State of the Yunyun

Forgive me for the delay, but I had to take a minute to get my mind right after this year’s State of the Union. I mean, DAYUM.

When he started off by jumping in with his warm-up before he was actually introduced, that’s when we knew this was not gonna go well. I get you, bro – you neither like nor respect Speaker Pelosi. But facts is facts, and tradition states she was supposed to introduce you. Jumping the gun like that is like Parliament opening without Black Rod. It’s not DONE. Traditions are important, much like the rule of law and fitness for the office to which one has been elected. But I digress…

So, we all know we have a Union, and it’s yuge. The yugest. The absolute yugest Yunyun the world has ever seen. How best do we celebrate our achievements over the past year and look forward to our future?

Hmm. Probably not by mocking dead heroes and insulting a fellow lawmaker (and an entire culture) even BEFORE the event began. Probably not by consistently lying like a yard-sale rug and smarmily smarming at a group of your COLLEAGUES for applauding without your permission (“You weren’t supposed to do that.”). Yeah, we know you prefer that women show their appreciation in other ways.

We most DEFINITELY don’t showcase our best of the best by going on and on and on about your “boarder” wall until your archenemy had to stop the angry grumbling her own self. Which she did like a BOSS.

But you know, it’s okay. She’s not your real mom.

I’m sure he thinks his long, rambling, dear-god-please-stop-talking hostage situation of a speech was really – you guessed it – yuge. But statistics show that, like many other things belonging to the current President, his was still shorter than Bill Clinton’s. And smaller than Obama’s.

Who’s Your People?

Good gods, I thought we were done with this months ago, but apparently not…

Allow me to begin by saying, I am 100% not here to pull a “Leave Britney ALONE!” for Elizabeth Warren.

I’m here because it’s making me fucking INSANE to see how an angry, insecure man’s racist taunts and white-supremacist-dog-whistling have led to my entire country using “Who’s your people?” as a formula for deciding someone’s worth.

FYI: In the South, we ask, “Who’s your people?” upon meeting new folks as a way of finding out more about someone’s family (like I guess rich Yankees in period dramas say they’re “Lucas Calloway, of the Boston Calloways”). “Who’s your people?” tells me where you’re from, who your parents/siblings/cousins are, and whether or not our families are related and/or have at some point insulted one another.

Full disclosure: My family identifies as being “of Native American descent,” NOT “Native American.” We do not claim, nor would we be registry-eligible for, membership in any tribal organization. It ain’t about trying to claim any sort of government benefit or hiring accommodation or what-have-you. All we are doing is acknowledging that some of our ancestors were already living in this country before the other ones showed up on boats.

And that’s a GOOD. THING.

Knowing where you come from is GOOD. Learning about history is GOOD. Acknowledging the struggles your forebears faced can only make you stronger when it comes to dealing with your own.

That’s why it breaks my heart to see Elizabeth Warren getting beat down not only by the MAGA-hat-wearing ventriloquist dummies doing the tomahawk chop, but also by the very people those idiots are attacking – the Native/Indigenous community itself.

She took and publicized that DNA test to rebuke a man who publicly shamed her for admitting to having (horror of horrors) mixed heritage (A man who, lest we forget, promised to make a charitable contribution in return for said results… Still waiting on that, aren’t we?). To make matters worse, that same angry, insecure man repeatedly referenced her claiming of Native ancestry to insult and defame ALL Indigenous peoples. Seriously, referring to ANY woman as “Pocahontas” is EXTREMELY problematic for anyone whose knowledge of history extends beyond “Colors of the Wind,” but holding a press event with Navajo Code-Talkers in front of a portrait of Presidential Bromance-in-Chief ANDREW TRAIL-OF-TEARS JACKSON??? Come on, folks.

Elizabeth Warren did what anyone would do when publicly challenged – she stepped up. She said, “Oh, yeah, bruh? I see your racist ranting, and I raise you a positive DNA test.” Did the test prove she’s a full-blooded Cherokee (or Delaware, or anyone)? No. Did it even prove her family has a registry-eligible claim to any tribe’s membership? Nope. What it proved was that what she said was true: Elizabeth Warren’s ancestry, at some point, includes people of Native American origin.

And that’s all she ever claimed. Reports that Harvard, etc. listed her as a “Native American professor” are THEM saying it. Presumably for their own reasons, such as “it looks more diverse and cool to have a “Native American” listed on the faculty. Elizabeth’s Nana was something, right?” As far as boxes she’s checked on forms throughout her life, I myself often check “Native American or Pacific Islander” (or simply “Other”) on government forms because A) I’m proud to be a product of a not-entirely-white background and B) I’m an asshole who likes to fuck up The Man’s statistics.

Seriously, y’all. The Man spends enough time breaking us down and setting up divisions to make us focus on fighting each other instead of uniting against a common cause (which is The Man). A woman who references her non-Caucasian ancestry as an introduction to how her family has dealt with hardship is not the enemy here. A man who uses that non-whiteness as a platform from which to spew racist hate and vitriol? CLEARLY is.

Elizabeth Warren saying that her granny told her that HER granny was Cherokee isn’t the problem. Donald Trump using that statement as a jumping off point to mock not just her, but the entire Native American culture? That’s the problem. Stay focused, my sisters and brothers. No matter how high an SPF you personally might need.

And as for you, Mr. President?

Where’s that check?

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.

 

 

STEP. THE F**K. BACK.

So I think it’s safe to say that by now we’ve all seen this:

Complete with the rip-my-heart-out-and-stomp-on-it caption: “Genie, you’re free.”

Hell, I shared it myself the minute I saw it — To me, it perfectly summed up the way most of us felt when we heard Robin Williams had died:  Something magical had gone out of our world.

Now, I’m seeing site after site after site criticizing this image as glorifying/glamorizing/rationalizing suicide and I have just two words for those people:

FUCK.

YOU.

Fuck you SO hard.  That image DOES NOT in any way make suicide into a “happy ending” (as the articles from such outlets as “The Washington Post” and “The Independent” contend).  It expresses our collective sorrow at the passing of an iconic film and comedy legend, who happens to have provided the voice for the Genie.

And if you REALLY want to get all nit-picky, as those articles and others do, then let’s dance:  Do NOT go off on a tangent about how the starry sky visible in the background of some of the versions makes suicide seem like a good and/or desirable outcome.  SERIOUSLY?  Dude, they’re animation stills from a movie that came out YEARS ago, there’s no sinister subtext.  If that’s really all you’ve got to back up your argument, then get the fuck over yourself.

I can only speak as one specific fan who found that this picture and the accompanying quote perfectly expressed my feelings of sorrow and loss over a man who struggled with depression and addiction throughout his life.  I have been there.  I have looked at that particular “Exit” door and chosen not to open it — BUT I UNDERSTAND THE FEELINGS THAT WOULD MAKE SOMEONE PULL THAT HANDLE.  So, regardless of how Robin Williams made his own personal “exit,” one thing is for certain:  He’s done with all that pain now.  HE’S FUCKING FREE.

Second star to the right, Robin, and straight on until morning.

The Joys of Broke-Folk Insurance

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am ABSO-FUCKIN’-LUTELY a staunch supporter of the Affordable Care Act.  I would not have any goddamn health insurance at all without it, and I’ve been there, it sucks.  And I know the healthcare industry is all fucked up, and I know there’s not enough doctors, and everything.

But still… this ain’t right.

CALL #1 (Yesterday, ’round noonish)

Voice:  “Hello, Doctor ___’s office.”

HoodyHoo:  “Hi, I need to make an appointment?”

V:  “Okay, have you been here before?”

HH:  “No, my insurance company assigned me to y’all.”

V:  “Okay, what’s your name?”

I proceed to tell her, then spell my whole real name three times, then my first name an additional three times, because A) 5 letters is too hard or B) I have a speech impediment.

V:  “And what insurance do you have?”

HH:  “Broke-folk Insurance.”

V:  “Okay, can you hold please?”

Note:  When there are this many “okays” in a single conversation, things are not going to end well.

V (returning):  “What was your name again?”

I spell the whole name one more time.

V:  “Okay, do you have your card in front of you?”

HH:  “I sure do.”

V:  “Okay, can you read me your ID number?”

I do.

V:  “And the doctor’s name on the card?”

HH:  “Doctor _______.” (um, the same name you said when you answered the phone…)

V:  “Okay…”        <long pause>    “And what’s your phone number?”

I give it.

V:  “Okay, we’re going to have to look something up on the computer and call you back.”

HH:  “Ohkaaaay….”

I am somewhat perplexed.  Surely she could look and see whether or not they took my insurance WHILE we were on the phone?  But… maybe they have dial-up, whatever.

TWO HOURS LATER, WITH NO RESPONSE

CALL #2

HH:  “Hi, I called earlier today to make an appointment and someone was supposed to call me back?”

New Voice:  “You called today?”

HH:  “Yes, a couple of hours ago.”

NV:  “Hold on, I’ll get her.”

Short hold, then a Different Voice:  “Susan?”

HH:  “No, this is Hoody.  I just needed to make an appointment as a new patient?”

DV:  “Oh, okay, hold on.”

At this point, I licked my insurance card and stuck it to my forehead because that suddenly seemed to make more sense than what I’d been doing.

Third Voice:  “Hello?”

HH:  “Hi, I needed to make an appointment?”

3V:  “Okay, hold on.”

After yet another hold, FOURTH FUCKING VOICE:  “Hi, this is Linda.”

HH:  “Hi, Linda.”

And Linda was finally able to make me a goddamn appointment… in October.  Now, granted, all I need is a new patient checkup, but she told me there’d be a 3-month wait BEFORE she asked if there was anything wrong.

And people wonder why us Broke-Folk use the ER as our regular doctor.

Anatomy of Finding Something on the Floor

1. See unidentified thing on floor.
2. Look at it.
3. Look at it.
4. What IS it? Look harder at it.
5. Look at it while tilting head.
6. WHAT IS IT?
7. Bend over to look at it.
8. Look at it lookatitLOOKATIT
9. Poke it.
10. Poke it again.
11. WHATISITWHATISITWHATISIT?
12. Pick it up.
13. Drop it.
14. Look for it.
15. Look for it lookforitLOOKFORIT
16. WHERE IS IT???
17. IS IT ON ME???
18. Flail uncontrollably.
19. See second unidentifiable thing on floor.
20. Repeat from Step 2.

The Wonderful World of Broadcasting

Y’all know what I do for a living – I do the news on the motherfuckin’ radio, bitches.  Before that, I worked as a TV news producer, and before that, I was a high school/college drama geek who was all up in plays and shit.  And that’s not even counting my brief stint as a weather girl.

Yes, I do what I went to college for.  Yes, plenty of complete strangers know who I am (and occasionally recognize me in public, we’ll get to that later), which I guess makes me some facet of famous.  And yes, all those cunts I went to high school with are FUCKING. SORRY. NOW. – as are their fat car-salesman husbands who didn’t hit this back when they were dreamy quarterbacks who wouldn’t give me the time of day.

But it ain’t all chocolate cake and porno, Hooligans.  For instance:

1.  I get shocked in the ears on a fairly regular basis.

By which I mean, pretty much every time I go to work.  Broadcasting is all about 2 things – electronic equipment and making money.  And because of the second, almost none of the first is ever properly installed or – and this is important – properly grounded.  So if I make the mistake of, say, touching the microphone while my headset is plugged in (something that is pretty much integral to my job), I get a jolt straight to the tympanic membranes.  Which hurts like a motherfucker and probably causes brain dam– LOOK, A SQUIRREL!

2.  I have literally been on fire.

And I don’t mean literally as in figuratively, the way some people (wrong people) use the word.  I mean literally as in, “What’s that smell?  Is it bacon?  No, just me.”  As in actual, no-shit-for-real flames.

Admittedly, my own experience with bodily fire came during a community theatre performance when my microphone’s wireless battery pack overheated.  But the equipment is all pretty much the same, and it happens a LOT more than you know.  You think Anderson Cooper looks like he smelled a fart?  No, what he smells is a palm-sized lump of plastic melting into his lower back.

Yes, I have scars.  No, you may not see them.

Unless you buy me dinner.

3.  I work hours that would make a Chinese sweatshop worker call his non-existent union rep.

I currently get to work at 4am to prepare for my first newscast at 6am.  Yes, the 2-and-a-half minutes of news you half-assed listen to on your drive to work takes some poor schmuck like me about 2 HOURS to lovingly craft.  And that’s just radio – when I first started in TV, I produced a 5am to 7am morning news show… for which I reported to work at 11PM.  Yeah, the night before.  My anchors came in around 3am.  Those “Today Show” fuckers who seem so giddy?  That’s because they’ve been awake and working since before your ass went to bed.

4.  I work those hellacious hours for no money.

When I first started working in TV news, I was making the princely sum of $22,000 a year.  This was 2001 (mid-August of 2001, which will become important later), and I was straight out of college, so at the time I was like, “SCORE!”  Yeah, not so much.  By the time I moved to radio, 5 years later, I was making $28,000 a year.  And when everything went to hell and I left WBGV, I was up to $32,000 — but that included “extras” like calling football and basketball.

It’s pretty much a cliche in the industry that – with a few notable exceptions – you will never make any goddamned money… but everyone will THINK you do.

Stay tuned, there’s more truth-telling to come!  Tune in again, same Bat-time, same Bat-station!

Dear Sweet Mama Gets All Motherf*cker

Those of you who have been reading me for awhile have probably built up a picture in your head of my Dear Sweet Mama — sweet, Southern and smartassed, slightly dingbatty (I was gonna put “dingy” but that sounds like my Mama is a little bit grimy like a chimney sweep)  at times but overall very Zen and laid-back.  Kinda like The Dude in a dress, if she ever wore dresses.

But there is another side to DSM, a side that is just as real, though not as brightly lit… A DAAAARK SIIIIIDE….

As the people at our local DMV (ok, they call it the MVA here, but whatevs) found out today.

SCENE:  The Counter at the DMV/MVA/Place Where They Do Car Stuff

Hoody and Dear Sweet Mama are transferring the title of the car from DSM’s name to Hoody’s name (‘just wait, there’s a whole big story behind THAT, as well — later post).  DSM is also trying to get a Handicapped placard since she will no longer have Handicapped plates.

DSM:  So how do I get a placard?

Clerk (poor, poor clerk):  You just have to fill out the application and get it authorized by your doctor.

DSM:  But I just did that to get the plate.  Do I have to do it again?

Clerk (who really should have called in sick today):  Well, do you have the note from your doctor’s prescription pad?

DSM:  I had to turn that in to get the plates.

Clerk (who should have studied harder in college so as not to have to work at the DMV):  Ummm…

DSM:  That’s just not right.

In DSM’s defense, that’s NOT right, but you must recognize that DSM was getting progressively LOUDER with every sentence, to the point where the Supervisor had to weigh in:

Supervisor (who will shortly wish she’d gone on lunch):  Now now now…

Hoody:  Mama, chill… (as y’all know, there is a deputy stationed at the DMV to keep order, and Hoody tries not to get aslant of the law, ever since the Unfortunate Incident — no, I’m not talking about the DUI, I’m talking about this.)

DSM:  Okay, okay, but that’s bullshit… mutter mutter mutter.

Clerk (who clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with):  I don’t make the rules, ma’am, I just have to follow them.

OH NO SHE DIDN’T

So Hoody had to talk DSM off the Motherfucker Ledge AGAIN, all because Clerk couldn’t shut the fuck up.

Upshot of all this is, DSM COULD have gotten a placard, since Supervisor was able to look up her records, but actually COULD NOT because she already has one.  And in NJ, you can either have a plate and a placard or just one placard.  Because fuck you, that’s why.  And no, even this didn’t help:

DSM:  Well, in New York we could have a placard for each car…

HH:  C’mon, Mama.

And they managed to get out of the office without getting arrested.  The End.

PS:  DSM says if I’m going to tell y’all this story, I also have to share her latest harebrained scheme brilliant idea.  She wants to put an ad on Craigslist offering to share pairs of shoes with a person who only has one leg — by posing as someone who ALSO only has one leg, but on the other side.  Like:  “ISO woman with missing left leg to share shoes with woman with missing right leg, size 7 and a half.  Please see attached for picture of missing leg.”

PPS:  Yes, you read that right.  “Please see attached for picture of MISSING leg.”

PPPS:  And yes, in case you were wondering, this IS why I’m like this.

I Am a Liar

It’s not my fault, but I must admit:  I lied to the entire state of New Jersey.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

You see, I went to work yesterday, under orders from The Bosses to lead with weather – even though, as they admitted themselves, it “wasn’t going to be a big deal.”  The National Weather Service was advising “little precipitation, snow changing to rain by afternoon.”

Then this happened.

Mother. Fucker.

So basically, I told an ENTIRE STATE full of easily-terrified senior citizens that there was nothing to fear… when I should have been issuing a bread-and-milk alert.  Credibility.  I hazn’t got it.

Allow me to once again reiterate for those of you who have not been following along in class:  I AM NOT A METEOROLOGIST.  I was once a “weather girl” very briefly, but that was basically tits-and-ass with a blue screen.  I HAVE NO DOCUMENTED SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE OF THIS SUBJECT.

This is why, when I worked at the TV station, I used to rail and fight so hard AGAINST leading with weather (ask Gilbert, he was present for many of the Attempted Firings of Hoody that resulted from my stand on the subject).  Weather is NOT my business, and I prefer to leave the lying to the professionals.

Thanks for listening to my rant.  I love you fuckers.

HH

P.S.  And don’t worry about me during this unexpected Snowpocalypse.  I have my trusty survival tool:

Yeah, BUDDY!

For Your Viewing Pleasure

As we all know, television viewership takes up a significant portion of my day (largely because I’m holed up in my room hiding from the increasingly-evil Concubine). So let’s all pick up our clickers and see what’s entertaining us now, shall we?

• The Walking Dead (AMC):  Duh!  Dear Sweet Mama and mine’s Sunday ritual – I have no idea how we’re going to survive the midseason break!  We’ve already decided if we ever win the lottery, we’re buying up all their ad time so they can go commercial-free.
• Witches of East End (Lifetime):  I know, LIFETIME?  Which is why I initially did not hold out much hope for this one, but it turns out it’s great!  For those of you who also watch, I’m officially Team Killian – Dash is a douche.
• American Horror Story:  Coven (FX):  the first of the AHS series I’ve watched, kinda makes me want to catch up on the others!  Of course, that fine-ass Angela Bassett doesn’t hurt – like my Dear Sweet Grandmama always used to say, good black don’t crack!
• Almost Human (FOX):  LOVE THIS!  Which means it’s guaranteed to get cancelled.  So eat up the Kennex and Dorian eye candy while you still can!
• Atlantis (BBC America):  Just discovered this on the OnDemand.  So far, I’m very much liking it and considering throwing a little at Jason, Pythagoras and (as always) Hercules (what is it about Mark Addy?)
• Breaking the Faith (TLC):  FLDS girls running away from the Warren Jeffs compound – how could I NOT be watching this???  It’s a little overacted at times, but forgivable.
• Ancient Aliens (History):  Not only do I love this show on its own merits, it also affords me the opportunity to spend time with my unwitting fiance, Giorgio Tsoukalos.  Yeah, he doesn’t know it, but that crazy-haired little monkey SHALL BE MINE (Gilbert should be fine with it, it’s all about the gyros and the geek cred!)

I will also watch the shit out of any House, Bones, Castle, SVU or what have you, especially in marathon form.  And as we all know, I’m a HUUUUUGE dork, so I also spend a lot of time gettin’ my learn on, watching History and Discovery and such for fun.  My latest forays include a 2-hour show on The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and several shows about dinosaurs/cavemen/whatnot.

Also, it’s illegal to have a platypus for a pet.  Mother. Fucker.

Your turn, Hooligans – what boob-toobage can’t you live without?