Who Would You Rather?

In response to the question posed by Perez Hilton, I'd have to say "whaaaaa?" That's a hard one, and I'm not talking about where it counts. Although I wouldn't be excited about Joaquin Phoenix's or Mickey Rourke's lips coming anywhere near either of mine, I'm going to have to go with Mickey Rourke on this one. I've gone 26 years without getting crotch lice so far, so I don't think I want to risk it with Mr. "I'm a Rapper" Phoenix's face pubes now.

I Love My Dead Gay Son

I don't smoke. Although everyone in my family and most of my friends are smokers, my lifetime cigarette consumption is maybe a single pack. And those barely count because I was either piss ass drunk or breaking up with someone while I was smoking them.

There are a ton of reasons to be glad that I never started smoking. Obvious cancer issues. Cigarettes are expensive. I have asthma and if I'm going to exacerbate it by smoking anything, it had better be weed. So yeah, mostly it's a good thing that I don't smoke.

There are, however, two situations (barring the aforementioned piss ass drunk and breakups, that is) that cause me to wish I did smoke:

-- To have something to do with my hands, and...

-- When I watch Heathers.

For anyone who a) didn't grow up in the 80s, b) isn't a female, and/or c) doesn't think being mean is awesome, Heathers was a movie about mean girls. This wasn't the post-2000, Lindsay Lohan-style mean girl, either, the Heathers were mean fucking girls. See, back in the bad old 80s, everyone had big hair, ostentatious outfits, and knew adolescence was all about making other people feel shitty about themselves. There were no self-esteem workshops. There was no Adderall. No, there was being an asshole and doing blow, and this is why Heathers is great.

Not only are the Heathers a clique of bitches named Heather (except for Winona Ryder, who is only slightly less loveable than she was in Beetlejuice), they torture one another with violent croquet games and call one of their overweight classmates "Dumptruck." Yeah. Bitches.

So Winona Ryder's character, the only non-Heather in the group, gets pissed and starts offing her friends with the help of Christian Slater back when he was young and hot. The actual circumstances are a bit more complicated, but basically the Heathers get what's coming to them and Christian Slater goes crazy and, in a creepy pre-Columbine trenchcoat situation, tries to kill Winona and blow up the school during a pep rally.

Which Winona Ryder survives, but not before sticking an unlit cigarette in her mouth and standing at the exact perfect distance from the explosion so that the cigarette gets lit and she coolly smokes it down, knowing that Christian Slater is dead and the Heathers won't bother her anymore.

GOD. If I could guarantee that every cigarette I smoked from here on out would be lit in such a fashion, I'd have a voicebox by the time I hit 40.

Until then, I'll have to settle for Heathers being remade for Broadway. I love this just like I love my dead gay son. If I had one.

I'm Lovin' It

Although it's not something I like to admit, I do go to McDonald's occasionally. Once a month at the very most. Usually at a time when lesser females would inhale the entire freezer section of the grocery store and claim hormonal irresponsibility for that type of behavior.

While my order of a cheeseburger and small fry is never out of stock, apparently, one of the most repellent McDonald's items, the amorphous and terrifying McNuggets, can sell out from time to time. For those of us living in the 21st century, the McDonald's menu is old hat and it wouldn't be hard to just order something else. But for Latreasa Goodman, choosing another item was too much to handle. Also, the McPloyee manning the register had already charged her and offered neither a refund nor a substitution for the tasty dish.

So Latreasa did what any concerned citizen would do. She called 911. Three times.

Now Latreasa has been charged with abusing an emergency service and McDonald's has offered an apology. In the form of a free meal coupon and a refund for the original McNuggets order. I'm not sure if Latreasa is pleased with the offer, but hopefully she'll think twice before confusing reconstituted chicken parts with a life-threatening emergency.

FUCKERY

NO. Noooooo. No no no no oh hell fucking no. According to the Hollywood Reporter, Warner Brothers is in talks to remake The NeverEnding Story.

WHY, movie people? Why can't you let sleeping dogs lie? Giant, sleeping, pink, feathered, flying, wish-granting dogs called Luck Dragons? Why can't you leave my childhood alone? I may not be able to accompany Michael K., but just tell me who I have to kick in the nuts and I will fly to L.A. myself.

There were already remakes of The NeverEnding Story, okay, they were called sequels and only one of them was even halfway good and that was only because I was in love with Jonathan Brandis back in the day. Goddammit. This makes me want to hike on out to the Swamps of Sadness and just give the fuck up. Artex must have seen this coming.

To Catch A Scumbag Part 5

Finally, it is my turn to speak. I introduced myself and Kat and gave some background about our house, the break in, and the house next door. Then I complimented the chief on the great job his officers have been doing. I figured starting off with something positive was smart, particularly after what just occurred. Then the chief goes “You’re Brad Wheeling? Marianne’s brother?” Of course the answer was yes. I have known Chief Dowling sine I was very little. His wife was my sister’s best friend in high school, but I had not seen him in 25 years. Then he says “Man, I used to love hanging out at your parents house with that heated pool and going Christmas caroling every year.” Caroling was a tradition in my family in the 70’s and 80’s. I almost said “let the minutes reflect my parent’s pool kicked ass!” but I didn’t. Now I figured I was in. I said that I came here hoping the city could do something about the condition of the house next door and get the property secured. Then the chief said they had a strong suspect and that he thought they recovered some property. He said don’t hold him to that but he was pretty sure. Then the mayor said that they would call the Realtor and have the property cleaned up ASAP. That’s how you do it Al Sharpton wannabe!

So I walked out of there feeling pretty good. It felt like we were heard, our concerns were taken seriously, and action was forthcoming. So on that following Monday, January 19 we called Detective Wethington to see if what chief said so correct – they had a suspect and recovered property. We got his voice mail and left a message. Come Wednesday, there was no return call. Also, the house still had not been secured or cleaned up so I was feeling like maybe we were only paid lip service. We called the detective Wednesday and again Friday, still no call back. Then on Saturday, I heard some commotion happening next door. I jumped up and was ready to spring into action and I saw it was St Louis’ worst Realtor Tom Azar. He was there cleaning up is broke-ass sign in the yard and looked to have a handyman with him. I was tempted to go over and confront him but I figured no good would come from it. It would probably devolve into me taunting him and making fun of him, and that’s what this blog is for.

Now I felt like I was getting some action, but was still disappointed that I had not heard back from the detective. We called again on Monday and one more time that week, but still no call back. I made a plan to call the chief on what would be Monday, Feb 2. Early that morning Kat called me at work and said she just got off the phone with Detective Wethington. He had arrested 6 people in connection with the break in of our house. They were all juveniles and only 4 were old enough to be charged. Also, he said that they had all of the stuff we listed as stolen and we could come by the police station and pick it up anytime we wanted. YES! He also told us he had been on vacation for two weeks and that he was sorry no one told us that he was out. Note to all secretaries/administrators: Let customers know if someone will not be able to return your call for some time and offer to let them talk to someone else. We said we would come by on Wednesday, Feb 4.

Kat and I each arranged to leave work a little early and we met at the police station. We meet with the detective and he gives us a brief synopsis of what happened. It was indeed kids from the neighborhood, but as he put it “They were busy little dirtbags” who were responsible for a number of crimes in the neighborhood. They had come through the window and grabbed our stuff. We got back my stereo, my Sirius receiver, and best of all, Kat’s new autographed leather Dale Earnhardt Jr. jacket – a most prized possession she did not even get the chance to wear yet. There was also a pile of other stuff there. As I looked at it I realized it was a cooler we had in our garage. I opened it up and looked inside and there were some die cast cars I had been storing, some games, and a case of DVD movies and software I had. We didn’t even know that stuff was missing! So not only did we get back everything we hoped, we got a bonus of getting back things we didn’t even know we lost.

We were really happy to get out things back but more importantly, it brought a little piece of mind and renewed confidence that our government and our police departments really do work. I know that sounds hokey, but we both truly felt that. I think it helps that we participated in the process; we didn’t just sit back and wait for city hall or the police to magically solve the problem. Did you know that nationwide, only 13% of burglaries are ever solved? Kat’s keen power of observation really helped. If she had not noticed the bike, the police may have never caught the little scumbags because I would have never set up the webcam that gave them the ID they needed. We watched the house for signs of activity and called the police when we saw something suspicious. We didn’t just wait for the police to do their job.

While the police had the photos I gave them, there were two other things that solidified who the suspects were. I told you that one of the things we lost was a big jar of change. Every day when we come home, we throw any change we have in the jar and at the end of the year we cash it in. It’s typically $200. Amazing how much change you accumulate in the course of a day. Det Wethington went to all of the area Coinstar machines to check if anyone turned in that amount of change. Turns out shortly after our break in, some cashed in $198.75 worth of change. Guess who it was? The same scumbags in the photos. The icing on the cake was that on one the little scumbags’ trips to the house next door, they left a cell phone. That gave the police the names and phone numbers of everyone in the gang. This reinforces my theory that most criminal are criminals because they are stupid and lazy.

So if you find yourself a victim, take a stand and get involved. Do not just sit around and wait for the police or government to solve your problem. Proactively participate in finding a solution. Setting up the web cam was really easy. Calling the police when we saw something was even easier. In the past, I would have just assumed that if I saw something that looked odd or suspicious that I would just be bothering the police because if something was really happening, SOMEONE ELSE would call the police. I can tell you that I am now a hero in my local police department for simply getting involved and helping do the job they like doing – catching scumbags. Hopefully that will buy a look the other way when I come home at 1:30 in the morning some day.

So that’s the tale of how were burglarized and caught the scumbags who did and got our stuff back. While it sucked in the moment, I can actually say this has been a positive experience. I do have a few more details to share with you that I will put in an epilogue. They didn’t fit neatly in the story, but they are worth sharing. I also owe you the story of how I got some revenge on craptastic Realtor Tom Azar. There are also a few friends who stepped up from out of nowhere to lend us a hand too. Finally and most recently, we had another “incident” involving this little gang of scumbags that may lead to another chapter in this story. Stay tuned for the epilogue.

Put Your Boobs Away, Grandma

So the Oscars were this Sunday. So. I watched but mostly flipped the stations only stopping on ABC to see the top categories announced. And since I am a heterosexual male, I do not watch the pre/post/during fashion commentary. I did, however, come across this picture of Sharon Stone today. Yes, at one time she was the epitome of sexy. That was the 80's. There comes a time when a woman has to look in the mirror and realize her age and dress appropriately. I like seeing boobs as much as the next guy, likely more. This is just a desperate cry for attention.



She claims to be 50. You judge.

Saved By The Weave

When I was in high school, I worked at the ghetto YMCA. You know what I mean. Depending on the city's size, each city has the following YMCAs: the Ghetto Y, the Rich Y, the Gay Y, the Family Y, and the Cop Y. These Ys can sometimes overlap (for instance, the Rich Y may also be the Family Y, depending on median neighborhood income) and sometimes other Y types are involved, but overall, I think you get the idea.

Anyway, I worked at the Ghetto Y. I was the only white girl on staff who wasn't one of the directors, meaning I didn't get to hide in my office from the clientele. This didn't bother me. When I wasn't busy, I spent my time looking up the ghettoest child names I could find in the member database. This was probably the best part of my job. Thanks to my research, my coworkers and I found out that our Ghetto Y was home to children named Chardonnay, Cabernet, Alize, Lo'real (which I originally thought was low-REAL but was actually the cosmetics company), D'Jamildo, Kartwinisha, and probably half the menu at Taco Bell.

Another great part of my job was the Weave Watch. Now, at the Rich Y, women show up to work out carrying thousand dollar handbags and wearing full makeup. At the Ghetto Y, ladies show up with their hair did. They don't get in the pool and they won't use a machine that requires them to recline, but they will show up fly. And sometimes they will fight each other.

One night I was working at the front desk, where I could see the swimming pool viewing area. A few adults were sitting around while their kids did a lesson, and although they didn't seem to be talking, apparently, a few of them had once been friendly. What I understood from the sudden "Bitch, you best" outburst was that one woman had once slept with the other woman's boyfriend, who also happened to be there. Words were exchanged, threats were made, and as we watched, something flew through the air.

I didn't even see it at first. I was too busy trying to decipher what the hell was going on. What made me stop was that one woman's hair got smaller. Where there was once a lacquered plastic swoop of stuff was now a tiny little frayed nub. I looked at the floor, and there it was. Removed from the head, the weave looked negelected and sad, possibly like a discarded rag or drowned rat. The woman who had just recently been attached to the weave didn't seem to notice that the other had ripped it from her head, and both had to be removed from the Y.

While my story is certainly awesome, it doesn't compare to the woman who was saved from a gunshot by her bulletproof weave. YES. As Fox 4 News in Kansas City said, it's unbeWEAVEable!