Bush: Economy Is Getting Better

OMS: No's'not.

But we thought America "wasn't" "ready."

Couple things, pre-best-Labor Day Weekend EH EH EH EH EHVERRRRRRRR.

1. Alright with the chanting. Let the man speak. General rule of thumb: 46 consecutive "Thank-Yous" means, "Alright y'all b*tches, please shut the f*ck up."

2. We won't lie. We laughed when our hopefully-next President took the stage last night pre-music cue, and then we laughed more when we thought, "How great would it be if he grabbed the mic and said, 'Yeah. So no thanks. I heard America wasn't ready for a black president. Go eff yourselves.' "

3. How cute are Obama and Michelle's daughters?

4. Joe Biden scares us because Scranton scares us. But we're onboard nonetheless.

5. Democrats need to understand this "Applause Breaks" When the presidential candidate (we still can't believe it, either -- how great is this?) is sharing a story about Iraq War vets (And when did "Operation Freedom" become "Operation Alright Already with the War and the Sending Good People Back Way Too Many Times and Seriously, We're Better Off Now?")?

Anyway, when the presidential candidate is telling bad stories, not so much with the clapping and the YAY! BAD THINGS! Wait 'til he says, "We are better than this." Then lose your effing minds with the clapping and the chanting.

6. And oh with the chanting. What is it with America's obsession with catchphrases and chanting? We blame The Rock. But that's just because we have a weird yet friendly obsession and knowledge of all things professional wrestling. If you smell what the Ol' Man is cookin'.

7. OLD MAN IS COOKIN'! OLD MAN IS COOKIN'! OLD MAN IS COOKIN'! OLD MAN IS COOKIN'!OLD MAN IS COOKIN'!OLD MAN IS COOKIN'!OLD MAN IS COOKIN'!

8. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. So... Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

9. Vote on Nov. 4.

10. We still believe. Catchphrases and all.

YAY!

Wake up at 12:46 a.m., after almost three hours of sleep and a nightmare about monthly calendars? Check.

Wake up again at 5:46 a.m., after five more hours of sleep and a nightmare about walking into the wrong class, late? Check.

Linger at the laptop trying to figure out who the killer was from the nightmare the other day? Check.

Issues? What issues?

We say it's hilarious, this nightmaring!

Again with the articles...

Page 20 of this month's edition, the one with Anna Faris on the cover: "Australian demographers have coined the term 'freemale' to describe an unattached professional woman who behaves like a carefree bachelor. Freemales live for today, have casual sex" blah blah blah and blah blah blah.

Somehow, we don't think this new term will stick. Although we would like to get our freemale on. Now wait. No. What? No. We didn't say, "Shemale on."

What. Too soon nothin'?

Coke Kelly Rehabbed!

First off, y'all know that *we've* been doing these 90210 recaps looooooong before the 902102008 campaign blitzes started, right? Y'all know we probably are to blame for the show coming back, updated! With Tristan Wilds and Kelly *and* Brenda!

So yeah, we learned today that the Soap Net is running a 90210 marathon starting Labor Day at midnight. Hilarity shall doth ensue in these here parts! It's like Old Man Snap's ultimate dream, this blogging 90210 from the very beginning! Maybe we'll get a contract to be funny all the time and not just in our heads!

(And we know we're especially with the exclamation points this morning. Yay! Hungover as Operation Sobriety begins!).

Now, then:

OMG we haven't seen the 90210 in far too long with the working and the softballing and the running and the actual doing things with our life on Saturday mornings but HOLY ESS Kelly just got out of rehab and damnit we missed the ultrahot Coke Kelly phase with the black eyeliner and fingercuffs and all of these things and Steve is all IT'S MY BIRTHDAY and the KEG guys are all, no Steve's weirdly-cast brothers, you can't underage imbibe even though we *so* did in Season Five and the weirdly-cast brothers are all whatevs we're stealing alcohol from party-goers and Party-Goer #1 is all, "HEY! Someone stole my beer!" (and thinking, "Sh*t, *this* is my big Hollywoods break?") and speaking of goers, Donna is all, no hunky quarterback I won't dance with you because my last boyfriend totally launched me down the stairs but had a great hit with The Heights and hunky quarterback is all, whatevs, my career will skyrocket after this ridiculously overdramatic piece of Americana and Hollywoods is all, "No, not really, hunky quarterback, you might as well go try out for Brazzers or some sh*t" and Valerie is all, I think it's a great idea to bring Cokehead Colin to the party so Kelly can awkwardly kiss him on the cheek in hopes of licking one last hit from his pores and Brandon is all, Christ, it was so much more fun when *I* got to hit that.

Man, we missed this.

HAIKULYMPICS!

Li'l Shawn Johnson
Hop Hop Flip hop hop flip hop
We believe in you!

Li'l Shawn Johnson
One gold medal? Really? Wait.
Alicia Silverstone sucks.

Misty May! Kerri!
Oh with the white in the rain
Can you hug again?

Softball lost what now?
To whom now? Japan? But wait.
We won war. Ooooh burn!

Kobe! King! Redeem!
While we don't like the nickname
We do like the game.

Just how old are they
these little bouncing babies
Gold medal our ass.

USA! US!
A! USA! USA! USA!
US! USA!

RIP, LeRoi Moore

And now back to, "Next."

"I'm divorced now for 6 years. My daughters 7," she says in her profile. And then: "Im not looking for a friend on this. I know you need to be friends before anything else, I'm not wasting my time if its not their."

Were not evan nexting because of the math issue. Were more with the nexting because of the, well, apostrophe consistency issues. Although we mix up the their-type words all the damn time, mainly because we like caffeine and our mind moves pretty, um, quickly.

WAIT. She had more on her profile!

"... and yes I mis spell, I know... Ah u know what none of this matters, you see the pix if u can meet u meet. My pix suck but their in the last month. If ur pix a yr old def get newer ones."

She's talking to us. Creepy, that one.

Blame the Californication marathon.

So yeah, we consider ourself a writer. More with the talking the last few years, but yeah, writing. Good times. So in honor of the Californication marathon we just embraced, we decided to dust off some of our old musings. First of three parts. Somewhat safe for work, if it's OK to have the word "titties" on your screens.

Part 1, Quiet
He's tired, really.

Work went late, as usual. He was supposed to see a show with his friend, but the decision came down like a lightning bolt. Yes, it was Friday at 5:30. But no, no one could leave until the work was done. No debate necessary. Bail on your friend. Get a sandwich and a Diet Coke and stick it out.

So he does, even when it means coming in on Saturday at 7:30 in the morning to finish things up because there was no telling what time the project would be done the night before.

He leaves work at 9:30 p.m. and trudges, his favorite word, to the local dance club. He pays the eight bucks cover charge and pauses for a moment. Outside or inside? And then he sees her. Blonde pigtails. Enticing hazel eyes. Boisterous. Sexy. She's tending bar inside.

The decision a no-brainer, he sits down at her bar and orders a Vodka Tonic. His olive suit shines in the neon light. She makes it extra strong and called him "Honey." He melts with her words, and in the heat of the beer sign above.

He sits down and watches women's softball on the TV above -- anything to forget about work: the uncertainty, the stress, the doing too much and not getting enough back. He hears two young Latina voices next to him and offers his seat so they can sit together at the bar. They thank him and keep up the incessant chatter.

He downs his first drink, twirling the straw with the lime and squeezing the plastic cup. "Another Vodka Tonic sweetie?"

"One more," he shrugs. She averts his gaze and adjusts her tube top. He studies the light blonde peach fuzz outlining her chest in the light. She is stunning, yet a bartender in a low rent bar.

He digs this.

He sips his second drink, startled by the man who eases in on the two women beside him, still chatting.

"HI I'M JAYSON," he blurts out, eyes red, goatee weathered, t-shirt tucked in.

"I'm Laura," says the China-doll faced woman with a tattoo on her lower back, showing slightly. "This is Isabella."

"Dominican?" he asks.

"That's offensive to me," Isabella says.

They chat nonetheless. The bartender, perpetually adjusting her top and miniskirt to cover her gentle skin, floats from patron to patron, all the while averting eye contact.

"You come here often?" Jayson asks the women twice, once now and once in about three minutes, as if he never asked at all.

Jayson learns that Isabella is married without a ring, and that her husband is at a "titty bar."

Startled, the quiet man spits out an ice cube into his Vodka Tonic.

"He's where?" he says, recovered.

"At a titty bar," she says with a gentle touch to his shoulder.

Jayson picks himself off the floor and loudly calls for the bartender. Hazel Eyes' partner in his Hawaiian shirt takes care of him, and the two ladies, not yet finished with their drinks.

Jayson then tells the long story of his divorce and new girlfriend, who left him after she flew to Puerto Rico on his dime. He then stares at his Coors Light and slumps to the bar in silence.

Awkwardly quiet for two minutes, he thanks the ladies and slips away to the outside bar.

"That took balls, approaching two beautiful women like that," the man in the olive suit says to the pair, both relieved he'd gone.

"Yeah," Isabella says. "But I don't believe his story."

"Still, he came up, loudly interrupted your conversation and bought you all drinks. Good times."

The three then chat about men approaching women in bars. He shares that he prefers to sit at the bar and watch without a word, "sort of creepy, but not."

"Yeah..." Isabella says.

"Yeah to the creepy or yeah to the not?"

They laugh and sip their pink drinks.

Across the bar, a man with bleach blonde curls, double chin and huge breasts flicks his hair back and lights a Virgina Slim. His friend, with bleach blonde hair and a cross around his neck, sits down. To their right, a man with a 1982 moustache, who had been ogling Hazel, does a double take.

So does he, after downing another vodka tonic.

The man with the Virginia Slim, breasts and a butterfly tattoo on the small of his back, walks away.

"Am I an asshole if I ask if that was a man or a woman?" he asks the two women.

"We were thinking the same thing..." Isabella says.

He hangs a bit longer, ordering another Vodka Tonic from Hazel just to see the tattoo lodged between her miniskirt and tube top, which appears every once in awhile, only when she isn't fidgeting.

The girls inevitably leave and he watches the Austin Croshere highlight show on ESPN. When Hazel vanishes, he does the same and drives home.

But doesn't.

And now back to "Tales from the Class"

She was cute, the classmate, giving her lesson in front of those of us who remained, three-plus hours into watching lesson after lesson, nerves frayed, folks just trying to become better teachers before the school year starts.

This one was adorable, with her lesson on germs and how they travel. She used glitter to demonstrate and wore two li'l furry balls on her head to make her look like a cute li'l fuzzy germ.

She rocked, and the class was very much into her presentation.

When she finished, one of us -- a tall, strapping, confident-these-days anonymous blogger and real looker -- blurted out, "Hey, you gonna take the balls off your head now?"

"Probably not," she said. "My husband likes them."

She then mentioned her kids, again with the husband and back to the kids in the next 12 seconds.

Lady, we weren't hitting on you. We just wanted to say "balls" and "head" in the same sentence. Outloud. In class. Although you are really cute and going to be a really good teacher.

There ain't be no e in it.

From Yahoo! News: Ex-Bush aide sues Grammer, Walt Disney over 'Swing Vote'

First thought to come to mind when we read the above headline on the Yahoo! News? (And no, we don't get our news from the Yahoo! News. We were checking our HEY NOW love horoscope for the weekend and it just happened to catch our eye).

Now, then. First thought?

"Jesus. Someone is suing grammar on behalf of our President. Yikes."

Stop the presses.

Please. No more with the Brett Favre. It's killing us. Look! He's on a plane! Look! He landed locally! Look! That's not him it's his wife! Hey! He's in Cleveland with a #4 jersey! Look! He's growing a beard! Hey! Didn't he win his only Super Bowl of his career because of an outstanding defense led by Reggie White?

Last thing we'll ever say, ever, about the Summer o' Brett Favre: We hope Chad Pennington signs with the Dolphins and we hope the Dolphins beat the Jets on opening day.

(And yes. We know we "retired" in January. But the hopes and dreams of millions of fans weren't riding on this major announcement. Half of you didn't realize we were gone until like March).

Now can ESPN go back to its regular programming of just showing highlights and sports scores without awful catchphrases for every single occassion? Wait. Supercalifragilwhat? ESPN hasn't done that in more than two decades?

Grrrr.

That's what *we* say

So we think it's over, this Office-laden fad of blurting out, "That's what she said" whenever anyone says pretty much, well, anything.

"It's hard to reach it."

THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.

"I'm full."

THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.

"We really hope Obama sustains his popularity and comes out on top in November."

THAT'S WHAT -- OK. We get it. See? Used with anything. Used with everything. But oversaturated at this point, no? Sometimes you just have to take a phrase, lay it down gently, stare it deeply in the eyes and give it a nice, long, kiss before burying it.

Um.

Wow. This is harder than we thought.

It's on the tip of our tongue.

Christ. This is so hard.

Sh*t. We so want to do it.

F*ck.

Just one more time?

Hey! You! It's Douche Week!

Safe for work, just turn the volume down or wear stylish headphones. For the record, we love Jersey, home of George Washington's march from Trenton to our stomping grounds, and home of hilarity you can't make up and put on the YouTubes.

"Jewville," says Jen, 21, who then proceeds to, well, you watch! You see!

Yikes. Again. Again with the yikes.

Anyone else want to nominate a Douchebag Line of the Week? We think Jen wins. Big, fake-tanned, gel-laden hands down. Jen wins.

Definition of the Douche Chills

So yeah, the worst we ever did is maybe say, "Are you kidding (us)?" when Wendy the Airport Consultant stood us up like eight years ago and we were hanging up the phone and she totally heard us and our exasperation.

But no. We never did this.

Yikes.

Threefer Friday!

And yeah, we're back on the Twitter now. Check it under Awesomeness.

Stay informed!

Stay alert!

Stay alive!

Quiet time

So without going into lots of detail, we were sitting in the stall yesterday newspaperless and just looking for a timeout from the day. *Sigh* Peace and tranquility in the bath--

"(OMS)! Is that you? I can tell by those funky shoes you wear!"

Would our coworker really ID us in our private time and then proceed to --

"So I was thinkin'... what is your favorite all-time concert? Mine was Bruce at the blah blah blah sold tickets blah blah blah sat in the first row behind the stage blah blah blah..."

"Mmm-hmmm," we said, mouth agape.

He proceeded to talk for the next five minutes straight.

And then he left.

We took a deep breath and prepared to resume our day.

And then he came back.

"I guess I should wash my hands, right?" he said, before launching into a different diatribe about God knows what and wear Manny might end up. At this point, the stall wasn't even remotely fun anymore.

So he left. We washed our hands. And literally seconds later, we passed each other in the hallway. Ew. Awk. Ward. Doesn't even begin to describe the violation we felt.

BATHROOM TIME IS PRIVATE TIME!

Full disclosure

Women are *not* objects.

But we do love us some Guinness. And therein lies the conflict.

Safe for work, sort of.