Friday, March 27, 2015

We've Been Here Before, People...LISTEN UP!

Several years ago when The ABIB first started this blog, she wrote a post about how being funny was about as rare as a...oh, I don't know...Obama-loving Republican. Apparently the message didn't get disseminated widely enough because I find myself back here again having to school you folks on the whole "most people are SOOOO not funny" rule.  Here we go, PUHLEEZE listen up as I'm going to start with a question:

Having a better sense of humor than everyone else: blessing or curse? Tawk amongst yourselves…OK enough talking; the answer is: CURSE!

Why, you may ask would it be a curse to have a better sense of humor than everyone else? Surely that means that everyone turns to YOU for a good laugh, they seek our YOUR advice when they want to know what’s currently funny on TV, they know that YOU will be able to bring the party wherever you go. All true, all true, however, those reasons are all out-weighed by something you’re forgetting: the other side of that hilarious coin is that SO MANY PEOPLE THINK THAT THEY ARE FUNNY, TOO! Which to a truly comedically gifted person is anathema. OMG, how many times a day do I hear some inanity masquerading as “humor” followed by the guffaws of some dipshits who, for whatever personal reason, wish to encourage this moron. Comedy isn’t for everyone, comedy is HARD, please people, leave the heavy lifting to someone who fucking knows what they’re doing, would you? As George Costanza said about teaching someone else to lie like him: “It’s like asking Pavarotti: teach me to sing like you.” I’m constantly amazed at what passes for “funny” amongst the throngs of average idiots one encounters on a daily basis. At work, at social gatherings, in line at the supermarket. To wit:

Jackass One: Hey, how you feeling today?

Jackass Two: Not so great…getting old sucks.

Jackass One: Yeah, but it’s better than the alternative…amirite?


Silently gritting my teeth I aggressively flip the pages of the glossy magazine that I’m clearly not reading (or buying) hoping that someone, ANYONE, will rescue me from this reprehensible, fucking asshat and the immensely lowered comedic expectations of his conversational partner. It’s only been made worse by Jackass One’s generational appropriation of the term “amirite”, a classically millennial sentence-ending question that, coming from Methusela’s older brother sounds beyond preposterous. Uh, Jackass One: you’re not fooling anyone, motherfucker, you’re OLD SO STOP SAYING SHIT YOU HEARD FROM YOUR GRANDCHILDREN! I have found that there is no moronic riposte (Brrrrr…you call this SPRING?), no hackneyed, overused bon mot (Hey Dude: WHAZZZZUPPP), no thinly veiled attempt at cracking wise (anything that begins with [insert a name, time period] called they want their [item, clothing, hairdo…what the fuck ever] back) that is below the average unfunny shithead’s radar and outside of his/her repertoire and which will, astonishingly, MAKE OTHERS LAUGH. Here’s ME calling YOU, MOTHERFUCKER and I want those last 15 IQ points I lost just overhearing your crappy “jokes” back. Folks, here’s a tip: if you find yourself quoting Sheldon Cooper, fuck, ANYTHING from The Big Bang Theory (itself the height, or depth, of hackneyed “comedy”), know that there is, or has been, or will be a truly funny, witty, clever person that is mentally aiming the Death Star at your ass. Truly funny people, on a regular basis, lament the demise of The Gong Show or just a vaudeville hook because then, at least, we knew that we weren’t alone, that others (even if it was Chuck Barriss) embraced that same fantasy of being able to make the untalented buffoons among us shut the fuck up and go the fuck away. And if they didn’t we got to lower a loud-ass GONG on their mediocrity [sigh]. Those were the days…

So seriously people, as someone who knows what’s-what in the glorious world of funny, from the bottom of my heart, I seriously wish you would stop the insanity and SHUT THE FUCK UP! Trust me; we can handle it from here.

Monday, March 16, 2015

God Wonders: When Is It Going To Be About ME?

Lord God, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, was heard to grumble aloud, “So, when is it going to be about ME for a change? I get it, being that I’m God there’s a certain responsibility to all living things on earth and their daily struggles and triumphs, but Holy Crap even I’ve got limits! I mean, just yesterday I was feeling kind of out of sorts, you know there’s lots going on that requires a certain level of attention on my part, I mean, the whole shitstorm in the Ukraine? Please. And don’t get me started on Boko Harum and Ebola and global warming and…well, I’m God, the list goes on…well…forever! Not to mention my ONLY BEGOTTEN SON…Jesus Christ is it so hard to pick up a PHONE and call your Heavenly Father every once in awhile?

So anyway, as I was saying, yesterday I was feeling kind of out of sorts and could have used a good bitch session where I got to just plain vent and not have to be The Heavenly Ear. For once! I was just about to dial up the Pope, asleep at the time - always easier to dial into a dream - when out of the blue I get this beseeching from Keith in Little Rock, praying to get his ball into the cup on the green of the eighth hole of some fucking golf course or other and then another one chimes in, someone named Josie and Josie was begging me to intervene so that she could buy a new house and before I could even THINK I get nineteen trillion others pouring in pleading for lottery wins, daily doubles at the track, snow, Grammy wins, new car financing…well, the list goes on and on.

By the time I got done with all of that noise the Pope was awake and up and having breakfast. So fuck, what the hell people, do you think I’m just an ASKING machine? Did you once, EVER, think about ME? I have feelings, too, you know? Just once I’d like to hear a voice, any voice, drift up here and say “Hey there, Lord God, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, how’s tricks? How you doing? Anything on your mind? Anything I can HELP with?” Shit, I’d probably fall off my throne. Which, by the way, could be a lot more comfortable; sitting on clouds for eternity only goes so far. A pillow would be nice. Something homemade, with a nice little message stitched on it, “God’s Ass Here”. Because I SIT here CONTINUOUSLY, listening to you all ASK FOR SHIT. Yes, a pillow would be very, very nice. And a box of Ring Dings. And an ice cold Dr. Pepper. As if you care.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

The Real Housewives of Atlanta Recap: The One Where Cynthia Cements Her Status As Bumbler-In-Chief

Holla! My DVR fucked up last week so I wasn’t able to get my regular dose of Atlanta’s best showin’ their asses, but have no fear I tweaked a few things and all’s well again. So here I am with my weekly recap of the world’s craziest wimmin, namely those gals in Hotlanta. In spite of this post’s title I have to start this recap with Phaedra, or wait, APOLLO! At the top of the hour we get an Instagram video from Apollo presumably as he’s about to relinquish that iPhone to the warden at the check-in to his eight year stay in lovely rural Kentucky. Apollo signs off with this last blast that looks oddly and creepily, like some kind of lost (or chucked) footage from The Blair Witch Project VIII – Penitentiary. Apollo tells us that he’s “about to go asunder”. Well, look on the bright side, dude, maybe you can finally get that HS equivalency in jail. And hopefully learn what “asunder” means. So bye-bye Mr. Nida, no more drilling for you. Well, wait…maybe not.

After we watch Apollo get LOCKED UP we join Phaedra and her entourage checking out of yet another deluxe hotel where she’s been holed up with her security detail, her assistant, her kids and her luggage waiting for the ex to finally report to the Island of Incarceration. Once back home Phaedra’s first order of business is to invite over her most trusted exorcist to cleanse her house of “demons”. Demons presumably left in the wake of the man she married to whom she bore two children. How quickly they forget…So this holy roller husband and wife team of spirit frighteners arrive at Chez Phaedra and immediately get to work, scurrying through room after room, praying, shaking some kind of organic weed (a lulav?) and invoking the name of Jaysus in an effort to exorcise the house, including the back gate. They complete their task to Phaedra’s approval and exit, leaving the older kid to proclaim “our house is changed!” What must having two strangers traipsing through your house scaring away unseen evil spirits do to a five-year-old? Phaedra tells us that she’s going to enroll her oldest in therapy to “deal with the situation with his father”. Yeah, well, maybe there’ll also be a little bit of chat around your demon-infested house, Phay-Phay. Phaedra is the worst kind of “Christian”, hiding her snide and petty little snipes behind a veil of “holiness”. Still can’t stand her.

Kandi, meanwhile, is worrying that her marriage is in trouble (already?) because she and Todd don’t do the dirty deed nearly often enough. I suppose if you’re a sexy-time entrepreneur having a boring bedroom doesn’t really help the business much. Anyway, Todd’s back from LA and meets the wife over at her Kandi Koated Nights set where Kandi’s assistants “were just leaving” but not before they fling yet another short person insult at Todd. This time it’s something about his approach to sex being like a cocker spaniel. Todd is the most cuckolded of all the husbands on the Real Housewives franchise and with Grigg hanging out as chief Nene-complimenter/chauffeur, that’s saying someting. But wait, he DID grow an Afro while out in LA, it’s just hiding under his baseball cap. Anyway, Kandi wants them to go to counseling and after an initial moment of hesitation, Todd agrees that counseling might not be a good idea. Kandi also makes the supreme mistake of asking her husband if he had it to do all over again would be marry her? Giiiirrrrlllllll…NEVER ask a question unless you are ready to hear the answer, ANY answer. When Todd hesitates, Kandi exclaims her dismay, but he was just messing around…OF COURSE he’d marry her again. Kandi also stopped by Phaedra’s place to sit on her room-sized purple wrap-around couch and get snide passive aggressive digs thrown at her about how “Nene has called me every day during this difficult period…SHE’S been such a GOOD friend!” Subtext of course being: in comparison to you. Phaedra is THE WORST.

Moving right along to...Cynthia! Uncle Ben, in a car convo last week with the Boy Scout otherwise known as Apollo Nida, learned that...according to Apollo, who stole Phaedra’s phone...Phaedra was engaged in some serious sexting with a mysterious African prince with the codename Chocolate. Um, first of all, who the fuck are all of these African princes roaming the streets of Atlanta in search of over the hill matrons with seriously checkered pasts? First Kenya and her’s and now, allegedly, Phaedra and her’s. Anyway, Uncle Ben, dumbass that he is, and TOTALLY OVER IT with that hussy Phaedra (nobody plays his home-boy playas, especially when they’re about to report to prison for a long, long time) tells Cynthia the whole sordid story. He tells her how Apollo showed him the incriminating texts and how Apollo was so HURT and ANGRY and READY TO ANGRILY DRILL HOLES IN THE WALLS OF THEIR (BUT SOON TO BE ONLY PHAEDRA’S) HOME. Cynthia is learn this news and immediately invites Kenya and Claudia out to a wine and cheese tasting place to bring them up to speed on Phaedra’s newly revealed whorishness. Kenya, being Kenya, is OUTRAGED and immediately makes it about HER by bursting into tears of fury that Phaedra had dared to ruin HER LIFE for two years only to CHEAT ON HER OWN HUSBAND which is way worse than what she accused Kenya of doing...WHICH WE NOW KNOW SHE DIDN’T DO!! I actually have to say that, should this whole Phaedra is a cheating whore story pan out true, I’d kind of be on Team Kenya on this one. Both Cynthia and Claudia console the inconsolable Kenya and all three make their way out with the plan to use an upcoming all-RHOA dinner planned by Kandi, to shame Phaedra and make her CONFESS! Also to buy some of that seriously kick-ass fruit flavored cheese. Way to go, Cynthia. Have any of you learned anything about this goofball Apollo Nida? I mean, you all can't stand Phaedra, but seriously, this dude is a two-time felon who has ALREADY BEEN OUTED AS A SERIAL LIAR ON THIS SHOW! Whatevs. Luckily everyone accepts Kandi's dinner appointment, even Nene, in spite of the fact that she is BUSY, BUSY, BUSY “studying” for Broadway. Man, that girl knows how to work a shill. Plus, don’t you mean, learn your lines? Again, whatevs.

Dinner is at some Brazilian meat emporium where they apparently circle your table shaving off slices of a whole bunch of different cooked meats until you’re full or pass out or meat sweat through your clothes or maybe all three. All the ladies show up, starting with Kandi and Porsha, which is like: again, WTF are you doing here, Porsha? Why does she keep showing up? SHE’S NOT ON THE SHOW ANYMORE! Air kisses ensue in earnest as the two competing girl gangs show up, first Cynthia, Kenya and Claudia, followed by new besties Nene and Phaedra. Porsha of course immediately joins the Nene and Phaedra block and the sides are established with Kandi, as usual, stating how impartial she is. Which as we’ve learned over and over is never true; Kandi loves a good girl fight as much as the rest of them.

Earning the rep that gave her the title of this post, Cynthia, seated directly across from Phaedra, begins to haltingly explain that, well, you know, she wants to put it out on the table, that, well, you know it’s kind of like this, we need to all know and talk about and...and...and...Cynthia, unable to ever make eye contact with Phaedra simply cannot bring herself to state the obvious: WHAT’S UP WITH THIS PIECE OF ASS NAMED CHOCOLATE THAT YOU’RE FUCKING, PHAEDRA? APOLLO SAID SO! So rather than allow Cynthia to continue to stutter her way to J’ACCUSE! Kenya helpfully shouts across the table that Phaedra has been unfaithful to her husband with an African prince named Chocolate and now everyone knows it and by the way Kenya is still waiting for that apology, BITCH! Phaedra’s had a tough day, what with the moving back into the house with her retinue and having to immediately drive out a bunch of Apollo-hangover demons and she straight up goes bonkers. Phaedra jumps up from her seat and lunges across the table, handbag at the assault ready, and reaches for Kenya with clear intent to BEAT THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF HER. Pandemonium ensues and Nene and Porsha both successfully restrain Phaedra and drag her from the restaurant all the while cussing out Kenya and assuring Phaedra that all will be well. Kandi follows them out, being Kandi, not wanting to choose sides or anything. Yeah, right. Plus, nobody even got any meat!

Outside Nene, Porsha and Phaedra are inexplicably just hanging out in the parking lot which is like, shouldn’t you gals be on your way? Not what the producers had in mind, apparently. For one hot minute I was picturing a real, live rumble with wigs and nails and Jimmy Choos flying here, there and everywhere. Sadly not to be. Instead the two groups just stood around sniping at each other from a safe distance until Porsha loaded Phaedra into her car and they drove off into the night. Nene disappeared and so did Kandi. The three left behind walked away congratulating themselves on their triumphant stand-off and continuing to audibly trash Phaedra and her cheating, whorish ways. As Phaedra herself would say: Save Me Lord Jesus!