See You In Hell, Pier 1 Gift Card

About a year and a half ago, Mr. Salty and I wandered into a Pier 1 store and saw the most perfect white deco style couch. At the time I was enrolled in Discover Card's cash back bonus program, in which I could put said bonus towards vendor gift cards such as Pier 1 -- with the incentive to use $40 reward money for a $50 card and so on. And so, I ordered a $50 card to use towards the purchase of the couch. However, as luck would have it -- we ended up finding an online coupon to the tune of $50, which couldn't be used in conjunction with any other offers or deals, including the gift card. So we thanked our good luck and saved it for another purchase.

That was a year and a half ago. In the past year and a half, I have learned that our stylish couch with the clean lines and nice fabric was a complete and utter fucking anomaly -- because Pier 1 is the shittiest retail store in the history of home decor. No less than 10 times have I wandered into that store -- at first optimistically; later determinedly -- to spend these fifty motherfucking American dollars. And every goddamn time I leave empty handed. Why? Because I have no place in my life for mosaic candle holders, faux tribal artwork, Buddha statues, or lacquered wicker anything. And every damn time I fail at my mission to unload the contents of the gift card I leave the store in a homicidal rage after having my senses assaulted with earth tones and inoffensive home themed adult contemporary music like Crosby, Stills & Nash's "Our House" that I want to put my fucking fist through a fucking wall.

Today was no different. And not only could I not find a single pillow in their huge arsenal of throw pillows to put on my new daybed -- but they were in the process of unloading their tacky Christmas decorations to add insult to injury. Yes, Christmas decorations -- because why not? It's October 2nd, already. But this time I've had it -- if ebay can't make this thing go away, I'm going to chalk it up at a loss and just give this damn monkey's paw away to the next hapless and unfortunate soul.

Adventures in Customer Service

The following is a conversation I had with my friendly Cingular The New AT&T customer service representative. Enjoy!

AT&T: What can I help you with this morning?

Me: Um, yeah... I noticed a discrepancy on my August bill under the x1973 number? There's a charge for ten dollars for something called 'Bid4Prizes'?

AT&T: Okay... let me look into this for you. Ma'am, could you hold one moment?

Me: Sure, thanks.

......

AT&T: We found the charge in question. It's from a company called "Motricity" -- it's one of the services like you see in TV commercials for ringtones and games... It was probably ordered on their website.

Me: Well, we didn't order it. We're responsible adults, and neither of us would ever, ever be interested anything like that.

AT&T: We're very sorry about the inconvenience, ma'am. What probably happened was that somebody accidentally entered your phone number in on the Motricity website --

Me: Wait -- so anybody can just do this?

AT&T: -- what happens is that sometimes people accidentally enter in the wrong phone numbers on these websites. I went ahead and credited your account and canceled the subscription...

Me: Holy crap! A subscription?! So basically, anybody can just enter in anybody's phone number into a website and get them charged?

AT&T: .....

Me: Jesus. Do you get calls like this all the time?

AT&T: Ma'am, I've gone ahead and credited your account for the full amount.

Me: This is crazy. You can just screw over whoever you want.

AT&T: Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Me: Um... no? I guess I'm good.

AT&T: Well thank you very much and we thank you for your business and tell your friends and family about The New AT&T.

Me: Uh, thanks. I'll be sure to do that. Bye.

Today's Complaints

• I've OD'ed on caffeine (again) and therefore can't hold my hand steady enough to draw pictures, AKA my job.

• Fucking Paris Hilton. Aside from being an entitled useless waste of genetic material -- she's really putting a cramp on my Pajiba Love column today by whoring up every conceivable entertainment/news outlet.

• My phone has one energy nugget left because I forgot to charge it this morning, and will likely go dead by the end of the day.

• I hate fucking air conditioning. I've covered up both of the vents in my office with drawing tablets to no avail.

• Somebody get me a haircut.

• I have to go to the grocery store on my lunch, and we all know how I feel about that.

• My semi-new gold ballet flats are already breaking -- the sole is peeling off the left shoe. Fuck you, Steve Madden. And, ebay.

Grocery Shopping for Psychopaths

One of the most vile necessary evils in my life, even beyond contact lenses, menstruation and and car insurance, has got to be trips to the grocery store. Luckily because of where I live in rural Pennsylvania, I do most of my food shopping at Farmer's Markets, produce stands, a small butcher shop on the rare instances when I require meat -- and most importantly a quaint little Mennonite-run natural/organic store where you can purchase whole wheat couscous in bulk for a dollar per pound and natural peanut butter made on premises which is so fresh the oil hasn't even begun to separate yet.

But even so, the occasional pilgrimage to the local chain store is an unavoidable consequence of needing items like dog food, toiletries, Morningstar products and gallons of Turkey Hill Diet Green Tea. If such a thing as purgatory actually exists (and I sure as heck hope not, because I'm likely headed there) I'd imagine it to be not much different than the Weis Grocery Store on a Sunday morning.

Intrinsically, I've got an Bill McNeal-esque split personality which ranges between charming and misanthropic depending on the situation -- And it's always the latter which surfaces during my trips to the store. I'll be in a good mood as I get out of my car, but by the time I'm dragging my feet with the cart behind the trashy, oblivious middle-aged couple holding hands while blocking the entranceway is when Mrs. Niceguy leaves the fucking building. How I loathe these people! The ones who leave their carts obstructing the aisles and let their devil children run free. Ones who have loud, screaming conversations two feet away when I'm attempting to make a quick call home to ask Mr. Salty what kind of Kashi Bars he wants. Those who cut me off with their carts, thinking they can get away with an "Oops! Excuse me!" and polite smile are probably not anticipating the steely, hateful glance I dart back in their direction.

The checkout line is the icing on the cake. To be so close! To stand there, longingly gazing out at the getaway vehicle awaiting in the parking lot! Ohhh, but not so fast! The jerkass lady next in line is going to haggle over a 30-cent coupon, while my frozen yogurt slowly melts away -- along with my sanity. And just when you think it's safe? The same asshole wants to pay with a personal check. And the cashier is "new" and she doesn't know how to "do that" so additional help is required. Serenity now, serenity now!

By the time it's my turn, the fuckwad behind me is up my ass, because he somehow thinks the line will move more quickly if he invades my personal space. I am so livid I begin to hallucinate that I can make his fat head explode with my mind. And then finally, with a roll of register tape coupons, my little journey into Personal Hell is over for now -- and it's back home to Mr. Salty who incredulously wonders why I'm in such a shitty mood all of a sudden.

Whore Dances; America Generally Approves.

Gather round kiddies, cause I'm about to let loose a mighty rant and you've got a front row seat!

This evening I was at the gym doing my 5 miles; the row of televisions above the treadmills all tuned to some form of local or cable news. (The smaller monitor affixed to my treadmill, naturally, was tuned to E!'s 101 Crimes of Fashion.) The news shows, on the other hand, were invariably fixed on a crime of humanity: last night's premiere of Dancing With The Stars. You know, how many million people watched, the endless stupid imbecile jokes about Heather Mills' prosthetic leg, etc.

Clearly, I'm not above taking a low blow at a person with a physical abnormality or disability. I will even go so far as to relate the following personal anecdote. My freshman year of college, I was assigned a blind roommate from West Virginia named Anita. Now, at first I felt really bad for Anita, and personally vowed to do everything in my power to help her and make her comfortable. That was, until after about two weeks of living with her I realized was a nasty, unpleasant, lazy person she was; getting a free ride because of her disability while letting student aides do all her work and spending the grant money on junk food. At that point I decided to do everything in my power to make fun of her behind her back. I ended up nicknaming her "Anita Shower" for her reprehensible lack of hygiene.

Getting back to my point: The only time I want to hear about Heather Mill's leg falling off is because she lost it running from an angry mob, who then went on to beat her senseless with it. Because that would be funny... Oh how I would laaaugh and laaaugh and laaaugh.

She put herself out there, knowing she's been vilified in the media, knowing she's going to be ridiculed. A horrible repugnant woman, she has already proven she's not above committing vile acts to get paid. And no, I'm not even talking about that whole "marrying an aging icon seemingly for the purpose of dragging his name through the mud and taking his money" thing.* I'm talking about this sort of thing. (Extremely NSFW!)

So does this make it okay to support her public endeavors, albeit to make fun of her? In my opinion it absolutely does not! Laugh all you want, she's the one ultimately capitalizing from it. In fact, if you are one of the however many millions of people who watched Dancing With The Stars last night, you may as well have personally kicked Paul McCartney in his sack. Well now, America... You just kicked a Beatle in the nuts. What do you have to say for yourself?

*Okay, I know it's all his word against hers, and I usually don't take sides in any kind of he-said, she-said. But you know what? Beloved music pioneer whose anthems of peace and love shaped the 1960's and inspired countless future generations to come? v. COMMON WHORE. It's not advanced trig, people. Case closed.

Jabba the Hut Gives Birth to Bouncing Baby Jesus? Or Possibly the Hamburglar.

For your daily dose of "America: Raising the Bar For Global Obesity" News , a 400 pound California woman has given birth to a baby boy a mere 48 hours after discovering that she was pregnant in the first place... GAH!!!!

Source.

She appears to be rather proud of herself, don't you think? And why not! She's just gained herself record-book celebrity status by being a revolting, gluttonous, human blob! Kudos! For me, the most surprising part of this story is that allegedly she had a baby inside her because she actually had sex in the first place, rather than just mistaking a baby for a gigantic burrito and accidentally eating it.

Quote:
"Barnum and her fiance, Walter Scott Edwards II, said they had no hopes of having any children and had instead spent money on adopting four dogs."

Spent money on adopting dogs? Yeaaaah.... "Adopting." DEFINITELY not "Raising For Consumption." I guess it's pretty much confirmed they haven't been "spending their money" on dentists or gym memberships, at any rate.

Share the road?

Here in the mid-Atlantic, the last snowstorm scarcely a week behind us, we were today treated to the very first unofficial day of Spring. Personally, I could not be more thrilled at this harbinger of the beginning of the end of my current bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder. However, when I took to the streets on my lunch break, I was confronted with one of Springtime's less agreeable harbingers: The Bike People.

I'm probably going to offend some people with this post, so let me say right off that I own a bicycle. Yes, I own it, I love it, and I enjoy riding it. It's pink and Mr. Salted built it for me out of his own two hands. I do not wear a helmet, although I know I should... But I keep to mostly trails, and sometimes the scenic country roads of the immediate area in which I reside. Oh, and if a car is coming? I get the fuck out of the way. Because I grew up riding bikes and that's how it works.

That's how it should work anyway. I don't know when the rules changed. When I was in high school there was a band teacher who wore spandex and rode his bike to school, and you know what? We all laughed at him. He was a freak! I wasn't in band; and I never had him. I didn't need to. He was the teacher who was infamous for pit stains and shaving his legs. When did this behavior become commonplace?

This afternoon for instance, driving along a two-lane in each direction, concrete divided, busy road; this jerk in a neon green windbreaker and black spandex is hugging the line on the side of the road, despite a good 2-3 feet to the immediate right of that line, just because he can. As a result, I had to creep alongside of him until there was a break to my left so I could get around him without knocking him off his pansy little bike with my side mirror.

What ever happened to "Share The Road"?! YOU people came up with that slogan! Why don't you try abiding by it for once? Do you even know the definition of the word "share?" Don't make me parade out the dictionary.com definition... (Because I will.) "v. - To participate in, use, enjoy, or experience jointly or in turns" If your helmet happens to be on a bit too tight, that means IT GOES BOTH WAYS.

And before you get all "Environmental Responsibility" on my ass, (I do applaud those who want to make a difference, I really, really do) most of the bicycle-related assery I encounter comes from recreational bicyclists. Remember those country roads I mentioned earlier? Well, every weekend from April until September, groups of dozens of bicyclists convene in the parking lot of the grocery store a few miles from my house and take to the road like they ain't the motherfucking Hell's Angels. The only difference being, that when you're stuck behind the Hell's Angels taking up an entire tractor-trailer sized stretch of road, they don't drive it at SEVEN MILES PER HOUR.

Can you imagine how much I feel like dealing with the following scenario: returning from a trip to the grocery store on a balmy July morning, ice cream melting in the back seat and crawling along behind of sea of jauntily colored helmets; just waiting for a clear enough stretch of road so I can gun past them hollering "NICCCEE PANNNTS ASSSSSSHOLE!" out of my passenger-side window? That's not uncommon whatsoever. That's called "Sunday Morning." Maybe this year I'll start keeping a semi-automatic water pistol handy under my seat.

If I can keep at least one Spandex Cowboy off the street, then I have made a difference.

Short haired girl.

It’s official: I’m in the club. After years of going back and forth from a Jackie-O reminiscent bob, to a bland shoulder length style... I finally took the plunge.

This marks another first for me, as I finally broke down and went to a fancy-schmancy salon. Over the years I’ve treated haircuts much in the same way a homeless cat sees a meal. I go as long as I can without one until I break down and head over to “Holiday Hair” (the metaphorical “dumpster” of salons) and get butchered. Or if I was lucky, have my talented ex-hairdresser friend cut it for me. One of the reasons I’ve always avoided short hair, alluring as the idea was, is because short hair requires a degree of maintenance. And the commitmentphobe I am knew that this would mean finding a regular, competent hairdresser, and sticking to it.

Having done some rudimentary research I decided upon a trendy local salon: Lords and Ladies. Embarrassingly stupid name aside, (which I feel compelled to pronounce Laaaahhhhhds and Ladies) I had heard good things, and the fact that they offered $25 haircut specials on Sundays pretty much sealed the deal.

One thing I don’t understand about getting your hair cut in a salon, is the ridiculous amount of styling that takes place afterwards. Nobody styles their own hair this way. They must think that we don’t feel we’re getting our moneys worth if there’s not 5 pounds of product slapped on our head.

Although this still doesn’t explain why my 20-something, reasonably hip looking stylist, after creating a reasonable facsimile of the mod pixie-cut I had printed out and brought with me (pictured above), proceeded to spray and tease my hair into a bouffant suitable only for a rousing afternoon of Bingo down at the senior center. This humiliation was compounded by having to wait for 10 minutes at the checkout counter while some cow housewife in sweatpants interrogated the receptionist about how much it would cost for her 10 year old to get highlights.

Finally I escaped the salon and hopped into the waiting vehicle where Mr. Salted was picking me up after running an errand, and gritted ”NOT... A... WORD.” through my teeth before furiously flattening the hair down with the Snoopy mini-brush handily kept in my purse.

15 minutes of grandma hair aside, overall I would have to rate my experience very satisfactory. I can’t believe it took me 29 years to get a pixie-cut, because seriously? This haircut was made for my face. What do you guys think? Yes, I’m in the club, and I do believe I’m here to stay.

Oh Yeah? Well I sell baked goods for SATAN!

I haven’t posted all week out of despair from the cold. As a matter of fact, my toes have been in a constant state of feeling like they were dipped into a steaming tank of liquid nitrogen by Mr. Wizard. So today, I think I’ll make lemonade out of lemons. Creepy, religious, lemons...

I’m sitting at work; space heater roaring and office door cracked a few inches. All of a sudden I hear a faint tapping and look over and see someone peeking in at me. The employee who sits behind the front counter happened to be off, so naturally I assumed it was either a delivery guy in need of a signature, or a courier from one of my vendors. I get up and open the door to find a tall man of Asian descent, medium build, and approximately 25-35 years of age standing in front of me holding a nondescript rectangular box.

It’s always awkward when someone I don’t know comes to see me with unannounced business... Which actually happens more than I’d care to admit. So I put on my best fake cheerfulness, and exude a polite greeting followed by an intentional pause. The box’s owner stutters for a moment, and then finally spits out that he’s fund-raising for his “church group,” and opens the box to reveal an assortment of crappy suncatchers; like the kind you paint yourself with a small palette of predetermined primary colors.

First of all, our building is a small renovated doctor’s office. Second of all, we just moved in recently. There’s no sign out front, and this man entered through a front door to find a dim, still unfurnished lobby containing nothing but a card table, a few unhung pieces of framed artwork and some boxes and bags on the floor.

For some reason, however, it didn’t discourage him from just coming the fuck in and poking around. At this point I’m completely taken aback, so I lamely excused myself to “go get my boss” much like an 8 year old would do in a similar situation. Unfortunately the sheer panic in my eyes wouldn’t budge her to come to my rescue, and she told me to get rid of him myself. But not before he craned his neck past me towards the other offices down the hall beyond mine, asking if anyone else was back there. I locked the door behind him after he finally left.

I often watch true crime shows. I watch Court TV’s Forensic Files on pretty much a nightly basis. I watch, more of less unfazed, as they go into gory detail after detail about serial killers and home invaders. Because in the safety of my own home, under protection of a man, a firearm and two uppity medium-large sized dogs... That stuff might as well be fiction as far as I’m concerned. This? Freaked me the hell out. Afterwards I was even afraid to go down into the basement to use the “Privacy Dump” bathroom because I couldn’t remember if the basement door was locked.

I suppose when it comes down to it... intrusive religious zealots are much more common than serial killers who break into random advertising agencies in broad daylight to go on murderous sprees, but you never know. Maybe I’ll start keeping mace at my desk. “You wanna take one step closer with that little bible? Go ahead and make my day, motherfucker!"

5 hours later...

I am woman, hear me mothereffing roar!!!

IKEA: Update

Simplicity?


Why doesn't MINE look like that?!?!?!?!?

Who wants to assemble IKEA furniture for me today?

When I arrived to work this morning I noticed that "Office Santa" (aka "My Boss") had left a new printer/scanner cabinet from IKEA in my office over the holiday. I've so far gotten as far as unpacking the (nine) larger pieces of wood and then I had to stop for a coffee break. When the coffee finally activates my brain and I leave this zombie-like state I'm currently inhabiting, I may start panicking over the vagueness of the following instructions:

Nasty Christmas

Hello, my name is Litelysalted... and my family sucks at Christmas. Well, not my whole family. My grandmother sucks at Christmas, and she passed it down to my mother, and luckily for my sister and myself the gene seems to have dispersed itself out at this point. Although for me, the holiday season has long since lost it's spiritual connotations, I still enjoy spending time with loved ones and bestowing onto them thoughtful and considerate gifts.

My mother, on the other hand, seems to have missed the thoughtful and considerate part. Her problems are as follows:

1. She loves shopping.
2. She loves deals.
3. She buys what she likes, not what you like.
3.5. She has awful, nonsensical taste.

This would explain last year's haul which included: A ginormous Santa Head cookie jar, a bizarre metal (painted to look like wrought iron) fold-up chair (compliments of Boscov's) with a lacquered wicker seat*, a dark-teal leather jacket from Macy's, and whorey, suede(ish) knee-high lace up boots with faux fur accents that look like they were lifted from J-Lo's closet (circa 1999).

This would also explain why a family friend who is deployed in the Navy and will be out at sea for Christmas, will be receiving a package in the mail containing a stuffed dog who sings and dances to "Blue Chistmas," much to the chagrin of other family members who previously attempted to talk her out of this.

My grandmother is even worse because all of her shopping problems can be summed up by #2. For her, Christmas has always been a game to see what cheapest single item she can purchase from Strawbridges or Kohl's, like matching sweaters for my sister and I with oversized buttons going up one sleeve for like, two dollars each, and as you open it she crows, "Now, you better like it, because I can't take it back!" And who can forget the Christmas where she got our boyfriends matching Fake-Old Navy "Tech Vests" from Kohl's, about 3 years after those vests went out of style? (And that they ever were actually "stylish" is debatable in itself.)

Another reason why my Mom sucks at Christmas is because she'd rather just tell you what to get for her than be surprised. Unfortunately, these gifts usually fall into the mundane or difficult to find, as she just describes something she makes up in her head and requests that you find this item that she's thinking of. For example, a favorite pair of pants she owned years before, only they don't "make them anymore" and you're expected to find a reasonable facsimile.

I said "never again" after the year where Mr. Litelysalted and I scoured all 53 department stores in the King of Prussia Mall looking for a pair of "Black, mid-length boots with a low-heel which are water resistant and lined to wear in the snow but are also nice enough to wear to work." To hell with you, Mom, you're getting jewelry from Red Envelope and you're going to like it.

Since we're still a few months from moving into our new house we're building, and we have piles of stuff stockpiled in the current two rooms of our home (therefore, no room for Christmas gifts), I was promised a minimal of gratuitous crap this year, and instead putting the budget towards an Ikea giftcard. Yet, I have a feeling I'm still going to be unwrapping enough stuff to make for a pretty entertaining photo blog, so stay tuned!

*We actually still have this chair in our basement, since returning it was more trouble than it was even worth, so check back for a photo update to fully illustrate the craptasticness of what I'm dealing with, here.

In other holiday-themed news, I'm leaving shortly to attend my office Holiday Party. You know what that means, kids: Daytime Drunkenness! Hooray!

Headline: Three Killed When Circuit City Turns Local Woman Into Raving, Homicidal Maniac!

Okay, well nobody actually died. Mostly in due to the fact that said "local woman" (cough) was unarmed during the incident.

I hate Circuit City. I hate shopping at any kind of chain stores where employees wear matching polo shirts but I have a special place in my blackened little heart for Circuit City. For a year now I've had a CC giftcard totaling to the amount of eighty-five dollars from a past Christmas gift return, which should speak in volumes how much I abhor going in there... That I can't even bring myself to go browse for an unnecessary purchase with 85 smackaroos burning a hole in my pocket.

My last Circuit City shopping experience, previous to today was not a pleasant one, either. I believe it was September of last year and I was shopping for some fancy computer mouse for my father's birthday. All that was required of the fine employees was to ring up my purchase. But instead of having conveniently located checkout stations at the front of the store, Circuit City likes to hide their checkout stations at strategic locations throughout the store. So that way, the employees can arbitrarily decide if they want to man the registers, or if they want to fart around playing minesweeper on the computer display models.

That shopping experience concluded with me walking around the store waving the mouse defiantly above my head, making an assy scene of myself while yelling, "HEY EMPLOYEEEEES! If someone doesn't ring me up RIGHT NOW I'm fucking taking this WITHOUT PAYING!"

Which brings us to December 2006. Armed with my eighty-five dollar amounted card, (but again, sadly, no weapons) I headed to Circuit City to purchase an ipod speaker/docking system for my new office. Given that I don't even like shopping for Christmas Gifts around Christmas Time, you might wonder why I didn't make my purchase online like I do with everything else. Well, it's because I'm not well enough versed with ipod accessories to confidently know that I wouldn't be receiving a chintzy piece of crap in the mail.

In the ipod accessory aisle, there were four speaker systems on display. One had a pricetag and the other three had placards that read, "Service Associate: Place Pricetag Here." In the shelves underneath there were a few other boxed systems that were completely different from the ones on display, and none of them were marked. Who runs this place?

After attempting twice to lasso a customer service lackey, I finally flagged down someone who actually sent someone to assist me. I pulled my ipod from my purse and said, "Listen. I need ipod speakers. I need them to play this, I need to them to charge this, and I need it to cost under 100 dollars. I don't give a shit which one it is, just find me something that fits those qualifications."

Three sets of keys later the helpful associate found me a previously display-used model that played only ipod nano, and another that was roughly half the size of my desk. I left emptyhanded; fuming. Aaaaand, commence online shopping experience for inevitably chintzy piece of crap! The moral of the story is: Circuit City sucks. And that is one lunch break I will never get back. NEVER!

Screw you, Elijah Wood!

After five years, The Apples in Stereo finally have a new album out, New Magnetic Wonder. If the mind-numbingly slick tracks I stole off of the internet are any indication, it might just be their best effort yet. It's being officially released in February however I just got word that you can preorder it now. If you order the LP you'll even get it by Christmas.

So why am I pissed at Elijah Wood? Well it's the first release off his new record label, Simian Records (co-released with Yep Roc Records) and they want twenty dollars for it with shipping. As a matter of principal I refuse to pay that much for a CD. For an indie release I find $10-$15 (shipped) is a more comfortable number. Besides all that, it's coming up on Christmas, and I'm building a house. It's not like I have 20 bucks to piss around like some punk ass movie star does.

Hear that Frodo? You can take that price tag and shove it. I'll buy mine off ebay, half, or amazon as soon as I can get my hands on a discounted promo copy.

Litelysalted: Willing to buy new silver sparkly high heels regardless of having anyplace to wear them, but not willing to pay $5 more than she has to for a CD. Such is my doctrine. Life is about concessions, people.

Fuck Football In The Face!*

I know I'm not going to be making any friends with this blog.

Well, football season is well upon us again, like a swarm of mosquitoes or some other pesky irritation. Seriously, football has got to be the dumbest sport known to mankind, and I feel like I'm the only person capable of understanding this. You've got a bunch of big dumb turds on the field, the whistle blows, they all run around and collide with each other for 4 seconds and then stop and have a conference about it for 5 minutes. No wonder the average sports fan has to be well lubricated to enjoy this. It's only slightly more compelling than watching paint dry.

I did watch the Superbowl recently when Philly made it in. Only because I was incredulous that a Philadelphia sports team could actually make it that close to winning anything. If I believed in karma and all that stuff, I would say Philly's bad luck is due mostly in part to the shitty sportsmanship of Philadelphia sports fans.

Oh, we can't forget the fans! Fan reaction is the best and only entertaining part of football season. As if the local news isn't mind numblingly stupid enough already**, after a big game they always take the crew into the popular sports bars to have drunken dullards slur the Eagles fight song into the camera. You'd think that would get old, but trust me it doesn't, in the same way Cops doesn't get old. Watching drunk people make asses of themselves never goes out of style.

* TM-Kerry

** Yesterday Laurie Delgado on NBC10 actually referred to "Another twist in the divorce between Paul McCartney and his wife Linda McCartney..." That's the kind of crack reporting I've come to expect from the news team that employs Terry Ruggles.

Return of the Angry Girl...

This is how I feel today.

I F'ing Hate Desperate Housewives.

Yet I still continue to watch. I don't know why. It started out pretty good, but it's total misogynistic crap that gets worse and worse each season while the "Housewives" become more and more freakishly preserved. Terri "Skeletor" Hatcher is so plastic and gaunt it pains me to even look at her. Still, the juicy plotlines do seem to fill an unmistakable void in my life since Melrose Place departed long ago. And what else am I doing at 9:00 on a Sunday night?

One thing that is driving me nuts about this damn show is this crap they're pulling with Bree, (Marcia Cross's character.) She started out as my favorite one of the bunch, although she pretty much still is out of default just because the others suck so much. Since I'm guessing the number of my readers who watch Desperate amount to the tune of, say no one, here is a season-by-season rundown of her character so far:

Season 1: Bree VanDecamp is introduced as the neurotic, obsessive compulsive housewife with a touch of the crazies. Her repressed ladylike facade masks what could be a total badass waiting to happen. Her husband Rex is unhappy with their marriage and is unfaithful with the friendly neighborhood dominatrix. Bree and Rex have two kids: Danielle the Slut, and Andrew the Gay Sociopath. Rex also has a heart condition, and is unceremoniously killed off at the end of the season when Bree catches the eye of murderous neighborhood pharmacist, George, who tampers with Rex's heart medication.

Season 2: Bree is dating, and becomes engaged to George, the man who murdered her beloved Rex! Juicy!!!! Right? Well unfortunately they totally shot their load early on this one. Bree figures out George murdered Rex after he attempts to murder her shrink, and George is unceremoniously killed off by committing suicide while Bree watches him die. Boooo-ring. There's also some crap with Danielle the Slut dating the murderous neighborhood teenaged boy. The rest of the season is spent cultivating poor Bree's carefully contrived alcoholism while Andrew the Gay Sociopath torments her. Oh, and then on the season finale Bree becomes involved with Orson, who had a brief thing with Skeletor, who also runs down Mike Delfino with his car for reasons unknown. (I'm not even going to get into Skeletor and Mike's stupid plotline.)

Season 3: In the season premier opening segment, we see a flashback where Orson The Psychopath murders his wife. Or, shall I say, it is strongly eluded that he murders his wife. Flash forward to the present, and Bree and Orson have been dating for 6 months when they become engaged!!!! Wow, Rex has only been in the ground a little over a year and Bree is already engaged to her second psychopath murderer! You gotta admit, that's pretty impressive. This episode also featured a scene in which Bree and Orson clean recently used wine glasses. Good to see you've kicked that nasty alcoholism, Bree! Then Orson and Bree do it, or sort of anyway, and Bree has her first orgasm ever and goes to the doctor because she doesn't understand what it is. So. Gay.

It would be nice to see Bree kick some major ass, or at least become slightly empowered this season, but somehow I think that's doubtful. All of the women on this show are either wishy-washy damsels in distress, or bitches. There's no middle ground, here. And so continues my love-hate relationship with Desperate Housewives. This show is like crack... I know it's killing my brain cells but I just can't stop watching.

Remembering 9/11...

Okay before you think the Salted One is going all sentimental on your ass, let me say first of all that this post falls under the "rants" category. I've broached this subject before in my old blog, so longtime readers won't be unfamiliar with the sentiment. Secondly, let me say that I have nothing but solemn respect for those who lost their lives 5 years ago.

Basically, I can sum it up in this. Last night Mister Litelysalted and I were watching TV and a commercial came on for a gold and silver 9/11 commemorative coin that had a relief of Twins Towers which raised up off the coin like a pop-up book, boasting that it was made from silver which was actually recovered from ground zero. It was the most gaudy and obscene thing I've ever seen in my life, and I said "You know, there's people out there that probably think 9/11 was like, the best thing ever ."

I typically don't use this blog as a political outlet, for the most part, even though I am one of the many Americans that are unwaveringly anti-Bush and have a total lack of faith in the current administration. That said, I believe the way Bush manipulated and exploited this tragedy was outrageous and vulgar. But what's worse is that I think it caused a ripple effect to the general public which is still very much visible 5 years later. By example of the President, it somehow became okay to exploit 9/11. No, not okay. Patriotic.

How else would it even be remotely acceptable to release not one but two major motion pictures about 9/11 just a scant few years after the attacks occurred? Did they start production on these films before the dust even settled? Or a dramatized miniseries on the anniversary, containing fictionalized scenes seemingly contrived for the purpose of political slander? Hell, I'm one of the few people who thought releasing a fictional love story about Pearl Harbor was crass!

It's fucking offensive, and more people should be pissed off. Regardless of whether or not we've been ingrained to think it's "unpatriotic" to feel that way. The exploitation upsets me as much as the tragedy itself. These people that died, they weren't martyrs. They were just your everyday average people, and I think it's about time that we, as a country, start showing them some respect by not fucking capitalizing off their deaths at every turn.

If you agree with what I'm saying at all, do yourself a favor and turn off the TV today. The news outlets must look forward to the 9/11 anniversary the way a kid waits for Christmas. You can pay your respects without the aide of a jacked up Fox News anchor and some flashy anniversary graphics.

Do you think I'm way off base? Maybe I am. Well if that's the case, than go find yourself a World Trade Center Touch Lamp and pick me up a 9/11 Remembrance Bear while you're at it.

Fuck you very much!

I knew I'd be writing this morning; I just didn't know if it would be a smug post or a bitter post. It turns out, as the title clearly expresses, it wound up being the latter. The Emmy's were on last night. I usually don't pay much attention to awards shows because I hate most celebrities and can't stand seeing them congregate several times a year to pat themselves on the back. Also since I don't watch many mainstream movies (and only a select few tv shows) they're usually about as interesting to me as math to a dog.

However! The Emmy's this year held special importance. The brilliant Arrested Development, also known as My Favorite Show Of All Time, was up for three awards, including Outstanding Comedy Series. Arrested was mercilessly cancelled due to "poor ratings" which were directly the result of the FOX Network's negligent-bordering-on-criminal scheduling and marketing practices. Thanks to Fox not even most die hard fans knew when Arrested aired, and as a final F U they ran the last four episodes opposite the Olympic opening ceremonies, sans promotions of any kind.

Suffice to say, the loss was devastating to fans such as myself. And yes I cried real tears when I heard the news. That's why an Emmy win was so important: a big final F U to Fox, to thank the writers and cast for doing such a great job, and at least to show the world what they missed.
Didn't. Fucking. Happen.

Here's what did happen.

Nomination: Will Arnett; Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series
Winner: That Guy from PCU

A few days shy of my 29th birthday, the fact that I refer to Jeremy Piven as "That guy from PCU" should show you exactly how out of touch I am. I notice he suspiciously seems to have more hair now than he did in his PCU days, which makes me wonder. Would they have given the Emmy to some bald dude? Would Entourage even have cast a bald, unsightly Jeremy Piven? You might even say Will Arnett lost the Emmy which was rightfully his to a fake ass head of man-hair! I call shenanigans! Shenanigans!!

Nomination: Arrested Development; Outstanding Writing For A Comedy Series
Winner: That horrible 'Earl' show

This is easily the most painful blow of the night. For one thing, Arrested Development is arguably the most finely crafted, brilliantly written show in the history of television. Even so, the competition which included Ricky Gervais, was nothing to snort at. And yet somehow the no-brainer redneck-humor show wins? Come on! I've tried watching that show and it's NOT FUNNY. And it's NOT well written. AT ALL. That stupid Jason Lee's narration really grates on me, too. You want good narration? Try watching Arrested. In the immortal words of Ron Howard: "And that's how you narrate a story." Bitch.

Nomination: Arrested Development; Outstanding Comedy Series
Winner: The Office
This was the most bittersweet category. It was the one I was banking on the most, yet part of me is just relieved that they didn't lose to Two And A Half Men. If that had happened, I would have probably passed out by now from all the banging of my head onto solid surfaces. If they had to lose to anyone, I probably would have preferred it would have been Curb, but The Office is not bad for a show that was ripped off of a better show. Still. Although I'm grasping for a silver lining, in all seriousness this is the most soul crushingly disappointed I've been since the '04 Presidential Elections.

Arrested Development, Season 3 comes out on DVD tomorrow. If the last two seasons are any indication it will be on the best seller lists for quite some time. If you haven't seen the show, go out and rent it. But try not to enjoy it too much because keep in mind, you're part of the reason why it failed miserably. We all told you to watch, and you didn't. And now no one gets to watch it. Jerks.