Tag Archives: Twitter

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The Intellectual Apocalypse

There has been a lot of media focus of late on the zombie apocalypse. They’re in the news. They have their own books and movies. It’s only a matter of time before a zombie has a star on the walk of fame. I understand it. Naked face eaters are sexy.

Green, anorexic zombies serving brain Jello–also sexy. (image via dreamstime)

But I’m here to tell you that western civilization faces another threat, a threat more subtle and less reliant on bath salts, but just as dangerous. I’ve seen the signs: signs that western civilization is declining from intellectual atrophy as we speak.

The following all happened in one day in the space of an hour, a sure sign that disaster is upon us. I present these events to you with the advice that you take them seriously and start working on your family bunkers.

Last week on September 11th I felt strangely sad and full of foreboding but I couldn’t figure out why. The date didn’t occur to me until I logged on to Twitter and saw the Arby’s retweet “May we never forget #9/11” on my feed. That’s right, motherf***ing Arby’s, the makers of the roast beef sandwich (which, by the way, I ate by the ton in the fifth grade when my mom was sick in the hospital) remembered 9/11 but I did not.

Keep in mind that on the day of the original tragedy Hubs and I were living just outside of Boston (where two of the flights originated) and that Hubs is a cop and a marine with a background in anti-terrorism. I’ve seen more footage of the attack and terrorist attacks in general than your average housewife and I hear about the subject. Every. Day. Whether I want to or not. September 11th is a big freaking deal in our house. And yet a fast food restaurant had to take the time between batches of curly fries to remind me of the day’s significance via Twitter.

It’s official, Paris Hilton and I get our news from the same source. Yay. I’m so hot right now.

“Terrorism makes me so sad. Like flying coach. Not a coach bag. But coach in an airplane. With the poor people.” (image via dreamstime)

A short time later I heard someone use the word “ludicrous” in a sentence. The sentence didn’t make sense to me because I automatically assumed they were referring to the hip hop artist Ludacris. It took me a disturbing amount of time before I realized that they were using the actual word “ludicrous” as it was originally intended. Sure I have major street cred because I know the coolest hip hop artists, but I’ve forgotten the original meaning of words and that is bad. Not bad as in cool, but bad as in…bad. Word.

“I might be Ludacris but you are ridiculous.”

Not ten minutes later, I heard on the radio that though most of the television stations had observed a moment of silence in remembrance of the victims of 9/11, NBC chose instead to run an interview with Kris Jenner regarding her boob job. Because that’s important. The boobs of a reality television mother. I’m sure that NBC was worried the Kardashians might suffer from media under-exposure. And they just wanted to continue the reign of excellence they enjoyed during their coverage of the Olympics.

Remember the promo for the new comedy Animal Practice that featured a monkey doing gymnastics, which they ran right after discussing gold medal winner Gabby Douglas? It’s hard to match those standards every day. You’ve got to throw down with some Kardashian mammaries during a 9/11 memorial to make that happen.

“Don’t forget that my @ss was on CNN.” (image via dreamstime)

That’s Ludacris…I mean ludicrous.

Come to think of it, maybe NBC just missed the Arby’s tweet on their Twitter feed and forgot what day it was. Or maybe I’m secretly the president of NBC. I should give myself a raise and then fire myself, but with a nice severance package to tide me over until I get hired by another classy station…like MTV…or at least so I have enough money to stockpile water and toilet paper before I completely lose all brain function and forget what those items are and then end up thirsty and dirty-@ssed during the intellectual apocalypse when we all become cannibalistic and start eating Kardashians…

Judging by my sentence structure it may already be happening.

I call dibs on Kim!

“Actually in the intellectual apocalypse, I will dine on that perfect b!tch.” (image via dreamstime)

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Crippled Hamster Mentality

I woke up the other morning feeling vaguely insecure. Out of sorts. Unworthy of all good things in the universe. Like a giant sack of poo. You get the picture.

Something was gnawing at me and it started with a dream I’d had that I was trying to save a crippled hamster in a cow field.

I pay attention to my dreams. Often my subconscious sends me messages because my conscience is too busy making snack foods to notice something is amiss. The dream seemed harmless enough, but the more I thought about it, the more that little crippled hamster really bothered me.

The crux of my issue with this dream came down to a simple question: What did the crippled hamster symbolize?

Was it me? Had my own psyche cast itself as a disabled rodent? Was my ego that small and fragile? And furry? Was my brain the carrier of the Bubonic Plague? Seriously, what was wrong with my head??

Meet my psyche. In times of stress it’s known to chew off its own hind end. (image via Flickr & Marina Avila)

You never imagined hamsters were this upsetting, did you? Let’s just say that hamsters and I have a troubled history.

Then I got on Twitter and discovered I was down one follower. What?? @buycheapgold abandoned our Tweelationship? I thought we had a meaningful connection. Nothing lasts these days.  Twitter just makes me feel cheap and alone. Like everyone is funnier and more popular than I am. And better dressed. And less flatulent. Whatever.

I was still coming to grips with my social media insecurities when I noticed that everything smelled and tasted like metal. Being the mild hypochondriac I am, I immediately went down my list of possible causes: a stroke, a brain tumor, toxic mold, a psychological break caused by being terminally unpopular. None of the options seemed particularly appetizing. Or accurate.

Then I sneezed and sprayed myself with bloody snot and realized that I’d merely entered the stage of sickness where my sinuses bleed. Obnoxious but not deadly. I would live! And yet my realization brought me no joy.

I was tired of feeling so negative. I like having a sunny disposition. I was raised by Midwesterners. We don’t tolerate weak, insecure people very well. You can be a giant nutball in my family but you can’t sit around and feel sorry for yourself. That accomplishes nothing.

In the Midwest whiners turn to dust and are trampled by cows. (image via Flickr & Paul Williams)

To quote Tom Sizemore in the movie, Black Hawk Down, “Everyone’s been shot.”

Subtext: “Everyone is in the same boat, you giant p*ssy, so stop complaining.”

That pretty much epitomizes my family’s feelings about whining.

So I met up with my yoga buddy in an effort to counteract some negative energy. She picked out a routine for the express purpose of ridding me of bloody snot, insecurities and crippled hamsters. It involved a lot of back bends and headstands.

What I would look like if I could do a headstand. And was 20. And in the French Riviera (image via Flickr & Lululemon athletica)

I think the theory was that the brain damage that followed being upside down for so long would lead to bliss. Or the weight of my brain would crush the crippled hamster and make it stop bothering me. Either way, it was a win/win.

Only the headstand also jarred my sinuses and when I righted myself I was greeted with a great gush of bloody snot on my mat. There very well might have been a crippled hamster in there too. It was hard to tell.

I don’t usually like to display the contents of my psyche or my sinuses for an audience without the internet to buffer my vulnerability, but oddly enough I did feel better about things. I literally dumped my baggage on my yoga mat for the world to see and lived to tell the tale.

I think that’s what yoga is all about: breathing through the tough patches and honoring where you are. And looking good in yoga pants.

“I found Nirvana and a tight butt.” (image via Wikipedia)

So this is where I am right now and it’s okay. I will embrace the crippled hamster within. And feed it a grape. Namaste, crippled hamster. Namaste.