Me

“You Will Never Find a More Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy.”

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Or: The Time I Went to See Extreme Midget Wrestling

There are a lot of things I have never done. So far, I’ve never sky dived. I’ve never bungee jumped. I’ve never walked the Amazon River or been swimming with sharks. I’ve never gone disco dancing.

Basically what I’m saying is: At this point in my life, my list of regretfully missed experiences may be longer than my list of unforgettably cool adventures.*

*OK, maybe not walking the Amazon River. I’ve watched the Discovery Channel. That’s how you get parasites.

So when “Extreme Midget Wrestling” was suggested, I was, of course, completely game.

Don't do it.

Because there’s a federation. And that means this is both a respectable and organized sport, guys.
Go ahead. Click for source.

And so my equally enthusiastic friend and I braved a dark and stormy night to patronize the high-quality world of the Extreme Midget Wrestling Federation.**
**Eat cheeseburgers, drink adult beverages, and – in our minds – cheer for creatively named wrestlers like in the days of Macho Man Randy Savage and Jake the Snake.***
***I maybe watched a lot of WWF wrestling with my brother when we were growing up. Maybe. But probably not – I mean, I can’t imagine my parents allowing such violence in the house.****
****Hi Mom and Dad!

These chants should be verbatim

This is how my idealistic mind pictured an evening of midget wrestling.

We did not expect this to be a very well attended event. We trusted the people of the South to have much more distinguished tastes in Friday night activities. We were certain that they would be more interested in unscripted sports played by very large men than a potentially marginalizing spectacle sport in a tiny music venue.

Boy howdy, we were so wrong.

And we waited in it!

This was the line! And it was raining!
This did not discourage us in the slightest.

Apparently, guys, Extreme Midget Wrestling is a very, very serious annual gathering in the Queen City. The women behind us in line not only watched for tickets, but they bought theirs the first day they were available. My friend and I had not yet bought tickets. And apparently we were the only ones to be so casual about this whole event.

But we were cool with that. Because the line was an educational experience. A horrifying educational experience.

LEAVE YOUR CHILDREN OUT OF THIS.

There were many complaints about Steve’s mysterious absence. Eventually Steve became my favorite person in line.

But inside was more astonishing.

Things I learned on this night:

  • Midget wrestling is super disorganized.
  • People who regularly go see midget wrestling do not like midgets, and tend to be very tall.
  • People who regularly go see midget wrestling also do not like:
    • People of other ethnic backgrounds
    • Women
    • Homosexuals
    • Once again, midgets
    • People who do not like their local sports team
    • Liberals, Democrats, or the president

There was a half time show. Apparently at a midget wrestling show, the best way to celebrate half time is to volunteer women from the audience to dance for the midgets. While the audience judges their moves. And enthusiasm. And basically everything about them.

I'm serious. I may never recover

You are welcome.

Did I mention there were children at this show? Young children? Because that happened. So, to spare you from bringing your own young children to this…highly educational life event, I have decided to provide you with the below picture, that sums up the most appropriate moments of the entire night.

From above. From floor height, the view is VERY DIFFERENT

Just in case you feel my interpretations are not accurate, this is what Extreme Midget Wrestling looks like.

A free for all spectacle brawl. With a ladder. The ladder was my favorite wrestler because the ladder did not motorboat any of the ladies in the crowd.*****
*****This happened. Not the ladder motorboating someone, I mean. The wrestlers. More than once. I know this because I was standing next to a lady this happened to. Don’t worry though, guys. She was totally cool with it.

So now I know a whole lot more about the nationwide sport of midget wrestling, as well as about the people who attend this sensational event.

And I also know that next time, I’m going swimming with sharks.

What, this doesn't look fun to you?

What, this doesn’t look fun to you?
Click for source.

Further Confessions of an Otherwise (sort of) Dedicated Blogger

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I’m very sorry, y’all. It happened again.

Ow ow ow ow ow

They let you have them at BRUNCH, you guys.

So, in the tradition of “days I forgot to write a post and am very, very sorry* about it,” today I bring you entertaining pictures of kittens:
*Ish. Sorry-ish.

Adorable

GOOOOAAAALLLLLL!
Click for source. It’s pretty entertaining, too.

Face it. Enthusiastically stretching kitten has mildly improved your morning.

Om nom nom nom

“Man guys. I am just DELICIOUS.”
^This is the real reason your cat won’t stop grooming.
Click for source, of course.

,..and all the cool things I’ve found on the Internet while I should have been writing blog posts:

Good news, guys. We can totally deliver things to space now! Because capitalism!
And yes, I would call this a “space-shul delivery.”**
**Go ahead. Sound it out. I’m proud of myself for that one. I have low expectations for myself on Mondays, clearly.

Confused babies are funny.
And apparently all fathers are just a little malicious inside. But only in a funny way. Probably.

Angry Grizzly Bears are really, really terrifying.
But also it kind of looks like they’re hugging things out when they’re really fighting. So there’s that.

This is the scariest episode of The Muppets ever.
But it’s cool. Because Shel Silverstein.

Regular programming with resume tomorrow. Happy Monday, y’all.

Yoga Is Not Easy

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Or: Why I Achieve My Best Zen Rocking Out to Journey in My Car

I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions*, but I like to think that January is a nice time to make healthy life changes.** So I talked one of my friends into investing in yoga classes with me. Because yoga isn’t as fun if you don’t drag people into awkward poses WITH you.
*Not true. I make all kinds of resolutions. I resolve to eat all the chocolate in my pantry. I resolve to talk to my cat only when no one else is around. I resolve to close my blinds before I dance around my apartment in my dinosaur costume.
It’s just that I can’t keep any of them, so I like to pretend I never make them.
**Shop all the “health and fitness deals” on Groupon.

Yesterday was our first class.

Things started well. I arrived on early***. As I pulled into a parking space, the sweet melodies of Journey started to play on my radio. So, obviously, I put the car in park, cranked the volume up to 11, and proceeded to rock out like I had a perm in my hair and was wearing spandex pants.****
***This is nothing short of a miracle. Just ask anyone who knows me.
****I really was wearing spandex pants, guys! Because yoga! I am so prepared!

I WILL NEVER STOP BELIEVING

This is actually how I dance in the car. It’s kind of dangerous to be a passenger during a parking lot dance party.

I preened as I exited the car and found the right part of the building for zen and stretching.

It is not a mystery why I'm single.

This is, in fact, the patented “Wearing Yoga Pants to Do Yoga” walk. And I do it in real life.

And as we got our mats and positioned ourselves in the room, I was strong in the confidence that I’d done this before, and there was only one guy in the class, so how much could I possibly embarrass myself?

Really? They don't?

Do words not float around you when you do yoga the right way?

So much, you guys.

Somehow, despite my efforts to end up in front of the instructor***** but away from the one guy in class, I ended up directly in front of the one guy. Which implies that I have more confidence in my yoga pants than I actually do. And then we started yoga-ing.
*****Because – let’s be honest – I need all the help I can get, you guys.

As it happens, I have no sense of balance.

I probably deserve an award.

I’m possibly the only person who can fall over while doing seated yoga poses.

No balance whatsoever. I’m not sure my yoga instructor knew anyone could be that awkward at yoga…

But she didn’t see my sweet in-car dance moves.

In short: I would probably be great at yoga if Journey was our background music.

Let’s Talk about Blondes

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Oh, oh, I see your brain whirring right away. You’re looking for the joke, right? Well don’t stifle the urge. You might break something.

Got it out of your system? Ok then. Let’s roll.

I’m blonde.* Very blonde. I have been blonde all my life. I was born with wisp of white hair topping my round pink head. I grew into a childhood mop of towhead white-blondeness that would make the Children of the Damned go all glowy-eyed with envy.
*Thanks, genetics!

SO MANY BLONDES!

In your face, you fakers. Those are OBVIOUSLY wigs.
Click for source, because shockingly I did not have this photo on hand.

Unlike my in-it-for-the-short-term childhood peers, however, my hair stayed pale white-gold as I grew. I never transitioned into sandy blonde or light brunette.** And I hated it. Every second of it. My hair was light while my friends were all crowned with dark hair. They didn’t look like snow-topped lobsters when they got sunburned. They even tanned in the sunlight.
**Though I did enjoy phases of blue, purple, blue again, red, orange, red again, orange again, black, tiger striped and blue-black.

But my parents forever told me my long blonde hair was beautiful, something enviable and precious.*** It was something I should show off and value – not every girl was a natural blonde, you see.
***Dad was not as fond of blue, purple, blue again, red, orange, red again, orange again, black, tiger striped and blue-black as I was.

This didn’t fly with me. See, blonde just isn’t awesome these days. A generation or two ago, it was a Hollywood goddess look. It was a mark of beauty.

She's so...so...shiny...

Thanks, Marilyn. You left behind a legacy of lies. Also, how does your hair do that?
Click for source.

But these days, it’s a hair color just as easily bought from a bottle. And girls who buy it in the bottle are better off, because, well, they can probably tan, too. I’m not saying blonde isn’t thought of as pretty. I mean, if it weren’t thought of as attractive, why would girls do this to their hair?

When you do this to your hair, it smells like burning

Jenna Marbles is a magical woman who knows everything about hair and boobs and tiny dogs and click this to go watch her right now.
Also I have no idea how to do this to my hair.

But over the years, there’s been a vicious campaign against blonde-hood. We’re ditzy, and slutty, and simple. Apparently. Because the color of your hair clearly shows how smart you are. Smart must be a dark pigment that lives in your brain and stains your hair as it grows out of your head, right?****
****Like, OMG, that’s so totally how science happens, right?

So very, very wrong.

Anyway, I thought hair color stereotypes were a silly thing of the past. We’re all basically even, any color can be bought in a bottle, and no matter your hair color or ethnicity, we all know that Asian girls won the popularity contest. Right? That’s what happened. Or so I thought.

I was out the other evening being an adult***** when the girls at the table behind me started talking about one of their exes. (I’m a life-long eavesdropper. I love spying on other people’s conversations, because sometimes they’re better than mine.)
*****Celebrating the fact that Prohibition ended long before I was born. Because I’m American and I respect my history. And definitely not because margaritas are better than chocolate.

The ex of one of the girls was apparently dating a blonde. And this was somehow his worst transgression. The new girl’s perfect blondeness had stolen away a man. She’d bewitched him with the yellow-y color of her hair. He’d been enchanted to move on from the emotional ruin his ex-hood should have left him in.

Because that's how witches happen

GASP! Even Samantha from Bewitched is blonde! BLONDES ARE WITCHES!
Click for source.

So, apparently, blonde devilry is still a thing, and no one has ever bothered to inform me how to do it. Not cool, guys.

OK, Fine. ONE blonde joke, and that’s it:

Three friends; a blonde, a brunette and a redhead are stranded on a desolate island. One day, the three of them are walking along the beach and discover a magic lamp. They rub and rub, and sure enough, out pops a genie. The genie says, “Since I can only grant three wishes, you may each have one.” 

The brunette says, “I’ve been stuck here for years. I miss my family, my husband, and my life. I just want to go home.” POOF! The brunette gets her wish and she is returned to her family. 

Then, the red head says, “I’ve been stuck here for years as well. I miss my family, my husband, and my life. I wish I could go home too.” POOF! The redhead gets her wish and she is returned to her family. 

The blonde starts crying uncontrollably. The genie asks, “My dear, what’s the matter?” 
The blonde whimpers, “I wish my friends were still here.”

So just remember: always let blondes go first.*
*Unless it’s in a horror movie. In which case, I want to go in the middle.

I Don’t Know What that Costs

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No, really, I don’t. I work in Marketing. Marketing tells people why they want things. We know why you need it, why you crave it, why your life simply is not complete without it.

But I don’t handle the pricing.

I have no idea what three hours of a developer’s time is worth. If you asked me, I’d say “Mountain Dew and a box of Reese’ Pieces.” But for all I know, it’s actually a 2-liter of coke and five Slim Jims. I don’t know what it costs The Company to dedicate a project manager to an assignment. I don’t even know what junk food they eat.*
*It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that I work with them less.

I don't understand.

Is this not how people are quantified?

It’s a little bleak, but I like to think of Marketing as working a long con. It’s my job to get to know you.** It’s my job to find out what your needs are, so The Company can anticipate them. We’re here for the greater good***, to make sure you get find the right products and services that will make your life better.
**The royal “you.” The one that means everyone, and doesn’t mean I specifically spend my time stalking you. I definitely don’t do that. Because I’m not a weirdo. And I have no idea where you live. Why are you closing your blinds?
***Consumerist Evil.

It's possible I don't know how jobs work

“Women who wear boots and fluffy skirts like things that can be carried in bags.”
– Factual Marketing Observation

And get paid. I have college loan debt. I am really, really interested in getting paid.

But there is an inherent problem with working in the Marketing Industry. That problem is Sales. Sales does not care what you want, or what you need. Sales cares about what you think you want to buy. Sales cares how we can bend your needs to match The Company’s products. Sales really, really, really wants you to buy what we have to sell.****
****Ok, ok, I do too. But I really want to make sure you want it, too. I have to do research and stuff. That’s why it’s called “market research.” Duh.*****
*****This is not why it’s called “market research.”

And here at The Company, Marketing has almost nothing to do with the prices of what we sell. Sales handles that. Because they’re selling it.****** It’s an obvious assignment of responsibilities.
******And because Marketing is a rabble of adorable, creative-minded individuals who probably can’t be trusted with math.

Seriously.

You never know just what might happen when you give Marketing numbers.

But this never stops anyone in Sales from asking our department complex questions about how prices are determined and issued. In essence, when tasked to determine the price of a good or service provided by The Company, Sales comes running up to Marketing and asks “How much does this cost?”

Marketing does not know. 

More importantly, not only do I not know, I cannot be trusted not to make up an answer.

Vortex eyes of doom!

Nothing The Company sells costs $7. Unless you ask me. Then absolutely everything The Company sells is sold for $7. Because math.

So, by all that’s good and right in the world, can everyone please stop asking Marketing how much things cost? We don’t know, and we don’t care. We only care if you want it, if you’ll buy it, and if you’ll Tweet about it.

I should probably just start pointing out the comic on my desk

NOPE NOPE NOPE.

From The Oatmeal. Go show him all the love, because he’s brilliant, and this makes me happy.
Click this and cheat to the comic in question.