Killers from Space (beats by The GeekSquad)

Randomocracy
Advertisements

LFMBO: Laughing my freaking Bible off: “I’m Christian and I know it.”

Ever'thing, New, Randomocracy

One night only! Live at Dr. B’s Home for Wayward Boys! (and saving y’all a trip to church on Sunday morning). It’s the Very Reverend Freddy Flow with his rendition of “I’m Christian and I know it” (to the tune of “I’m Sexy and I know it” by LMFAO:

When I walk on by, priests by looking like, damn he fly.
I preach to the book
Fisher of men with a big-ass hook, yeah.
This is how I roll, Satan get behind me, I’m in control
I clean this bod with sanctified soap
And like John Paul I’m a smokin’ hot pope, yeah

(Ahhhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

(ahhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

When I walk in the church, this is what I see
Everybody starts to blessing on me.
I’ve got passion of the Christ, and I ain’t afraid to teach it (teach it, teach it).
I’m Christian and I preach it.

When I’m at the mall, I’m preaching the ladies like Jordan shoots ball.
When I’m at the beach, I walk on the water, I’m off the leash.
This is how I roll, come on nuns, girl it’s time to go.
We headed to the chapel, but don’t get nervous
white shoes, white hat, gon’ preach some service.

(Ahhhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

(ahhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

When I walk in the church, this is what I see
Everybody starts to blessing on me.
I’ve got passion of the Christ, and I ain’t afraid to teach it (teach it, teach it).
I’m Christian and I preach it.

Check it out, check it out.
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah

Can I get an Amen y’all?
Can I get an Amen y’all?

I’m Christian and I preach it.

(ahhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

Speaking in tongues y’all!

I’m Christian and I preach it.

What American needs: A blog awards death ray

New, Randomocracy

Thanks to my snarkalicious colleague for putting a new wrinkle on the shar-pei that is The Most Perspiring Blogger Award.

Funnier In Writing

I’m a terrible person. If Jennifer Aniston had married me (which would have been creepy because she doesn’t have a penis), when we finally divorced and I posed for photos with Angelina Jolie (not nearly as creepy because I’m pretty sure she does have a penis), she would have told the press in that whiny manner of hers that I have a sensitivity chip missing. Blog success came early, along with the accolades that often accompany this lowly profession (erm, if profession means something I do to while away the hours after I’ve completely emptied my bottle of Ketel One each morning) and, as a result, I’ve been uninterested remiss in acknowledging and responding to some of the lovely awards that have been bestowed upon me by my fellow bloggers.

View original post 4,094 more words

Two-and-a-half from home: A story

Ever'thing, New, Randomocracy

Chapter 1

We, Mama and I, move Grandmama through the living room like a fragile, ungainly piece of furniture, which is what she is, what she’s become. She’s the length of, oh, a floor lamp, and the weight of an upholstered leather armchair, without the footstool. She shuffles her size seven feet forward across the shag rug of this house in which she was married (there were braided rugs over top of creaking wood floors), in which Mama grew up and was also married (the braided rugs were gone by then, replaced by a mauve sculptured pile Grandaddy put down himself), to which Mama brought me up from Atlanta every summer of the ’60s (and in 1964, I think it was, that same carpet scratched my bare back raw while I let a boy french me and touch the nubs that were becoming my breasts).

I think of the static building up in her with each slow, rhythmic shush-shush of her slippers. She leaves a track across the shag, walks like an eskimo in snowshoes. It’s a dry, cold day; brittle. Like her. The phrase “cold snap” comes to me at once: Weather that could break you in two, a stick over the knee.

We three pass the spot where I lay 26 years ago, a life ago; back raw, breasts raw, tongue raw, and I realize with a start, a static shock: I grew up here in this house, in this town, Prospect, North Carolina, this two-horse one-light no-boy burg (summer of ’64 aside, it always seemed that way). Not in Atlanta; here. Just like my Mama did, matter of fact. And hers too. You do a lot of growing in the summer, that’s why teachers always want you to write about it come fall, when you go back to school tanned and two inches taller. New jeans, new bookbag, new boyfriend.

Maybe I’m still growing up, right now, in little movements like Grandmama’s shuffle steps; building up a charge with each movement, trying to ground myself, reaching out only to get shocked: Forty’s not too old to grow, after all. Sometimes a step (graduating from college, for instance–the first in Stoddard family history), sometimes a leap (marrying Lamar), sometimes a stumble (Lamar leaving me)–but forward, always forward. The only direction life goes. No rewind button.

Everything’s been forward for this family, for these girls, these 20-20 girls, as me and Mama and Grandmama have always called ourselves. That’s because there’s 20 years between Grandmama and Mama, and 20 years between Mama and me. I broke the chain–Jenny’s only 13. Now Grandmama’s broken it too–Grandmama whose sickness is to forget everything.

In a different family, for a different person, that might be a cure. But not us, not us 20-20 girls, us forward-movers and shakers, us up-and-comers, us go-getters. Everything’s always been up for us. In all the pictures in all the photo albums, everybody’s smiling, and they should be. Everything went right. Well, except for Lamar. And except for Johnny–Mama’s second husband, till he ran off too. And okay, except for Mama’s first husband–my daddy–who died in Korea. Who never knew me–and vice versa too. And except for Grandaddy, who died in the snow. And except for my ’64 boy, who stuck his sticky tongue in my mouth, who said he’d go steady and a week later was frenching Mona Bridges in the plain light of day. Why do I remember her name? Why don’t I remember his? Well, why should I? Like I said, Forgetting cures. If that’s so then Grandmama is well, Mama’s so-so, and I’m on my death-bed, laid up with a bad case of the past, and the future coming on strong to seal my fate.

Of course, we’re all sick with that–with the future. All us 20-20 girls, all us human beings. It’s the future that kills us, but it’s the past that makes us sick.

The Most Perspiring Blogger Award!

Ever'thing, New, Randomocracy

Today, I hereby nominate all my fellow bloggers for the newly inaguarated inauguarated developed “Most Perspiring Blogger” award!

This goes to honor those bloggers who work hard for the money–so you’d better treat them right.

The Most Perspiring Blogger Award is sponsored through a generous grant from VerySweatyBetty.com, the hyperhidrosis support group.

If you choose to accept the Most Perspiring Blogger Award, there are a few things you are required to do, to pass it forward. According to the requirements of the award you must:

  • Thank the one who nominated you (i.e., me)–sacrificing a chicken will suffice.
  • Add a picture of the award  (the R or NC-17 versions) to your post
  • Nominate every other blogger you’ve ever read, seen, heard of, or could imagine (e.g., alien bloggers, bloggers reincarnated from past lives, dodo birds, etc.)
  • Keep “awarding” them until they relent.
  • Share 7 random slanders about your significant other (consult with your attorney first to make sure these won’t be admissible in court)

To see your fellow awardees just click here…
http://www.sweatblock.com/sweaty-singers-and-performers/

I hope you enjoy the award and accept it and pass it forward.

Oh, and one more thing: “UUNNNHHHHHH!!!”

Truth in advertising: Subdivision names we’d like to see

New, Randomocracy
  • Degradation Lakes
  • Segregation Hills
  • Olde Town Gallowes
  • Deforestation Glen
  • Hidebound Park
  • Felled Pines
  • Whispering Sluts
  • Crack Grove
  • Adulterers’ Square
  • Graffiti Corners
  • Dog Crap Acres
  • Fisticuffs Crossing
  • Gangbangers’ Lane
  • Fellatio Piazza
  • Tarmac View
  • Cloverleaf Corners
Any others?

Debbie Does Dickens

New, Randomocracy

From the creators of “The Devil’s Dictionary in Miss Jones” and “8 ½” . . .

When the prolific and the profligate meet, sparks fly! A foreign exchange program brings our well-spoken Londoner, Charles “Big Pip” Dickens to Texas, where his host family offers a veritable smorgasbord of Little Debbie snack cakes, great expectorations, and other gustatory delights. Our heroine, aka “The Tail of Two Cities (Dallas/Fort Worth),” puts her postgrad work in literature to good use. “Just close your eyes and think of England,” and soon the Union Jack is flying in a stiff breeze.

Thus inspired, Big Pip reworks his earlier oeuvre into “The QuickieWick Papers” and “Brick House.” Meanwhile, he and Debbie have at it with Miss Havisham, Fagin sees how the other half lives (and gets his name changed), The Artful Dodger can’t avoid a fate worse than death, and Tiny Tim loses the cane.

A Mark Goodson-Bill Todman Production, with funding from the Dallas Convention and Visitors Bureau.

This film not yet rated–vote now!

Vote for my mashup: “Debbie Does Dickens”

New, Randomocracy

I’m one of the finalists for this week’s Weekly Question of the Week, from the redoubtable Byronic Man, so give me some voting love! The contest is for the best pop culture/classical culture mashup–my entry, “Debbie Does Dickens.”

Vote now!

A Beagle By Any Other Name…

Randomocracy

My pet, my self…

The Byronic Man

People get kind of silly around babies and pets, don’t they?  Babies?  Fine.  All bets are off.  It’s like some biological imperative to let the baby know we’re not a threat by acting ridiculous.  Pets, though, people fall in to two rigid camps: ‘Getting Cutesy With Your Pets is Idiotic’ and “Mr. Barkington doesn’t see anything wrong with being cute with pets, does he?  No, he doesn’t!  No, he doesn’t!”

For example, of course, there is “talking for the animal,” which I suspect is pretty common. You know, you say to my beagle, Clancy, “Do you want to go jogging?”  Then, while he sits there wagging excitedly, you respond in your patented ‘Clancy Voice,’ “Yeah!  Yes I do!  Let’s go jogging!  I am a jog-gin’ dog!”

Hypothetically, of course.  I would never engage in such silliness. I generally address my pets with a curt nod.

Some people – people far

View original post 194 more words

Eleventh Dream Day

Randomocracy

Oceans of Elevens… good heavens.

topiclessbar

It takes me time to respond to things.  Send me an email?  I’ll get back to you in a few weeks.  Or a month – it’s difficult to pinpoint.  Post something on my Facebook wall?  I might never ‘Like’ or respond to it.  Send me a bill?  You might as well already include the late fee in the total.

This said, it should come as no surprise that I was tagged by the beautiful, awesome, and amazing Renxkyoko about two weeks ago, and I’m just now doing my tag response blog.  This tagging thing is kind of like the Versatile Blogger Award a little bit…speaking of which, does someone ever actually win the Versatile Blogger Award?  Because that would be a huge deal, I think.  Okay, maybe it’s not the National Book Award, but I think it’s more impressive than, I dunno, a Newberry or a People’s Choice Award.  Anyhow…

View original post 853 more words