Long before the earth ever began, there was Al Gore.

Gore was lonely without people to speak to and workers to build and fly his personal jets. So he decided to create a system of democracy that would permit him to do whatever he liked “conveniently.” People would worship him and give him special prizes for being clever, and he could make people feel guilty about putting gum under the seats in kindergarten.

So Al Gore said, “Let there be government!” And there was government.

And Al Gore declared that it was very good for those in charge.

Then, after all sorts of fun, he realized that an adversary had come up against him in his campaign for a good, Al-serving society. A looming figure in the darkness, ready to burn down his pretty green forests and steal his diesel fuel at a moment’s notice. His name was George W. Bush.

This infuriated Al Gore. The earth had been his! And it would remain his! So he devised a plan to fight back. A sneaky plan. A tricksy plan.

First, he programmed some of the people he had created to put Mr. Bush in his place, by writing mean things about him, saying he ate raw rabbit, and insulting his mom. When Bush just laughed and threatened him with “nucular warfare,” he pouted. Then he programmed Bush (hey, he created Bush, didn’t you know?) with an abhorrent, unintelligent Texan accent. Bush just snorted and chewed some “ol’ tobaccy,” and laughed at Al again. Al proceeded to inform Bush that his mommy would beat Bush’s mommy in arm wrestling. Bush retaliated to the taunts by insulting both of Al’s parents (“Yer ma was a hamster and yer pop stunk like elderberries”,) and then proceeded to call him an illegitimate child.

Al Gore couldn’t take much more of this. He phoned his mother, Pauline, and begged her to come and arm wrestle Bush’s mom. She refused at first, but when she found out that her “darlingest baby boy” would have to give up his carefully planned democracy to this man, she came. Bush called his mother over and the two moms set out to arm wrestle.

After a grueling fight, with much sweating, grunting, inquiries of “where on earth did you get your nails done?!” and short breaks to tear the men apart and give them time-outs, Bush’s mother, Barb, finally won.

All was lost for Al. Fighting back tears, he gave up his reign to Bush. Then, he flew away in his jet and was never seen again.


Hey everyone, I’m sorry about that. Kind of had a crazy week.


How To Upset A Tenor

February 11, 2008

I use the term “upset” above with reference to two meanings, those being “to anger,” and “to turn over”. Indeed, I myself have turned over some tenors and made them very angry.

First, however, I must blame my shoes. They were Crocs, and in addendum to my first blog, Crocs are large and clunky, but I had no choice, because they were a gift. At any rate, I walked into the chorus room, extracted my folder from the neatly organized numerical shelving system, and proceeded to ascend the steps to get to my seat.

What happened next should not be tried at home. All of those involved were trained singers, at least, until I upset them.

So anyway, I was ascending the steps, which was probably a bad idea in the first place, and I caught my foot on the corner of one step and took a grand fall into the lap of a Mr. Blackman, who happened to be the choir “It Boy” that year. He, in turn, jumped up a bit too late to avoid my overturned self (and fell onto the floor in front of him), but in jumping, he knocked over his chair. I hit another chair, and let’s just say that six more tenors were upset and upset.

I was very humiliated.

The Superbowl

February 7, 2008

The Superbowl was apparently filled with tension, war, blood, tears, guns, honey in the Giants’ helmets (which has yet to be positively traced to the Patriots), nachos, beer commercials, and Tom Petty. This information is mostly secondhand, because for the most part, I was in the other room eating orange slices and doing chemistry homework, but from all the shouting and screaming in pain, I assumed that guns were definitely a possibility.

Rumor has it that the man below went on a streaking frenzy down the field to get Eli Manning’s autograph, but was immediately tackled by a linebacker.


This Superbowl was quite possibly the best end to the Patriots dynasty that Hollywood could ever have come up with.  The utter lack of humility they displayed alongside an equal lack of any joy in the game, that toad of a coach, and that cologne-ad quarterback… If they have to act that badly while playing that well, you really want to see them fail in the biggest way possible. Plus it was fun to watch Tom Brady get hit over twenty times throughout the course of the game. However, Randy Moss’s weird chicken thing was absolutely awful to watch. Parents will sue for that, not just the halftime show, which was absolutely frightening. Here is a startling review of a conversation I had with Mr. Thom Betchler.

Mr. B:(in reference to the song “Free Fallin'”) “Hey Gabrielle, this is your song.”

Me: “Okay.” (somewhat hesitant)

song begins to play…

I realize the song is about a girl some guy is really glad to be rid of.

Commence waterfall of tears.

No, really though, it was funny.

Plus the mozzarella sticks were incredible.

On January 29, 2008, former wildlife photographer Humphrey Dooley was laid off from his esteemed position on short notice and with little severance pay. One day later, on January 30, 2008, he went on a brutal tranquilizing spree and succeded in sedating two lions, a gorilla, several alpacas, thirteen zoo security officers, and a gazelle before turning the gun on himself. “He was a nice guy, even if he sometimes watered at the mouth when he saw my gun.” says chief of zoo security Ron Hansen. “I liked him enough, you know, we even chatted at a Christmas party a few weeks back. I just never thought he would do something this drastic.” explains Hansen, tears glistening in his eyes. “He was just a regular guy. I wish I’d seen this coming.”

“It was kind of distressing.” remarks a witness who wishes to remain anonymous. “My kids were so excited because they wanted to see the lion roar, but it was a huge disappointment when all he did was snore. They don’t need to see that. I mean, really. The world is a terrible place for kids. I hope this guy will always be haunted by what he has done.”

According to zoo officials, once he awakens, Dooley will be sentenced to three weeks of balloon inflation to pay his debt to society.

The Rules Of Cart Riding

January 29, 2008

The “cart” in the headline above is in reference to those awesome carts at grocery stores.

1. Do not ride on an empty cart, as it is likely to flip over.
2. Wait until exiting the store to commence operation cart ride.
3. Do not hit vehicles.
4. Do not ride grocery carts on a city street, a county road, or a US highway.
5. Other modifications to the ritual, including racing strange children, are permissible, and often encouraged.

T-Shirt Sayings

January 28, 2008

I like t-shirts. They often have fun sayings and/or pictures on them that include (but are not limited to) satire, masked insults, innuendo, and pointless logos that only serve to insinuate the approximate price range that the shirt was purchased within. Below are several examples that I found particularly humorous.

“I Read Your Email.”  This shirt has many connotations. Choose your favorite…

“WTF?!” Technology has made it possible for us to curse and blaspheme without actually doing so.

“You Are Dumb v2.0” Don’t worry, they fully realize that you aren’t dumb, that’s why they made this shirt. Again.

“Wi-Fi Detector Shirt.” Believe it or not, this shirt actually does display the current signal strength in whatever area you happen to be in. You can find it at http://www.thinkgeek.com.

“Prefectionist.” Im a prefectionist, as yuo can tell by my speling.

“Cowbell Hero.” Well, if you can’t master Guitar Hero just yet, Cowbell Hero might be the thing for you…

“There’s too much blood in my alcohol system.” This is right on par with “I’m Not As Think As You Drunk I Am.”

“No Sense In Being Pessimistic. It Wouldn’t Work Anyway.”

“I Don’t Like You, But I Need Someone To Hide Behind Anyway.” Remember, folks: the buddy system is essential to your survival. It gives the enemy someone else to shoot at.

“I Child-Proofed My Home… But They Still Got In!” What do you know, our parents really WERE just daring us to try and open those pill bottles. If they had no child protection label, who would have bothered?

“Cereal Killer.” I imagine this shirt with a picture of that irritating Trix bunny and the Lucky Charms character holding guns to one another’s heads. Just a dream, I know…

“I Wish I Were Your Derivative So I Could Lie Tangent To Your Curves.” Okay. Sorry about that.

“Homophobia Is So Gay.” Sometimes I love Milford.

“You Looked Better On Myspace.” Then again, maybe eHarmony would have been better than stalking ten-year-olds who claimed to be eighty-four on social networking sites…

Thank you all for taking the time to read this. What’s on YOUR T-shirt?

Why Shoes Are Annoying

January 27, 2008

Shoes carry many things, not only memories, but smelly feet as well. They hug socks as if the one-ply knit might very well be the forsaken mothers of their youth. They don’t like baking soda any more than children like medication. As Beryl Brainbridge so aptly put it, “Being with children was like wearing a pair of shoes that were expensive and too small. She couldn’t bear to throw them out, but they gave her blisters.” Face it, people. Shoes are annoying. In the summer, the thing I hate even more than swimming, sunburn, and lukewarm pineapple juice is sweaty feet. Picture this: You’re lying on a blanket on the beach with a cold glass of water, alternating between reading an enchanting story about two kittens and their adventures and the Sunday comics, possibly daydreaming about the lifeguard and pretending to squish him between your fingers because he is far away and you can do that in your position, when suddenly, you realize something is wrong. That’s right. The breezy, sea smell that has been causing you to become so utterly relaxed is ruined, replaced by the inferior scent of sweaty feet. Only feet. The pungent smell wafts through the air, and you wrinkle your nose inadvertently. “Pew,” you think, “what could ruin a perfect day more than smelly feet?”

 There is another scenario in which feet cause serious heartache. Athletes are challenged in many ways, most of these being mental, but what is worse? When your feet itch on top of all that misery. Imagine. The captain of the football team is hunky enough, sure, and he has gotten past feeling sorry for himself concerning his mental problems by throwing things at his teammates, hitting things, yelling unintelligable phrases at them, eating hamburgers at the local diner, and paying for outrageous items on credit, but how is he to feel when the cheerleader refuses to go out with him because he scratches his feet constantly? “You probably, like, can’t even dance, because, I mean, like, you can’t quit scratching your feet. Do you have, like, mushrooms or something?” And he can’t even correct her by saying that “it’s a fungus, not a mushroom, toots, and did you wanna see my guns?” This tragic scenario can be traced directly back to the diabolical plot of the shoe.

“Crocs” have been caught in escalators, causing traumatic foot injuries in small children. Once again, the shoe is at fault. The popular “hi-top Converse” have cleverly employed the undercover services of punk bands to advertise themselves to greasy-haired teenage wannabes with loud guitars. Yet another devious advertising plot on the part of the shoe.

 If you are easily disturbed by racist comments, inadequate working conditions, and shocking treatment of employees, please do not read any further. Parental discretion advised.

 For years, man has been employing elves to do their dirty work: the very manufacturing of these devices from hell. One of our vertically challenged reporters gathered this information for us by risking his life to go undercover in a shoe factory. He discovered that elves are forced to work at night because shoe manufacturers are too lazy to meet their quota during the day. They are expected to work for a mere shortbread cookie per day and because of the appalling stories that come from the factories, most people simply deny their very existence. They are given no rights, no freedoms, no lives. They are not even permitted to marry outside their race. This is to keep the elf population down and “pure” so that no offspring will have dual freedoms or citizenships. Most of these abused people are transported from Australia in milk cartons.

Finally, I propose a solution. Bare feet. The words of Zola Budd inspire us. “Coming from a farming background, I saw nothing out of the ordinary in running barefoot, although it seemed to startle the rest of the athletics world. I have always enjoyed going barefoot, and when I was growing up, I seldom wore shoes, even into town.”

Boycott the shoe industry. Don’t let another elf die without a friend to hold his hand. Abolish elvery. Thank you.

Hello world!

January 26, 2008

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