BOWNED. Fuck. I mean owned.

I just went to type a charming, but still somewhat professional email to my boss. And yet, for some reason, my hand-eye-coordination thinks that professionalism is bullshit. It also thinks it isn't getting enough action, because Hand-Eye Coordination is being a HUGE slut today.

For example, instead of typing "I would love to," I wrote, "I would love you." It gets worse.

"I know you're busy as hell," became, "I know you're busty as hell."

"I have that log at my desk [referring to the credit card log I use for collections, etc.]" became, "I have that flog at my desk."

Those are the only examples of the skanky typos (though there were a few normal, G-rated typos, too).

True story. And I am so very glad that I proofread my emails before sending them. At least, usually. God, I grope. HOPE. I mean hope.

And that didn't happen because I'm thinking about such inappropriate things while I ought to be working probably. Get your minds out of the gutter. JEEZ (with an "e"....).

P.S. Just so you know, I'm not currently drunk. Here's a photo for comparison.

Me, being drunk at karaoke.

P.P.S. Do you remember that part in Crocodile Dundee (you have to pronounce it "dun DEE") where that kid pulls out a knife, and Crocodile Dundee says, "That's not a knoife. This is a knoife." And then he pulls a machete out of his boot? I can't get that out of my head, because I keep hearing, "That's not a drunk. This is a drunk." Except that I'm not going to pull a cosmopolitan out of my boot because 1) I'm not wearing boots, I'm wearing really cute sandals that are not conducive to hiding liquor; and 2) I'm at work, and it would be a bit really unprofessional to hide a cosmo in my boot while at work, and probably worse to drink said shoe-cosmo. Hear that, Hand-Eye Coordination? That's called keeping my job.

STICK your pun up your ass

I spent today being a total puss nostalgic. Somehow, I ended up telling someone about Spidey (oh, my sweet, adorable piece of shit car). Spidey died last year, actually. Talk of Spidey brought up the fact that he had the only super lame transmission automatic transmission I've ever owned, which steered the conversation toward how I learned how to drive a stick to begin with.

My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It had a manual transmission, which is great if you know how to drive it. Or, you know, drive at all. The most traumatic learning-to-drive-a-stick story I can recall happened when I was forced to take Honda to rehearsal because my dad went somewhere retarded with his car. My first journey (for which I was not prepared. Like, at all) went like this:

Me: Okay, Honda. Now, we're going to leave the neighborhood. Are you okay with that? Please don't die please don't die please don't die..... K?

Honda: *grumble*

Me: Hey, Honda? How's it going? Look at you, in second gear. Way to go. Now we're going to try third. Are you ready for third gear? Yeah? Okay, here we go.

Honda: KKRRRAAAAAA (that's how you spell what you hear when metal and metal are grinding)

Me: OH, HOLY FUCK. SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE. I'MGOINGTODIE. Oh. Clutch needs to be in. Sorry, Honda. Okay, ready this time? No, really, I'm sorry. Okay, clutch in.... shift to third... clutch out...

Honda: *bucking like a bull with its nuts in a noose*

Me: No. No, no, no, no, come ON you piece of SHIT.

Honda (clearly insulted): *stalls*

Me (with angsty, emotional, teenage tears falling from my eyes): FUCK. I am NEVER GOING TO LEARN THIS. Where the HELL DID DAD TAKE THE OTHER CAR?! GOD DAMN IT! SHIT!

Everyone else in the entire world: *HONK* "LEARN TO DRIVE!"
"Hey, KID! Get OUT OF THE ROAD."
"This ISN'T a parking lot!"
"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I could hear my dad's voice in my head, saying, "User error, Linds," over and over again, like he does anytime something that clearly isn't broken chooses not to work. So I took a deep breath, started the fucking bastard piece of shit engine, and put the car in first gear while trying to stab people with my almost tangible anger. I think the only reason I couldn't was because the tears water I got in my eyes (it was raining) deflected the sight-daggers/ machetes/ a-bombs.

This drive (that was supposed to be 5 miles or so from start to finish) took me 30 minutes. When I FINALLY arrived I turned into the first driveway I saw that was part of the rehearsal halls property. Having never been there before, I was unaware that this particular "driveway" was actually just a bunch of dirt with miscellaneous clumps of grass clinging to it. And it was still raining, so the dirt was actually some weird, cake-batter-thick mud. Seriously. It was wicked (and not the British "oh, that's so neat but I'm British and have to be all posh so I'll call it wicked," wicked). I'm talking the kind of mud your neighbor's miniature poodle gets into one day, and then the poor bastard is stuck being a hard brown lump for at least a week, even though your neighbor is a prim and obsessive-compulsive gay man, and the dog has a dog show in three days and the neighbor's lover is getting back into town in a week so everything has to be spotless and perfect and the dog is immune to bleach and is washed 24/7, because that shit is so sticky and oozy and gross that bleach is all, "Uh, I'm gonna pass on that one, man," and the neighbor is like, "But I spent a fortune to get a bleach-immune poodle specifically for this reason. Oh, fuck it all." And then he loses his mind because of his OCD and his muddy poodle. Yeah. That mud.

So I end up in the mud, entirely unable to get the car to move because I give it too much gas in first gear, sobbing my angry, hate-filled eyes out, and 30 minutes late for rehearsal. Getting out of the car was just as much trouble as trying to get the asshole to move, and by the time I had escaped my 4-door hell and made it to the front porch I was covered in mucky mud mixed with good ole' Georgia red clay and sweat, I had red, puffy eyes from crying allergies, my hair was tangled and soaking wet and attempting, unsuccessfully, to be windswept, and I was panting like a chow chow during a summer in Buenos Aires.

As I threw open the door to the building, thunder clapped and lightning flashed behind me (it was probably the most epic entrance I've ever made, and it was unfortunate that I was so pissed upset exhausted frustrated dirty distracted that I didn't notice it), and every single person in the entire cast gasped and looked at me as though I were the lovechild of the witch from Left4Dead and their worst nightmare, personified. Their horrified, shocked expressions registered to teenage Lindsey as looks of disgust and embarrassment, and I broke down.

Me: *sobbing* D-d-does anyone... *sob* know.. uh, know how *sob* to drive a- a- *sob* sstttiiickkk shiiifffftttttt *crying and wailing*

Everyone in the room: "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were here to murder us!"
"Will someone get her a towel? And a box of tissues?"
"Where the hell did you park?"
"You don't know how to drive a stick shift??"

After I calmed down and dried off (but before the PTSD that was caused by the whole experience kicked in) a friend of mine went out to move my car. She walked through the mud, though it seemed to have no interest in clinging to her clothes or shoes. She started the car on the first try. She had absolutely no problem getting Honda to leave the mud-field-driveway-thing, and that was that.

So, you know, when I offer my friends the opportunity to learn how to drive a stick, they may be wise to decline. I honestly doubt that anything would have taught me as well as the trauma of that afternoon. Fucking bastard Honda. I don't think I could possibly inflict that much trauma on another human being, though. I mean, come on. I'm not that driven by the misery of others.

Well, fuck.

I thought that maybe writing about my craptastic phone experience would make me feel better. I then realized that it would mainly consist of me whining even more about how pissed I am at myself. And now I'm here, whining about trying not to whine about my phone. The bullshit has been resolved, but I would have rather given my first-born than go through this again (even though I don't want kids... which, I suppose, means I'd give my first- AND second-born).

My phone was either left at The Clermont Lounge, or at a diner we went to after our appetites were crushed by the dancers at the Clermont, and then picked up by someone who called Santa Barbara for, like, 5 minutes Saturday morning. It is now gone forever, to the place where things stolen by fucking douche bags that lack the manners to just fucking take that shit to the register end up. I hope that my stolen phone explodes, impaling their stupid face with shards of Apple Certified glass, disfiguring them to the point that people mistake them for Mel Gibson in that movie about that guy whose face was all gross. The Man Without a Face. Or Man with a Face of Guilt and Sin for Being a FUCKING THIEF. Or something.

So the phone is gone. It was synced with my computer, so I didn't really lose anything. Just my faith in humanity. And the ability to go out drinking with any kind of purse that doesn't zip closed entirely. And the technology needed to call anyone, locate or orient myself in relation to my surroundings (I am ALWAYS lost, even with the GPS, and now I'm totally on my own. In fact, I'm typing this from my MacBook in the middle of an unfamiliar city where it's -14 degrees and the street signs are written in Russian or some shit, and I was just trying to get to the park that's MAYBE 15 minutes away from my house), check my email, check my account balances, take photos.... The horribly tragic and unfair and slightly whiny list goes on.

Fortunately for me, it was time for an upgrade. I managed to order the iPhone 4 online the day after my phone was left and then stolen. Then I discovered that it would take THREE WEEKS for Apple to ship that shit. Really, Apple? You can't just, you know, get off your asses and send me a phone? Supply and demand can die in a fire, I went almost a week without any means of communication. Had my car broken down (which it wouldn't have because it's the shit) and I been kidnapped, murdered, and then decapitated, it would have been YOUR FAULT. That's right. I'm irrationally blaming you for my hypothetical KIDNAPPING. Way to go. And no, this has nothing to do with the fact that I'm usually an impatient person.

So I canceled the order (that I used a gift-card to pay for) and decided to try to get a phone at the store. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. Apparently, EVERYONE wants one of these phones. Well, everyone except the people that go on and on about how they suck (they're just jealous). Which is basically, like, 7 people on the planet. Then, Wednesday, I was told that there were some iPhone 4's at the Perimeter store. So I scooted my happy ass over there to FINALLY reconnect with virtual civilization (and my sense of direction/ checking account balance/ bejeweled high score).

My old AP music theory teacher, Volzie, works at the Apple store, and ended up being the one to help me out. We got the phone, and then the gift card wouldn't work. I got really frustrated and said that I would kill EVERYTHING just spend the $200 cash so I could leave with a phone, but Volzie didn't want me to have to deal with selling a $200 Apple gift card that I wasn't going to use. We called this and that and eventually found out that nothing could be done. So we sighed, canceled the transaction because it couldn't be tendered properly, and started the process again.

Then, Volzie went to put the new order in and AT&T was all, "Oh, hai guyz, so you know when you just said you were trying to buy this, and then didn't? ? Well, fuck you. We've decided that you DID buy it. So that whole 'eligible for an upgrade' thing? Yeah, that doesn't exist for you anymore. We're guessing you don't want to spend $600 on a new iPhone because you're lame and broke and everyone hates you, so have fun getting lost and over-drafting your checking account. Love ya, mean it!"

So I left, after two or three hours of nonsense, without a phone. Luckily, the manager felt REALLY bad, and gave me a card saying I didn't have to wait in the queue once AT&T figured their shit out. He also said he would hold a phone there for me (which they're TOTALLY not doing for anyone anymore, due to the demand).

The next day, the money was back on my gift card and AT&T was all, "Ohhhh. See, that wasn't us that you spoke to yesterday. It was our evil twin, AT&T-with-a-mustache. So go get your pretty new phone, and we'll try to track down that jerk Bizarre-o AT&T and give him a piece of our minds." And that's exactly what I did. The guys at the Apple store even bought Apple Care for me, so there's $65 I didn't have to spend on an extended, better warranty. Though I don't know if I would sell a total of 4 hours of my life, some stress, and dealing with the mall for $65.

The lesson I learned from this is that my history teacher was a liar. There's no way in hell that people lived in a time without land lines, at least. Also, the iPhone 4 is sweet, and doesn't actually drop calls, so the naysayers can suck it.

Holy Mary mother of god, Grandpa's on the hobby horse again.

Actually, those are song lyrics. I have no idea if my gramps is on a horse, hobby or otherwise. I do know that it has been one hell of a week. I also know that I just spent 3 minutes of my life trying to inform my phone that I was TRYING to say "hell", not he'll. I'm cursing on purpose, phone. Stop trying to censor me. Damn it.

I am just posting quickly to say that no, I did not forget/abandon/choose to shun (Amish-style)/ regret and delete this blog. I'm just bring pissy and lazy, and shirking my prior interests. And while none of those things usually happen, minus the pissy/lazy bit, they seem to be out in full force lately. I'll be sure to inform you of the insanity as soon as I can figure out how to do so without inadvertently forcing you to attend my pity party. Though if you want to come, it's byob because I'm broke, and you ought to bring your own cheese, because I barely have enough for my own whine.

Look at my art. If you don't get it, you clearly aren't cultured enough.

I recently posted my hack version of a Get Well Soon card. I've decided that I ought to go ahead and post some of the other miscellaneous drawings I've made for friends, just as a way to keep them together and entertain the masses myself.

Also, I've been more exhausted than your mom after a gang bang, lately, so I'm doing this in lieu of writing anything meaningful.

And tell your mom to calm down with that crazy shit before she breaks a hip.

This was created due to some unfortunate conversation between Christo and his girlfriend, Shana. He said something about the office being "magical". This is what you get when you use ridiculous words like that to describe something everyone knows you hate.

During a conversation, a name was thrown around that, while much more... colorful, basically equated to this. It was then pondered how one could be such an oxymoron. IN YOUR FACE, SHANA. AND YOUR ASS.

For my dear heart, the Fabulous Geek. One day, the glue factory will be overstocked, and then you can finally have your soup.

Another done for The Fabulous Geek, clearly illustrating only a few of the plethora of reasons why I would run at
him with a chainsaw (none of which would involve killing him).

Upon being told that I wouldn't sell her The Television Monster painting that I love dearly, Leigh was terribly distraught. So I offered to make her a painting of her very own. She suggested Zombie Kittens. I took creative liberty and added the Outer Space part. And behold, I got to give away something I loved almost as much as The Television Monster. The pains of being an artist... le sigh.











Okay. That's all for now. God damn, my computer is being slow as hell. How irksome. Only 3 more hours until I get to go play in traffic. Fun.

"Ugh, god. They're so dramatic. They make me want to just... SET MYSELF ON FIRE."

Lucille Bluth, of Arrested Development, ALWAYS has the right thing to say. If you haven't watched Arrested Development, you're missing out. Seriously. It's like snarky, clever Pee-Wee Herman for adults. Although, that probably only makes sense to me, so ignore that unless it makes you want to go out and buy all three seasons. Of Arrested Development. Not Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Even though that wouldn't be a bad addition to your DVD collection, either. ANYWAY, I'm distracting myself from my current ANGER and HATRED, which is why I was talking about snark and insults in the first place. The only person that I feel possesses the ability to top Lucille Bluth (and shut the hell up, I don't know her real name and I am too lazy irritated at the moment to bother looking it up) when it comes to awesome things to say when you're pissed off or irked or disappointed to the point of anger or just generally rubbed the wrong way by someone would be my youngest brother, Bug. Bug (which is what the Step-Monster and Dad called him when he was in the womb, and my sister Mar was only four and trying desperately to understand how they fit an entire person in there) just turned 7 years old this month. He's blonde, and adorable, and a total ham for attention. He must have inherited his love for attention from my darling step-monster, who is an actress (she even has a theatre degree from UCLA, and enjoys bragging about how her major got her out of any math requirements.... Damn brazen hussy. Not that I'm jealous or anything okay, I'm totally jealous).  According to my step-mum, Bug and my sister were bickering at dinner the other night. Now, Mar just turned 11 (holy shit, right? It's insane! She's an entire person! When she was born, I was being a moody teenager but now it's her turn and she has opinions and thoughts and justifications for why her clearly incorrect-due-to-her-age opinions and thoughts are, supposedly, correct! What a strange thing to witness from the opposite side). She's a bit quiet around large groups, and got more of Daddy's "I'm just hanging out, I'm not into the whole 'social' thing. This isn't my forte," while still being the life of any gathering, because that's what genuine people that are just themselves have a tendency to do, while still being slightly uncomfortable (and that much more endearing) about it. With 4 years between them, Mar and Bug are no strangers to arguing with one another. Whether they're discussing the logistics of the latest 893,203-Lego sculpture-mansion-spaceship, or just talking to make noise and finding that arguing opposite points halfheartedly is the easiest way to go about that, they have certainly had more practice bickering with one another than I ever had with any of my siblings. Granted, I'm the eldest, meaning there was no argument (at least, as far as my adolescent brain was concerned), but still. You get what I'm saying. A lot of practice. Tons. EONS of practice. Despite being aware of this, and having lived with the kids for years before being deemed "not a kid" enough to move out, I am still ALWAYS surprised when Bug comes up with some of the shit he comes up with. For example, he once said to me, "Lindsey, Lindsey, guess what I can say?!?!?" I was confused, but decided to humor him because he's such an odd little kid you just never know what you may have missed were you to turn your solemn, adult back on him. Me: Um, okay. What can you say? Bug: ELLLLllllllll!!!!!!! Me: Um, what? "L"? Huh. That's, a letter of the alphabet.... Nice.  Bug: No! Mom said I couldn't say "HELL". But I can say it if I say it like Ron Weasley. (He looks at me for a good four seconds, and then busts out with it yet again.) ELLLLllllll! I think it only took a week or two of Bug going around the house, yelling the guttural, drawn-out, Ron Weasley version of "ELLLlllllll!" for Mom to go ahead and just let him say "hell," while undoubtedly rolling her eyes and half-laughing to herself about her odd children. According to Mum, the other night she, Daddy, Mar and Bug were sitting around the dining room table, having dinner. Mar and Bug were arguing about something, apparently. Finally, it was just too much for the agitated Bug, and he looked at Mar and said, with utmost seriousness and a full-ish mouth, "Mar, I wish this tomato I just ate was you." Apparently both Bug and Mar were scowl-y and angry and irritable, but in the two or three seconds that Bug's statement hung in the air, everything dissipated. And then Mum started laughing, complete with the, "Ppppfffftttt!" at the beginning (and when The Step-Monster thinks something is really, insanely amusing, everyone within 100 feet is made aware of it, because of her laugh... it's like her laugh thinks it's a stage-whisper, but it's already at normal volume, and she clearly has no control over it which is also funny as hell in its own right) and the entire table finally slowed their hysterics to an occasional giggle, and then resumed eating dinner. Not a single person choked to death that night (that's not to say you ought to choke to death right now, in order to give Bug's story merit or anything. Unless you're one of the few that have pissed me the fuck off in the past couple of days. In which case, if you feel so inclined to give a 7-year-old-boy some props, don't let me stop your windpipe.... I'm just saying). *But* my heart choked to death, with mushy, gay, lame as hell pride at my weird brother, and odd sister, and amazingly badass parents that were able to instill such bizarre, occasionally misplaced, but never dull creativity.  ..... And judging by that last sentence, I need to go make another drink, because the one I had was chugged a paragraph ago knocked over by my favorite scapegoat, Lucy's tail. Not to be confused with performance art. Well, unless that was Lucy's intention. Good fucking dog. On that note, good night. Sleep well, unless you're unfortunate enough to be one of Bug's tomatoes.

It's worse because you have TWO.

My friend Christo is obnoxious sick. He had to go to the E.R. because there's a giant calcium meteorite barreling its way through his body. It's a kidney stone. And it sucks, because if there's anything in your body you DON'T want to piss off, it's your kidney. I've had two kidney infections, and I thought I was going to die both times. I can't imagine having a rock just chilling in there, treating my kidney like a bouncy castle. Ow.

When my friends are sick, or amusing, or inspiring, or whatever, I occasionally make them super incredible comics. So I made one for Christo. Click on this, so you can actually read it (if you're illiterate, however, clicking will not give you the ability to read. Though you can't read this either, so I guess just keep doing what you're doing...):

The letter missing on the speech bubble for the kidney stoned is an "n." It's supposed to say, "The MAN."

All my drawings for Christo have to be certified by Mensa, because I was trying to prove that kittens help relationships (because his girlfriend, who is usually snarkier than anything on the planet, wanted one) and it was about a dubrillion times easier to just stamp a Mensa seal on it than it would have been to actually prove anything.

The kidney's owned is playing a video game. I was asked if that was a turn-table. I was all, "No, because it CLEARLY doesn't say, 'wikka wikka' anywhere." That's how you can tell if you're looking at a turn-table. At least, that's the word on the street.

So Christo, tell your kidney to stfu, and feel better.

P.S. I just went back to proof-read this, and realized that I said "piss off your kidneys" in, like, the first paragraph. I feel like an idiot for not realizing it when I wrote it. And I feel like the most badass person ever, because I made a pun about pee.

Opposite over adjacent (that's a MATH joke)

The past few days have been pretty horrible. Not horrible like I was kidnapped and woke up in a single-engine plane, where I had to jump to avoid the zombies that clearly weren't zombies upon takeoff, but then only the zombies were wearing parachutes so I had to grapple with one while plummeting to the earth in order to not end up splattered all over the ground, and then I had to escape the zombies and make it back to a safe zone only to find out that the only food left on the planet is black olives (blech), and that humans are now required to sleep on beds of nails because the tyrannical government that took over because of the zombies decided that nails, discomfort, and olives are the best way to keep the general public under control.

It hasn't been that bad. But almost. And I didn't get to see any good violence or gore (not for lack of trying, let me assure you), so actually my hypothetical scenario is way cooler about par with the events surrounding the past few days. I suppose the silver lining is that shit times help one discover who in their life isn't worth a shit  is a complete liar  is not worth keeping around. Oh, friendship euthanasia.

But, you know, you can't count on men boys anyone other than yourself to make you happy. And your dog(s), of course. Don't even think about counting on my your cat for happiness, though. If they know you're after something, they'll restrict access to it. Like affection, or the keyboard of the laptop, or the ability to walk without tripping over said cat. Fuzzy little jerks.

So today, I'm grateful. I'm grateful for my friends that are worth a shit. I'm grateful for my giant dog, despite the bruises her wagging tail leaves on my legs (seriously... I can't wear skirts to work, for fear of gasps and concern). I'm grateful for my spaz of a fox/puppy. I'm... appreciative of Rabs, and her endless entertainment and cat-snark. I'm grateful that it's 5 o'clock somewhere, because this waxing poetic bullshit HAS to be alcohol-induced (seriously, I'm not this gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that).

So the past few days have sucked more than a zombie apocalypse with tyrants and nail-beds and olives as the only source of food. But it's okay. Because alcohol is cheap I'm loved. And I have bruises on my legs to prove it.

Cake is only awesome when it has chocolate frosting.

At work, every day, I pick up the phone to make a call and hear a dial tone. Then, in my head, I hear, "I need your arms around me, I need to feel your touch." Then the bass kicks in. And then I find myself listening to that Cake song, against my will, in my OWN head.

And now I want cake, too. Thanks a lot, Cake the Band (because I would never talk trash about Cake the Amazing Dessert I Love Even Though it'll Make Me A Fattie Fat Fattie). Jerks. I hope you break up, and have to work at McDonalds asking people to biggie size things in monotone.

In Soviet Russia, brain scatters you.

Lately, life has found me insanely busy all the time. Seriously busy. So busy, ants see me run inside and come back outside and leave and come back and they look to one another and go, "Holy shit, that girl needs to take some time to just chill." And then they're whipped by their muscley ant superiors and forced to carry things 1000x their body weight up and down the anthill for eternity.


Because of this craziness (purging my house of priceless sentimental things that I NEED junk, working on training the "un-adoptable" puppy that was almost euthanized and has instead become Lucy's new sister, painting a giant squid mural and sculpting a bust of John Wayne [among other bizarre artistic pursuits], getting my shit together to further my education, working, being easily distracted while trying to do ALL of these things simultaneously...) I haven't really had anything interesting to discuss at length. Rather, I haven't been able to come across anything interesting, because when I do I just yell at it to get the fuck out of my way because I'm late for everything, always, and probably more late than normal at the moment. BUT I do have a million things to discuss briefly before I change the subject entirely and am accused of "rambling" (I don't ramble, for the record. It's called going off on a tangent. It's probably OBVIOUSLY a scholastically recognized literary device).
  
What I'm trying to explain is that the next few weeks' worth of posts may vary between two-sentence anecdotes, to entire novels about the fur ball of accumulated dog hair I found under my couch that resembles Chuck Norris' chin without the rage or tiny chin-fist. For now, however, I want to talk about something potentially tragic amazing.

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  - 

I don't think anyone will ever be able to top the excitement I felt when I realized that THE ENTIRE SERIES of The X-Files was in the instant queue on Netflix. I was certain, as soon as I stumbled upon the 1990s scy-fy science fiction goodness, that that second of realization was to be a defining moment in my life. I mean, come on. I watched sexy Fox Mulder The X-Files all throughout my childhood, and NOW I get to watch the whole series, chronologically, as an adult. Freaking SWEET. Right? Wrong. Kind of. (I mean, it still stars David Duchovny, who is one hot mo-fo. And if you disagree, I- .... Actually, never mind. No one could disagree with this).


Okay, enough drooling. Moving on. So you know when you had a show or movie that you LOVED as a kid, and then you watch it as an adult and wonder how you could have ever suspended your disbelief SO MUCH that one day in a hypothetical world where s/he exists god is sitting on a cloud somewhere and he sees something to his left and is all, "What the fuck is that?" and it's all, "I'm the disbelief of some retarded kid down there that's enjoying the shit out of the 1971 classic, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, despite the COMPLETE lack of concern for visual effects or an even SLIGHTLY realistic storyline. So if you don't mind, I'm just going to chill here for a while. Got any booze?" At which point god decides s/he's had enough and banishes this ballsy disbelief from Cloud City, but that's okay because The Empire takes it over, anyway. Thanks for the warning, Calrissian. 

Well, it would seem that that's exactly what I did with the X-Files as a kid, too. It wasn't awful or anything, but man. The pilot episode was brutal. Maybe I didn't recognize the bad 80s synthesizer because I was 6? 8? kid-aged, because if the theme song to every kid television show isn't an indication of the easily-satiated music tastes of adolescents, it'll only take 20 minutes with The Wiggles to convince you. But it wasn't just the horrendous music, either. The acting was worse than my 4th grade production of The Crazy Night Before Christmas, which was not only 50% ad-libbed thanks to an abundance of easily distracted 9-year-olds, but also included a musical number about pre-criminal Martha Stewart, as well as "Are You Ready for Some Turkey" sung to the 1995 theme from Monday Night Football (100% true story, by the way). Which also proves, yet again, that people don't develop good taste in music until after puberty. And some never develop good taste in music at all (I'm looking at you, every Country Music fan ever). 

Now, the pilot episode aired in the early, EARLY '90s, so I can cut it some slack. Bad music? To be expected. Bad clothes? I can look away (except for that long-sleeve, stone-washed, denim button down shirt. God, Mulder, what were you thinking? YOUR NAME IS FOX. DRESS LIKE IT).The poor acting I'll attribute to the Citron and cranberry being pushed to a critical mindset after being shocked by the clothes and music. However, there were some things that had me halfway between laughing at the absurdity of it, and crying because a show that held such mystery for me as a child had been reduced to an amateur attempt at a science fiction drama, complete with over-acting and a thrift-store wardrobe budget. 


The future is looking bleak for Mulder and Scully. But it has to get better. The awesomosity (and, for the record, awesomosity is, in fact, a word. Being recognized by Merriam Webster isn't the end-all be-all when it comes to legitimacy of vocabulary) of the show can't be something that only existed in my inexperienced, childish mind, right? I want to believe.


I'll leave you with this gem, straight from last night's pilot episode:


 Mulder and Scully are herded out of the ominous woods and back to their car by Cliche Town Leader and his Cliche Shotgun.
 Scully holding up something in her hand: But Mulder, what IS this? 
Mulder: I don't know, Scully. Where did you find that?
Scully: In the woods. It was ALL OVER the ground!
They exchange shocked expressions, and the scene fades out to a poorly-played, yet eerie synthesizer.


Me: Um, what the hell was that?

C.a.s.p.:Was there something in the sand she was holding?

Me: Not that I saw. I was hoping you saw something. So... it was dirt?! 

C.a.s.p.: Yeah, I mean, that's all that I saw.

Me: He was all, "It's dirt, bitch. Get that shit outta my car." Dude, Scully tries too hard. "But.. but... it was ALL OVER THE GROUND!!!!"


C.a.s.p.: Yeah she does. Wait, what? Okay, now Mulder's watch just sent them 9 minutes into the future, and he's freaking out like Doc from Back to the Future. Wow. Actually, he should do impressions. That's dead-on.


Me: You could NOT fit a flux copassitor [side note: how the HELL do you spell copassoter? copposater? cupassator?  Okay, that is not a word, even by my standards...] into that watch. Even if you could, the cool digital read-out and the calculator and the heart rate monitor clearly take up too much space. 


C.a.s.p.: I'm not impressed. My watch can do that, AND it doesn't make me look like a tool. C.a.s.p. 1. Mulder, 0. 


 So, so so very sad. I'm off to find more distractions from my distractions, in hopes that I'll end up doing something that's actually on my to-do list, thinking I'm distracting myself from said list. I'll leave you with a photo of the Sperm Whale vs Giant Squid: An Epic Battle in Sheetrock, because its awesomosity (there's that word, again) will distract you from the downfall of The X-Files.