Yes, There Was A Rapist Clown On Little House

I owe Sarcastro big time. I wanted “Tears Of A Clown” out of my head, and he obliged with a blog post which made me think of Highway 61 Revisited instead. I’d rather ponder on a Dylan brainworm any day.

But he wrongfully claims that the creepiest episode of Little House On The Prairie was the one with Pa Ingalls leaving his baby boy to die on a mountain.

That is clearly because our dear friend Sarcastro has forgotten the Raping Clown.

I had nightmares about that show for YEARS.

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I Know My Name Is Katherine, But…

Someone landed on this blog thanks to a Google Search for the question

“Do horses have a penis”?

A) Someone needs to revisit mammalian biology class

B) Do I look like an expert on hipposchlong?

C) Really, male horses each have one penis apiece, so I’m thinking maybe this was a trick question.

D) What did people do before the internet?  Did they just go to their graves wondering about equine wang?

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Holly Hunter, Owen Wilson, Meerkats and A Keyboard Which Should Be Confiscated

I know it’s not fair to do a lazy braindroppings post seeing as how most of my writing this week was unduly influenced by Nyquil.  But that’s what I’m good for today, so that’s what the cafeteria is serving.  Maybe next week meat’ll be back on the menu, boys.

• When will the fall season of TV get here already?  I’m craving new episodes of The Office, Heroes, Lost and Jericho in a bad way.  And yes, I know that they’ll still be trickling in the new stuff–I think Lost isn’t until February and Heroes isn’t until November or something.  But anything is better than So You Think Princess Diana Can Survive Top Chef With Her Big Brother.  Thank heavens for TNT, USA and BBC America.   Those cable networks have kept me mostly entertained.
• Speaking of which, am I the only person who sees promos for that new Holly Hunter show and feels all meh inside?  I’m beginning to think that I have an allergy to Holly Hunter.   Pretty much anything she’s in sorta falls flat for me.  I thought she was okay in Broadcast News, but when she didn’t go for Albert Brooks I lost all respect for her.  How can you NOT just absolutely throw it all away for the chance at a lifetime with Albert Brooks?!  You know, I think every time I see her now I think of her rejecting him and I get so frustrated that I don’t want to have anything to do with her.  Even in “The Incredibles” I found myself thinking “that’s the chick who played the chick who dumped Albert Brooks’ smart and funny character.  I don’t get why women have these smart and funny male friends and then dump them for someone “better”.  Life is long.   Find someone who can make you laugh–the road will go better.   Just as long as the person who makes you laugh isn’t a clown.
• Speaking of people who make people laugh but are crying on the inside—what is up with Owen Wilson?  Not Owen
  Wilson per se but all the people who are like “how can a funny man be so depressed he tries to kill himself?”  Do they not get that the whole funny sad guy is the biggest cliche?  Do they not remember that Smokey Robinson song?  How can you forget “Tears Of A Clown”? In fact, it’s now stuck in my head all day just because I typed that song name out.  I’m going to be hearing those “duh duh duh” bells for the rest of the weekend.   You know who would surprise me if they tried to commit suicide?  Garrison Keillor.  He seems far too proud of himself to ever want to end the wonderfulness that is him.  But Owen Wilson has “I have weeks where I don’t shower and don’t eat and throw glasses of vodka at the mirrors in my house” written all over him.  I just don’t get the big surprise about this guy being sad.  I’m sorry for him, and I hope he gets better.
• Boy, Monk has turned into a crappy show.
• So I’m also really offended by this commercial for Meerkat Manor that they’ve been showing on Discovery Channel or Animal Planet or whichever station has that stupid Meerkat Manor show on.  Okay, I love the Meerkats.  They’re cute.  But they’re always imperiled, and I hate imperiled-animal stories.  Oh, and it’s all narrated by Sean Astin, who also bugs me.  I mean here’s this guy who’s in the biggest movies of the decade and has the chance of a lifetime and all he can do is whine about the foot makeup and how he didn’t get an OOOOSSSCAR.  Dang, he bugs me.  Anyway, that’s why I don’t watch Meerkat Manor more often.  But they had this commercial on and I caught the tail end of it and it was this Meerkat dude with a bunch of words behind him on a white screen, basically talking about how the meerkats are inbred.  (Duh.)  The background music was “Cotton-Eyed Joe”.  So, pretty much everyone in the South are a bunch of inbred rodents (are Meerkats rodents?  Must look that up…).  Is that what the Animal Discovery Channel Planet thinks of me?  Because that’s just super offensive.  Now I need one of the history buffs or musicologists to come and explain to me that Cotton Eyed Joe is really not a southern song and is really about the something of the something so I’m not so offended.  Then I can go back to avoiding the Meerkats solely because of that punk Sean Astin.
• It just occured to me that this is a really long and aimless blog post and should have stopped about four paragraphs ago, like before I started trashing Garrison Keillor.   So I guess I’ll stop now.  Anyway, leave me a comment if you don’t mind.  It’ll make my day.  I tried to come up with some trolly topic since I wanted comments but I didn’t want to talk about that man looking for love in the crapper or fred thompson or ron paul or why fat people are gross.  Heh.  Wouldn’t it be funny if Sean Astin and Owen Wilson became friends?  Then Owen could turn all his self-loathing outward and occasionally smack Astin around.   Perfect solution!

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Erotic Dreams

Someone on Twitter (not me) is writing of their erotic dream from last night. It involves Jim Halpert (of The Office) and drugs.

I don’t have that many erotic dreams anymore, and when I do they always feature my husband. (awwww!)

What I do have are the dreams where some random person has fallen completely in love with me. There’s never any sex, but there’s a lot of flirting and pursuing and note-passing. It’s like some Victorian virgin is scripting my subconscious. And you know, it wouldn’t be so bad if that’s all there was to it. Those dreams remind me of the early dating days when I would get all excited over held hands or a mixed tape.

The thing is, it’s always the most random person about whom I never give another thought otherwise. One time it was that obnoxious Dan guy who did commercials for Rivergate Toyota. A few nights ago it was this guy. Yes, that’s correct. The dude from Food Network’s “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives” is sending me mash notes in my sleep.

I think this now means I’m an old woman.   While you other people are out doing the horizontal bop with hotties from Prime Time, my dream self is coquetting with cable-channel doofi.  I have a feeling that my next dream flirtation is going to be with one of the men who announces jewelry on QVC.

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Oh, The Drama!

I’ve been laying/lying down on the couch watching* tv. But now I’m down at my desk for a few minutes. Why? Because it’s raining.

It’s been so long since we’ve had rain that the dogs are afraid of the sound it makes on the roof, and the TV/couch combo just happens to be on the top floor.

*in this case “watching” means “falling asleep intermittently in front of”

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dear netflix

i am counting on you.  please do not let me down.

i cannot read today.  i cannot sit at my desk for more than five minutes because i think my eyeballs may pop out of my head and squish against my monitor like rotten grapes.

i cannot speak because my voice is gone, so i can’t call my mother and chat with her about the crazy people on food network.

so you, netflix, are my last hope.   you promised that i’d have three discs of murder one ‘on or about today’.   please make it ‘on today’ so i have something to do.

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My Maternal Instinct Is Going To Kill Me

We kept the babies in the nursery on Sunday.

I am now wickedly sick.  (Surprise!)  It’s like clockwork…I can count on it.

But I’m starting to think it’s worth it all, just seeing two little fists reach up at me pleadingly for a hug or hearing that little gigglesqueal at the end of the morning when I break out the bubbles.

Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe it’s just the nyquil talking.

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Same Old Lang Syne

We’re talking about “saddest country songs” over at MCB.   Since the only country songs I know are Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton I’m out of the running pretty early.

But then someone brought up Dan Fogelberg’s Same Old Lang Syne, which got me to thinking.

Isn’t that essentially the same song as Harry Chapin’s “Taxi”?  With beer instead of pot, of course.

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I Know It’s Wrong To Laugh…

But this Wiki cracks me up.

It’s not that I don’t believe a person can become addicted to World of Warcraft. I’ve lived a long life as a gamer, and know full well how they can suck you in. It’s just that this is so, well…here. Let me show you:

Find out what has caused your addiction. What makes World of Warcraft (WoW for short) so appealing to you? Is it the fact that it has different continents that you will never go to? Is it the fighting? Is it your unique role as a tank or a mage? Is it the happiness of ‘pwning noobs’? Whatever it is, try to minimize this happiness in WoW, and make it a pleasure that you could also get in every day life.

Unfortunately they fail to give advice for how to ‘pwn noobs’ in real life, although I’m sure there are ways. All I know is that I want to see someone actually yell out “PWNED!!!!” to a stranger in the supermarket or at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

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Because The One Thing The Internet Is Missing Is A Picture Of My Dog

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