Awww…you should’ve hung out, maaan…

To quote Mike, who was quoting TO, “I love me some me.” And it’s true. I do.

Libations rock.

Don’t judge

I love it. It’s like the greatest episode of Cheaters, but with a Sheen and the worst Bond girl ever.

Schadenfreude is not a sin. In fact, it’s one of life’s greatest joys if reveled in correctly.

And yes, I know I am a horrible person, and I am going to hell, and how would I feel if this was happening to me…but I don’t care, I don’t believe in hell, and it’s not happening to me. I have never forgiven Charlie Sheen for what he did to Spin City.

At least we have proof it’s genetic

Instant Message I sent my sister yesterday:

What do you think – hottest founding father – Alexander Hamilton? He has the romantic died-too-soon thing going for him. We are comparing soley based on currency pictures, so please weigh in.

My sister’s away message today:

accomplishments of today:

i was able to correctly identify which 18 u.s. presidents were never in congress, which 15 served as vice president, which 8 died in office and other presidential trivia.

i am a huge nerd.

And I am so proud.

What’s my secret?

When I put my glasses on, I think I can hide behind them like Clark Kent and no one recognizes me.

That and I like to eat babies.

Cancellation, boy, I don’t know

Dear God,

Even though I really don’t believe in your existence, I will convert to any religion including Scientology if you will please uncancel The West Wing. Please. I will gladly tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing if you will grant me this one small favor.

I will even bring you as an offering the finest bagels and muffins in all the land.

Please save the only show on television (other than Discovery Channel documentaries) that actually makes my brain work. I do not wish to know what my life will be like without a weekly dose of pompous, left-wing liberal idealism disguised as snappy banter. How can I function devoid of the constant walking of hallways by characters while they repeat dialogue back to each other in the form of a question? My husband will no longer have any reason to hum the theme song as we cross the Wilson bridge. There is a good chance that I might shrivel up and expire.

So come on, God. It’s a small thing. Don’t shirk your duty by telling me you aren’t a fan of the show, because you brought Rob Lowe back to my screen tonight. Take credit – I know that was all your doing.

Amen.

Don’t Hassle the Hoff – Buy His Book!

As I alluded to in this post, we here at Double Vision have a odd obessession with Hasselhoff music videos.

Now he is writing a book. And apparently, liberating women from oppressive Islamic regimes. What’s not to love? As the reviewer states, “All branches of his frenzied narrative sooner or later converge on the common theme of his “spiritual calling” to change people’s lives through the character of Michael Knight.”

From the Hoff himself in the same article: “They’re sitting there oppressed—they can’t vote [sic], can’t do anything! And then they go, ‘What the fuck?! This is the world! Why I can’t I go out there?’ And then they pull their burkas back and they’ve got blonde hair! It’s a question of the culture and the freedom it gives to these people.” Revolution, Knight Rider-style.

I hear they just started showing Baywatch reruns in Nepal, so maybe the man does have a point.

Attention Target Checkout Clerks of the World and Greater Richmond Metro Area:

Please simply scan the book I am trying to purchase, put it in a bag, and give me my receipt. Do not pick up the book, stare at front, flip to the back cover and say, “Huh, this looks interesting. What’s it about?” and then try to engage me in conversation about the plot.

I do not know what the book is about, hence my decision to purchase it.

Your job, Target Checkout Clerk, is to get me through the express lane expressly, without trying to start a book club.

Anyone who took one look at me today should realize I do not want to have a discussion of any kind. This sort of attitude can be difficult to manage here in the South, where everyone from the Starbucks barista to the retired guy who loads the groceries into your car wants to engage you in a conversation about your health, the weather, and apparently, books you have not yet read.

This is fine on most days, although it’s hard to navigate for us Yankee transplants. However, on the first little trip out after being home for four days with two ear infections and strep throat…I don’t want to talk to you. I look like such hell my dog is hiding in the spare bedroom, so I expect people to run away screaming, not strike random conversations.

Among the things I miss from Reading, PA, (a list which includes my family, Crystal Palace chili dogs, cheap-ass real estate , and Dot’s basement) I include the brusqueness and borderline rudeness of waitstaff, checkout clerks, and strangers in general.

Revisionist Theology

Thanks to my Catholic school education, I was telling my husband the story of Passover, of how the angel of death passed over the homes of Jewish families and spared their first-born because of the blood on the door, etc.

Then I realized something. I think Angel of Death is be a metaphor for “Easter Bunny” and “Santa Claus.” Think about it. Santa and the Bunny don’t visit the homes of Jewish Children. The Angel of Death skipped the homes of Jewish Children. Coincidence? I think not.

Since the Bible is clearly a subjective document, it’s quite possible that whoever wrote the story got “Angel of Death” and “Bunny Wearing Bowtie/Fatty in Red S
uit” confused.

And now I prepare for the onslaught of negative comments telling me I will rot in hell because the Bible is literal truth. Bring it on!

Q: Who in the hell gets ear infections past age six?
A: The Weber girls. Simultaneously.

Hippity Hoppity

I hope the easter bunny brings me this.

Although chances are pretty good that the dog will attack and destroy the Easter Bunny should he come into the house unannounced.

This is the same dog that protects me from plastic bags, drinking straws, and other garbage we encounter on our walks, so an actual, live rabbit breaking into my home stands not a chance in hell of making it out alive.

Kids, if you get no eggs on Easter morning, it’s because that bunny does not know how to fucking knock.

Doggy Style

Yesterday was a very bad day for me. Work was insane and neverending, full of sad stories of abuse and neglect among other things and after two giant beers, I was exhausted and I think the beers made it worse somehow. It also might have been Mike’s several attempts to violate my husband’s man-business right in front of me. I don’t know.

So as I sat on the sofa paralyzed by the choice of whether or not to pack it all in and realize my secret dream of becoming a hobo OR to watch some of the crap I had tivfauxed, my dear sweet pooch vaulted into my lap and sat facing me.

She stared me down as if to say “you would suck as a hobo, mom. Hobos don’t have air conditioning or toilets. I would totally not come with you, because did you see my extra-large dog bed from target and huge toy basket? Suck it up. You have to keep me in rawhide, and hobos are fucking poor.”

Then she licked me once on the nose, moved over on the sofa, and started to snore while awake.

She is the best goddamn dog that ever walked the face of the earth. For her, I will work my ass off, and keep her in imported rawhide and ridiculously expensive all-natural, human-grade dog food that they only sell in two stores in the area, and I will put up with toxic farts and swampy beards and picking up poop.

I will forgive her for being a lazy stay-at-home-dog who contributes nothing to the economy of this house and doesn’t do the laundry or ironing.

She keeps us both sane. For that reason, I will forgive the fact that when I turned the light on this morning, she gave me a look that can only be described as “bitch, please, some of us are still sleeping so turn that shit off.”

And for my dear husband, I hope you know the answer is “really great.” Always.