy
c. More money (and what you will do with it)
d. Less friends to muddle up your schedule, since the only ones that will be left are the ones that quit smoking with you, and are just as miserable

Persistence: If you break down and have a cig remember that quitters never win and winners never quit. I’m a winner, what are you?

Proclaim yourself a non-smoker from day one. And then sneak behind the nearest Starbucks and light one up. Quitters never lie either, but winners do.

Meditate: The calming factor of slow, deliberate breathing and trying to clear your mind of the frustration may help get you through the rough spots. If you do this with a lit Marlboro, you get twice the results.

REINVENT and REDIRECT: Reinvent your routine – smoking goes well with meals, coffee, beer, and sex. People who are trying to quit may need to avoid these and form other routines while quitting. The people that do this, however, will be deleted from my Friends List.

Exercise: "Your body is much less apt to fire up those smoking addiction synapses when it is caught up in firing off those "Oh my God, I need oxygen badly" synapses. For me – oxygen is farther down on my addiction list than nicotine, so I’d never hear my body telling me that over the screams for a puff in my head.

Nicotine replacement and other medications: Assuming you don’t have an addiction to the oral or mental aspects, drugs are the obvious choice. And now that marijuana has been decriminalized in MA, it gets my vote for first choice.

Tell EVERYONE: Nothing is better than a supportive group of friends when you lay crumpled under your desk, blubbering like a school girl who lost her glitter pens. Their laughter will undoubtedly cheer you better than a smoke ever could, and one of them is likely to have a menthol in their pocket.

Get SICK: I cannot tell you how many people have said they quit because they were sick, and couldn't smoke without puking/coughing up a lung/passing out. Besides, it’s job security for me.

Get pregnant: Okay….so this one doesn't actually save you money and often has the opposite effect on men, but I can totally see myself telling some well-chosen one-night stand that I only need him for one night because I’m trying to quit smoking.

Anyone want to join me?


“Remember, if you’re smoking after sex, you’re doing it too fast”
– Woody Allen

A Hard Man is Good to Find

There are times when my fellowette women make me want to slap the everlovin estrogen out of them. They can be the most frustratingly delusional, self-destructive group of inherently lovely people in any given herd of nuts and crazies. I love my girlfriends wholeheartedly, and long ago realized that a loyal heart does not fill its loved ones with lies and garbage, but finds the most tactful and reasonable way to say what must be said.

So this morning, I sit and listen to my friend/office mate unquietly declare to the asshole that only yesterday was “gone from her life”, that she was leaving work early because “we need to talk”. I have used this ridiculously ineffective phrase in the distant past, and I can hear those days in the very screech of her voice when she talks to this guy, who she played the hang-up/redial game with for almost an hour.

She’s been going through the basic chick crap with this full-fledged “bad boy” for quite a while, and her frustration with him has recently escalated. Apparently she is not delighted by his continued relationship with an ex, constant drunkenness, or inability to make plans to do stuff with her. I’m only guessing that he has won her heart with his gallant shows of indifference, and endeared her with his transparent barrel of lies.


It happens all the freakin time. “But he says he LOVES me”.


I cannot tell you how often I find myself in the position whereby I must decide whether to give my no-holds-barred honest opinion or sugar coat the picture as seen from the outside. I’ve almost lost friends over the truth. Many people prefer a little white lie, that usually turns gray and then black before the whole thing resembles gangrene and requires amputation.

Don’t get me wrong. There have been moments where my pride was so damaged by a man that I flung words at him like stones at a glass house. But in general, I walk away, disgusted with myself for meandering in meaninglessness and angry that I didnt see it sooner.

So I get pissy about the sissy shit. (Pissy…sissy….I like that…) I WANT to be supportive. I will gladly let a friend spill their woes, cry on my shoulder, and if they're a very good friend, I may even let them wipe their runny nose on my sleeve. But I refuse to feed the lies they tell themselves. I will not be a party to the fantasy-like nightmare they are obsessed with. From now on, I will silently hand them a little red laminated card with my wise and unforgiving…

“Rules to Rid Yourself of Misery”

Three Strike Rule: Men can relate to the number three. Most of them have at least three fingers, they can usually add, subtract and multiply by threes, and they all know what three strikes gets you. If you call three times, and he hasn’t responded – he’s out. If you invite him to three non-sex related activities and he declines them all – he’s out. If he has two other girlfriends and you’re the third – he’s out. If he wanted to do any of those things, he would’ve done so already.

Sticks and Stones Rule: The first clue that he really doesn’t give a crap about you, having been ignored, is sometimes reiterated with a round of flying fists and/or “you stupid, stinky, cuntbomb” – which some women obviously interpret as “I really love you or I wouldn’t care enough to want to hit you/make you sink into the pitiful depths of humiliation”. There are no circumstances I can think of to excuse this, unless what he says is accurate to a fault, and if you are indeed a stupid, stinky cuntbomb, please shower and then cook the man dinner to apologize. If he talks with his fists, and you repeatedly tell yourself that it’ll never happen again, you should be flogged daily in the center of town, and have your wounds dressed with vinegar.

Truth or Dare: He says he was in a meeting, but your friend saw him lunching at the diner with a chick. He says he was talking to his mother in the other room, but you could swear you heard him say “sexy-ass” in the conversation. He “fell asleep” on his friends couch and didn’t wake up til just now, so he couldn’t call to tell you he wouldn’t be home. Basically – if you think he’s lying, he probably is. And if you realize he’s making you feel “crazy” or “paranoid” – you probably aren’t. He’s a liar. A fibber. A story-teller of idiotic proportions.

The Game of Concentration: You’re out to dinner and he excuses himself more than once to answer his cell phone. He texts you often, but never answers when you call. You never speak to him between the time he gets home from work and the time he leaves for work the next day. Mondays, Saturdays, Sundays and Thursdays are off limits for making plans, and its not even football season. Honey – either he is spreading his focus around, or he doesn’t like you enough to concentrate on you. Either way, it is not likely to change. If he has a lot on his plate, but you’re not the main dish – you never will be.

Blame Game: No matter what he did to piss you off, you end up apologizing and offering endless foot rubs if he’ll only forgive you. He says you’re pushing him away with your nagging. He says he didn’t call to cancel because he knew you’d be upset and he’s too stressed as it is. He couldn’t help finishing in under 5 minutes because you’re so damned good. Bitch please. He’s eating cake and blaming you for the weight gain. If you constantly get the eerie feeling that you’ve been duped – you have. He doesn’t give one iota about you.

The Game of Life: If he says any of the following things, just go. He’s not confused, he’s not going to “get past it” with you, and he’s not going to change his mind: “I need space” – “I need time” – “We’re (he and the ex, not YOU) trying to work things out” - “There’s someone else” – “I’m gay” – “She’s just a friend” – “You’re a needy-ass limp-lay, crazy bitch and I’m getting a restraining order”.

Butchering the Best

I love my morning show. Complete asses - just like me.

Enjoy Jason Mraz and bodily function fans!

Doin It Discovery Channel Style

I have no educated opinions on this matter, unless you include some blundering of my own that, as a result, has lead me to some slightly unscientific - though often interesting - conclusions.
I say this – because the thought occurred to me the other day, while getting bored enough eating my cereal, when the current paper had not yet hit the doorstep and I was forced to read Dear Abbey, that maybe her advice could be misconstrued by some less forward thinking folk. Maybe someone would take her advice badly, and do something rash, reinforcing my instinct not to give too much “fuck'em” advice.

I wouldn’t want my friends out there screwing the very target of my statement, after all.
Sex is an instinct.

No matter how hard we try to mangle it with our morals and judgments and insecurities – it is still something born within every one of us. We are meant to find or attract the most suitable mate and procreate until our species is ensured survival (or taking over and destroying the planet with carbon-emitting machines). And I know, being raised Catholic that if my deeds had not already insured my expulsion from up above, then that statement surely would.
Whatever – I am always goin a’coveting – so I might as well make it good.

As parents, we bring our kids up with some antiquated ideals about love, marriage and sex. We give them the pretty picture, and never tell them what to do when Tom cheats, or Bill rapes, or Ted tells you you’re a fat-assed loser with nothing to claim but dirty laundry. We make them think that their urges are unnatural and immoral and will get them a one way ticket to The Sunburn Festival downstairs. It’s wrong to want. It’s wrong to lust. It’s wrong to stick a pee-pee in your mouth - much less ENJOY it being there.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH - NO!



HeLLO people.

Except in extraordinary circumstances, where children are given inside information before their brains can properly process said information, sex is exactly what we’re wired to do. (And, though my thesis was not on molestation in animals, because I have no masters, I have not ONCE heard mention of wild animals raping/sodomizing/molesting in nature – that’s a human venture).

So, you lust for the girl in line in front of you at Wendy’s, cause her ass is plump as a peach on a Georgia tree, well HELL man, the boner is nothing to be ashamed of. Fuck'er!

And ladies – the guy in the office down the hall with the strong looking hands and piecing gaze? Um hum – if you were a lioness – you’d be parading your ripe ass in his face until he took a sniff and pounced! Woman - fuck'im!

It’s like breathing and eating and writing a resume. It’s like takin a shit with less e-coli. It’s natural. It’s what we’re supposed to do.

So what the hell is everyone so uptight about?

Wait. I just gave "Fuck'em advice, didnt I?

Crap - nevermind!

Oldie But Goodie: Valentine Topic Extraordinaire

Every year I stress over this damn man. I prepare for the visit, lay awake thinking about it, and go through horrific rituals to make myself acceptable. And yet, every year I breathe a sigh of relief that he only takes minutes and it's over. (He's the only one that can get away with that.)
So I got up early, showered, scrubbed, shaved, powdered, lotioned and preened until I felt as fresh and flowery as a freakin Easter morning. I would see him early enough to be relatively unsullied, though I wished it were first thing, before I had a chance to sweat or mud wrestle or anything.

What I did NOT plan on was the untimely need to take a dump.

Mind you, I won't go into details about THAT, except to say it was your average dump, and nothing to think twice about on a normal day. If it weren't for my unreasonable OCD-like qualities and an excessive fear of inadequate wiping (followed by the infamous "shit-stain") – the moment would've past unnoticed.

However – in less than an hour – a man would be thoroughly examining my crotch, and the last thing I wanted was for him to know that I was the one that stunk up the work bathroom today.
So, as I undressed in the exam room, awaiting his impending invasion, I grabbed a couple wipes from the bottle of Wet Ones on the counter, and just to make sure I was pristine in all areas, gave myself a quick once-over, chucking the wipes in the biological waste basket when I finished.

As I washed my hands, I noticed a little tingling between the butt cheeks. Within seconds….the tingling was more like burning…and then altogether anal combustion. Dancing and squirming to the counter, I picked up the wet ones, only to realize they were not what I thought. Apparently, the nurses thought it would be funny to stick the sanitizing crap they use on the "equipment" and hard surfaces on the counter, where anybody could easily mistake them for Baby Fresh scented wipies. However – the sign of the baby's bottom with a big X through was not obvious until I investigated the container, whining slightly from the bonfire that was my ass.

Panicking slightly, I threw it back on the devil's counter, and yanked a handful of paper towels from dispenser, ran them under the faucet, and slid them between my buttocks. I washed my hands again, forced back tears, and got some more to dry off with.

Only by the grace of God and The Quicker Picker Upper did I manage to calm down and slide on my mask of innocence when Doc arrived. I was nervous that he'd noticed the redness, and inquire as to what I was doing that would irritate my bunghole so dreadfully. Or that the strong chemical odor would tip him off that I was a little loopy.

I managed however to distract him with my wit, and insistence that I was exempt from breast self-exams because any growth would be clearly visible to the naked eye. Everything went smoothly, and I have gladly made it another year without somehow impregnating myself.

Maybe next year, I'll just skip the shaving part, and assume the hair will cover any leftovers I missed. My advice to you?

Make sure if you stick something in your butt – you read the label first.

Ta Da.

Trivial Pursuit

I do this all the time, which is why I often have the kind of dizzy, hang-over like headache you experience after riding a loopy roller coaster a dozen times in a row, just because there’s no line. Granted, I may also have a hang over, but I’m almost positive that’s not where the feeling comes from. I ride the waves of my emotions up and down until, lulled nearly into a complete cataleptic-like sleep-state, I am awakened by the sting of salt on wounds from the constant pecking of prolific little scavengers in the water who thought I was dead. I go along for a while, not feeling much, not caring that my life isn’t really what I want it to be. I do my job. I tend to the children. I shower, and eat and smile at the passers by. I drive to work, and feel good that I only hit half of the potholes.

And then it comes rushing back. The longing for more, and the self-reproach for not being happy with what I have. The health of myself, my kids, my parents, and their love to boot. I have a stable job, a roof over my head, and money to fill it with skin-drying heat. I can feed the mouths that open wide when mommy birds returns to the nest, and I can put a new paid of cleats on their feet when a new season of baseball starts. We’re not in any unreasonable amount of danger from car bombs, or government overthrows, or lack of reality TV.

Why does happiness come so easily for some people? Its like they were blessed with a gift for taking things in stride, and seeing light where other’s would scramble around in the dark, screaming for a match. Is it an act? Are some people just better at hiding discontent – or is it something in our genetic make-up that can be altered by the scientific method? Is there an answer to finding happiness?

I think about this a lot. What I need to make me happy. And while I’m not sure I’m even in the right ballpark with my brainstorming for ideas – I do have a pretty good list of things others seem to think will make it all better - but aren’t the answer for me.

Money will never make me happy. And while money can cloth me in finery and make me into something fashionable and chic – no pair of Dolce & Gabbanas can ever warm my heart or give me love, even if they don’t blister my feet. Granted, I can think of many things I want, that cost money I don’t have, and that would probably move me closer to a happy place. Education. Car repairs. A dishwasher that doesn’t leak. Professional hair stylist. But in the end, being wrapped in warmth and radiance cannot be bought at the Clinque counter in Macy's.

And no other person can ensure my happiness. No matter how much I love my children, and my parents and friends – not one of them is responsible for creating my ideals, changing my mood, or accomplishing my goals. None of them can crawl into the holes I dig inside myself, where I store the emotions like nuts in the fall. Not one person can hold me til the day I die and never get up to pee. It’s just unreasonable to expect happiness to depend 100% on another human being, and to think that they will be the same forever. People that expect "the one" to make them happy for all of their days, is the person who is hit hardest by death, divorce and their own reflection in the mirror.

Chocolate does not make me happy. Wine provides only momentary desenstizing. Sex was a momentary band aid, and one that peel off in the bathtub long ago. I could go on, but the list of Non-Answers is long. But I'm beginning to think I should’ve started with a definition.