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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Plan B

I hope you all had a lovely Labor Day weekend. Ours was packed full of laughter, tears, head colds and injuries (all the things that make a family vacation special) even though our initial Labor Day plans fell through.

We had intended to do a little camping this weekend, but so did the rest of the world and unlike us, the rest of the world made reservations. I tell you, it ain’t easy being a slacker in a Type-A world. In order to distract the children from the fact that we weren’t sleeping in the woods, we came up with a Plan B and scheduled some camping-esque activities.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, kids, you are actually having fun in the wild because your parents would never drop the ball and disappoint you. (image via MGM)

First we distracted Riley, who is old enough to ask the wrong kinds of questions, with a sleepover at her BFF’s house. Riley wouldn’t care if the zombie apocalypse arrived as long as she had her stuffed animals and her BFF. Conor had a cold anyway, so we just loaded him up on cold meds and made wild animal noises. He never knew the difference.

(Note: By “cold meds” I mean ice cream.)

“I see bears, Mommy.” “That’s right, sweetie. Now eat your campfire ice cream.”

The next night we hosted a cook out and garage door drive-in movie night. It was a wild success. Our neighbors in the back house especially enjoyed the fact that we blocked the whole driveway so that they had to run an obstacle course in order to come and go, which they managed to do a record amount of times in two hours. Hubs got out his special military cot that was designed to collapse under anyone but armed combatants, so all of the kids got the chance to be thrown to the ground before eating their weight in marshmallows. Great fun.

The next day we took the kids to the wilderness with some friends, raced up and down hills, climbed some trees and rocks, saw the local wildlife and managed to eat all of our picnic food within two minutes of turning off the car ignition.

The tree people of Los Angeles.

Things got ugly during the hill races. You have to watch yourself next to a competitive marine. They will do whatever is needed to take a hill, including pile-drive their eight-year old daughter into the dirt. In Hubs defense, Riley was running in his blind spot, he had a blind spot because he was carrying the smallest child up with him as a gesture of good will and, as his daughter, Riley should have known to give him a really wide birth. She’s seen him break windows and crush door knobs for God’s sake. He’s Conan the Barbarian in a medium-sized t-shirt.

I watched the tragedy unfold in slow motion. Riley tried valiantly to catch herself for what seemed like two miles, but ultimately went down face first in a blaze of glory. She started to cry and Hubs, baffled as to why she would choose that competitive moment to lie face down and cry in the dirt, gave her the sensitive and sage advice, “you should watch where you’re going,” to which she replied, “I did watch where I was going, which was face down into the dirt because you ran me over, ya big clumsy oaf!”

Or at least that’s what the look she shot him implied.

I delicately let him know that he had inadvertently flattened his baby girl and he tried to make it up to her by power washing her wound with iodine. I’m pretty sure she’s going to stick Hubs in a Home the first chance she gets, which will soften her psychological scars.

Hubs took this picture because it looks like a turtle peeing from a giant turtle penis. I love his sophisticated sense of humor. You really can’t stay mad at a man who takes pictures like this.

By the end of the day each child had earned their very own injury, which was nice. I hate for anyone to feel left out. I declared the weekend a success and Hubs and I parents of the year.

Next weekend will be a festival of sloth in order to effectively lower the kids’ standards again, because I can’t keep up that kind of pace every weekend. I’d suffer burnout or a groin pull.

Our motley crew. By the way, Riley is not waving at the camera–she’s displaying her wound to document her suffering.

In Case of Emergency

I love this man. Without him my life wouldn't be half as entertaining.

I returned from my walk today to find this in my living room. Forgive the picture quality. That’s my hubby doing some End of the World Conditioning. He likes to be prepared for any situation. If there is an explosion of nerve gas and someone needs to take an emergency run on a treadmill, he is ready. Laugh all you want but when the Zombie Apocalypse arrives and we’re all running around in a panic, my hubby will be kicking zombie ass and taking zombie names. He also works out in a gas mask at the beach in the wee hours, so if you see someone who looks like a serial killer, don’t panic. It’s probably my hubby. Unless the person is carrying a butcher knife and plastic wrap, in which case it actually is a serial killer and you should RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!