Category Archives: Jesus and Pals

Stone Tablets, Aisle 10

MISSED CONNECTIONS

To the crazy bitch behind me in line at the self-checkout:  You know who you are.  You were standing so close to me I feel like we’re dating now.  Seriously, you were all up in my bubble, man.  Don’t act like you don’t know what you did, who raised you?

Oh, and I guess your mom must be coming over for dinner – I noticed you got that wheat-grass-gluten-free-organic-locally-sourced bullshit pasta she likes.

My parents were right.  I never should have married you.

But seriously, it’s obviously time for some new Commandments up in here.  I mean, no offense to Ol’ Mo’, but the Patriarch just never had to deal with shit like this, so I present to you:

THE COMMANDMENTS OF SELF-CHECKOUT

1.  THOU SHALT NOT STAND TOO CLOSE TO OTHER PATRONS

Really, I think that woman got me pregnant, that’s how close she was.  We’re all grown folk, we all know the rules about personal space – every culture has its own, you know yours, FUCKING OBEY THAT SHIT.

And recent immigrants?  You get 6 months to learn the rules in your new country.  After that, you’re just being a dick like everyone else.

And to top it all off, Standy McTooClose starts scanning her shit before I had even picked up my shit!  Which brings us to…

2.  THOU SHALT WAIT THY GODDAMN TURN, THOU HEATHEN

Yes, I know self-checkout is intended for the speediness, but jeez Louise.  I shouldn’t be ripping off my receipt in mortal terror as you start slinging soy milk in my general direction.  Let me clear the bagging area, for fuck’s sake!  It’s like the water slide – I have to get out of the pool before they can let anyone else come down.  Otherwise, someone’s gonna get hurt.  AND IT AIN’T GONNA BE ME.

And while we’re on the subject…

3.  THOU SHALT NOT BRING FULL CARTS THROUGH THE SELF-CHECKOUT

I’d say, 15 things.  15 things is how many you can reasonably have.  Maybe 20 if you have someone with you who can bag while you scan, but you’re fucking pushing it, Janine.  15 THINGS IS PLENTY.

Oh, and every 5 coupons takes 1 thing off your allowance.  Because you know why?

4.  THOU SHALT NOT HOLD UP THE LINE

Speediness, remember?  I’m not talking about someone’s ol’ Pop-Pop who’s baffled by the newfangled machinery – although I do think that’s what regular checkout clerks are for, but then, how would he learn?  But when you think you’re gonna roll your ass up to the self-checkout with an entire Amazon Rainforest-worth of coupons, um, 2 things: 1) You have clearly exceeded your 15-thing allowance; 2) I WILL END YOU.

C’mon, man, you KNOW at least one of those motherfuckers is gonna jam up the slot and then the girl is gonna have to come over here.  NO ONE WANTS THE GIRL TO COME OVER HERE.

This is also why…

5.  PRODUCE IS FOR ADVANCED CUSTOMERS ONLY

Anything you have to weigh and/or look up is GOING TO SLOW DOWN THE LINE.  That happens even when the actual checkout clerk does it, it’s adding an extra step to the process so it naturally takes longer.  So, if you’re at all overwhelmed by the Brave New World of Self-Checkoutery, play it safe and take that shit to a human clerk.

And if you DO deem yourself ready to look up your own veggies, be advised.  You get TWO.  That basket full of 10 different things for your famous Arugula and Assholes Lima Bean Salad?  NO.  You put that nonsense back and you buy salad in a bag like decent people.

 

 

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Filed under I Rule You, Jesus and Pals, La Vida Loca, SCIENCE!, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

Iiiiiiiii-KEA! (Gesundheit!)

Alright, it’s confession time in the Hoody Hoo Household again, Hooligans.

mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, Lord, I am not worthy to receive thee…

My name is Hoody Hoo… and I hate IKEA.

Hear me out:  That fucking store, besides being the absolute antithesis to originality in decorating, is also a goddamn roach motel.  They get you in there and you CAN’T.  GET.  OUT.  You have to follow those motherfucking footprints and/or arrows wherever the Overmind cares to take you, no matter what you actually came to shop FOR.  And those so-called “shortcuts?”  Fuck you, IKEA, those take me further out of my way than if I just walked through the entire store.  ALL I WANTED WAS THE BATHROOM!

But really, the only reason I ever even darken their door is the Swedish Meatballs… BUT those Swedish bastards have made sure I can’t get to the Cafe until I’ve walked through EVERY.  DISPLAY.  EVER.  And don’t go thinking you’ll slip past ’em by going to the Food Stand outside the checkout — those motherfuckers have pizza and shit — which I can get AT HOME, IKEA!  Grrrr…

I do not appreciate this, Sweden.  Your duplicity has been duly noted.

In fact, as my contractor whose brother lives in your fair country told me:

“You know what they call IKEA in Sweden?”

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*
*
*

Wait for it

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“WalMart.”

Watch your asses, Sweden.  You’re one recipe away from complete obsolescence.

P.S.  Last trip, The Concubine bought IKEA-brand drinking straws.  IKEA’s straws suck.  In that they do NOT.  Suck, that is.  Fuck you, IKEA.

 

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Filed under Getchore LEARN on!, Jesus and Pals, La Vida Loca, My Secret Shame(s), WTF???

Here’s Where It Gets Tricky

Okay, so everyone now knows the general Rules of Crap Films and Television.  But what about the wastes of celluloid that DON’T fit the categories?  Never fear, there’s always a way to tell:

WHAT THE FUCK AM I WATCHING (pt. 2)

1.  You’ve watched for 10 minutes.  Will there be a Christmas?

  • YES.  You are watching A Big-Budget Holiday Comedy.  Vince Vaughn/Ben Stiller/Tim Allen will learn a valuable lesson through the healing power of the holiday season.  The End.
  • NO.  You are once again watching a Hallmark movie.  Have you learned nothing?
  • There is a HOWEVER:  If there WILL be a Christmas, but you’ve never heard of any of the actors, this is ALSO a Hallmark movie.  Be on the lookout for John-Boy Walton and his mole, they’re in a lot of these.

2.  Is there a Sad Clown and/or a Cigarette left smoking in An Ashtray?

 

  1. YES.  You are watching A Foreign Film.  Set your house on fire and join the Witness Protection Program.

 

  • EXCEPTION:  Is there ALSO an Unattractive Naked Person who used to be hot but is now in no possible way anywhere near hot?
  1. YES.  You are watching An Oscar Contender.

All that being said, I’d like to return to Question #1 for a moment.  Why the fuck have I never seen a movie in which Endearing-But-Poverty-Stricken Children/Talking Rodents/A Kindly-But-Misunderstood  Stranger has to save HANUKKAH?  I mean it.  I want to see little Jewish mice frantically working to repair a clock so that Hanukkah can go on as scheduled.  I want to see a Nice Old Man teaching a small town the symbolism of the eight nights.  So far, the closest thing I’ve found is Shari Lewis and Lamb-Chop starring in a video about the Passover Seder, and that’s just fucked up on its very own level.

No one ever saves Kwanzaa, either…

 

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Filed under At the Movies, I'm Confused, Jesus and Pals, WTF???

Two Kinds of Hell

Well, as we all know by now, if the Christian version of Hell actually exists, I?  Is going to it.  But now, I may be adding the Jewish version (Sheol?  I think that’s it, but Catholic education can be rather sketchy in that area).  I present my latest money-making scheme humanitarian enterprise:

Hoody Hoo’s Help for Hebrews.

Shut up!  Having moved to an area with a lot (and I do mean a LOOOOOOOOOT — as in, everyone at the DMV and the library and whatnot except me and Dear Sweet Mama) of really really Orthodox Jews (the ones who wear all black and have the curly sideburns — also known as “Hairdo Jews”) I think there’s a market being overlooked.  Y’see, your really really Orthodox Jews aren’t supposed to do any kind of work on the Sabbath – i.e, sundown on Friday until sundown on Saturday.  And “work” means ANY work — from balancing the checkbook to mowing the lawn to (for the really really REALLY Orthodox) opening and closing doors.

I, being a gawddamned heathen, can open my doors WHENEVER.  THE FUCK.  I WANT.  Not that I’m sitting home nights doing that, but if I wanted to, I could, and Jesus wouldn’t get mad.  So, I will hire myself out to go around to Jewish households on Friday and Saturday, doing crap they forgot to do until it was too late.  Although our new oven came with a feature called “Sabbath Timer” so it would turn on the oven FOR you Saturday evening, but then who’s gonna get that roast OUT for you, Moishe?  Better call Hoody Hoo’s Help for Hebrews.

And I’ve already begun my international incident good works.  Just yesterday, I was in the convenience store and one of the middlin’-Orthodox Jews came up (he was wearing all black including a black yarmulke but he had no sideburns).  And he wanted the Pakistani clerk to give him a quarter for his 2 dimes and a nickel when he opened the cash register to take my money.  But I was using a debit card (cash money is SO 90’s), so he would have been out of luck, but I remembered I DID have some loose change in my pocket.

Unfortunately, I had already begun the quarter-giving process when I remembered:  He can’t touch me, I’m unclean.  But I (sort of) saved the day by giving the quarter to the Pakistani clerk, who then gave it to the quarter-needing Jew, who then passed the 2 dimes and a nickel back to me, again via the clerk.

Although, I am a little pissed off now.  I mean, apparently that whole interchange means a possible Muslim is less unclean than I am, simply because he’s male.  I get it:  goyim, shiksa even, soooo unclean.  And I was on my period, so triple-threat.

But how could he have known that?

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, GENIUS!, I'm Confused, Jesus and Pals, La Vida Loca, WTF???

In Which Hoody Is Quite Wroth

Or, as we say here in Wes’BYGAWD Virginny, I’m mad enough to eat nails and shit barb wire or something equally as odd.  I MEANT to use today’s blog to pass along an award from the beautiful and talented Misty, but that will have to wait until tomorrow because I. HAVE. A. RANT.

Those of you who follow me on teh Twitter may have already seen last night’s update:  “Hey, lip-service Christians: Read your fucking bracelets.”  What would Jesus do?  I don’t claim to know His plans for the day, but I do know this: HE WOULD NOT MAKE DEAR SWEET MAMA CRY.

You fuckers are DEAD.

Now, I don’t yet know the whole story because DSM and The Concubine are currently in some god-foresaken (and yes, I do mean that) part of Wisconsin where their cell service is shitty, but I know this:  Last night as I lay sleeping, the phone rings and I look at the clock.  It is about 9:30pm, and I’m stumped:  Everyone I know knows I try to be asleep by 9 at the latest (3am gets here EARLY!), so they wouldn’t be calling… and it’s too damn late for it to be a telemarketer or that goddamn Bill Clinton, so who is it?  So I answer.

It is Dear Sweet Mama. And she is CRYING.

Now, I had called her earlier and gotten no answer, so I just figured, shitty cell service, no biggie.  And her voice mail didn’t pick up, so I couldn’t leave a message.  So she calls me back to make sure I wasn’t calling about an emergency, and then she just breaks the fuck down.

They’re allegedly supposed to be at some kind of CHURCH conference with supposed-CHRISTIAN folk singing Kumbaya and shit.  AND THEY HAVE BEEN SO MEAN TO DEAR SWEET MAMA THAT SHE IS CRYING.

WTF, Christians?  Didn’t your god die for your sins?  Aren’t you supposed to love thy neighbor?  DON’T YOU THINK BEING A MEAN-SPIRITED LITTLE SHIT IS GONNA PISS JESUS OFF???

Sweartagawd, if I can get my hands on these people, God won’t have to worry about the whole “vengeance is mine” thing.  I got this one, Lord.

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, Jesus and Pals, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

It’s NOT Me!

Ha!  Gots me some new bitch-don’t-be-crazy drugs and in doing so, I have discovered…

MY PHARMACIST

IS TRYING

TO MAKE ME CRAZIER.

Seriously, I dropped off the prescription for the extended-release Xanax (which is very cool, by the way, I no longer have ups-and-downs with the anxiety and everything seems slightly… fuzzy).  So I go back to get it and the little clerk gal says… wait for it…

“There’s no way you could be pregnant, right?”

WHA-WHA-WHAAAAAAAT?

I believe my answer was somewhere along the lines of “Christ, no,” but really?  REALLY?  This is what you ask the person picking up her crazy pills?  The same kind of pills I’d already been taking, btw, just a different formula.  Oh, yeah, I’m calm now!

But wait… there’s more…

Then a little later, the actual pharmacist gal asks me “Are you still taking the Prozac?”  Fuck yeah, I’m still taking the Prozac, do you see me on a clock tower?  But when I asked why, she says, “Oh, I just wanted to make sure your doctor knew you were taking these together.”

Um…

They were prescribed by the same doctor… to be taken together…

Am I gonna die?

Then Dear Sweet Mama chimes in with, “This is getting weird.  You better make sure they gave you the right pills.”  NOT HELPING!

Anyhoo, the pills are working, I’m much better now, and I really hope those were the right ones, ’cause I likeses them.  A LOT.

See y’all Monday with a rundown of the Completely-Shitfaced-Leg-of-Lamb I’ll be making for Saint Patrick’s Day (to compete with Laura’s Drunk-Ass-Pig)… Slainte!

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, I'm Confused, Jesus and Pals, La Vida Loca, White Man's Medicine, WTF???

Drag Queen or Tomboy?

So we all know Marceau is a drag queen cat, but the latest evidence doesn’t really fit with his previous behavior...

Before it got so freakishly warm again (don’t worry, it’ll be cold again next week), I was using the living room fireplace a lot because A) the heater broke and B) it’s pretty.  And all the kittehs love fire (Ti-Jacques a little TOO much), so all was well in the Hoo Household.  Until… Monday.

Marceau comes trotting past me and for some reason, keeps his head turned to the side so I can’t see his face.  My Mama-senses immediately went off, so I stalked him down and grabbed him, only to find his normally white mime-face was now gray.  The crazy little bastard had covered his face in fireplace ashes!  One paw was gray, too, so I know exactly how he did it — he patted it on like face powder!

So far, the theories include (but are of course open for discussion!):

  1. Marceau is a hitherto unknown Catholic cat, and Cat Ash Wednesday is later than people’s… and on a Monday.
  2. (This is DSM’s theory)  He has grown tired of looking like a mime and is trying to do blackface instead.
  3. He is some kind of ninja commando.

So what do y’all think?  So far, the only thing I’m sure of is that fireplace ashes are kinda greasy or something and won’t wash off… oh, and that cats don’t like it when you rub their head with a wet washcloth.

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, GENIUS!, I'm Confused, Jesus and Pals, Kittehs!, La Vida Loca, Things I Don't Know, WTF???