Critical Acclaim

Ever watched a movie that †suh-hucked, after reading its critical acclaim lie its arse off to you on the back of the case there in the aisle at Hollywood video? Yeah. Well that's because some gomer annointed him/herself as some form of critic. Anyone can find something nice to say about something that blows. My friend "Franco" told me I looked great yesterday. I had just attempted to lance about 15 bumps on my face, many of which weren't initially acne but nobody ever has to know that, since they look just as nice as scabs that WERE zits at one time. Plus my roots are grown in which helps when I'm rocking my famous Original Barzee. Case in point: anyone can dub oneself "critic." So I decided today that I can be one. Except I will avoid telling urchin-women that they look fine. (Thank you, J).

Stuff I Think (PS: that was the name of my original geocities site waaay back in the day):

My review of Zicam: It pretty much works. I've used the nostril-swabs. Good. I've used the pump thing. Good. I've used the chewable dissolvable tablets. Just great. And this time, I tried their little tribute to Starburst. FAIL. Chew it three or four times, then gag the thing down. It will help shorten your cold, but some may prefer having a cold to gnawing on a wad of baking soda. I'm now realizing that I've spent an airline ticket's worth of money on Zicam products that appear to be fighting, not beating, this cold. Nevertheless, I get colds a lot, but they only last a day.

My review of Lady GaGa: On paper and in elevator conversation, I of COURSE hate her. In real life, and the secret place in my head (aka: on this blog), she is a guilty pleasure. First, she invites several fun ways to be mean about her name, like Lady GuyGuy, and Lady Gag. Sure, her first video bored me, because it felt like all the people from that old Fiona Apple video woke up from their zima-comas, dropped some ecstasy, stumbled across the millennial divide and the neighbor's fence, and into Lady Caca's first video to see her hump some inflatable dolphin in a kiddie pool. However, her music is fun. Except that the one new song she's pimping out right now. Her delivery of the word "LOVE" comes out "laaaahhhv," which is the electronica world's version of the blogosphere's embrace of "luurrrve." It's mean on my ears. Aside from that, it seemed like I was on a La Gaga kick last summer when I was moving in with ReBF, so any of her songs make me want to dance and cry at the same time (really, a good thing).

My review of the word "Goodies": It's stupid. How can we remove it from the English vernacular?

My review of Android: Laaahhv it. If you're the kind of person that manages your bills, your client calls, your GNOs and your menstrual cycle in one place, then you obviously have already tried donating organs you have two of but only need one of, to Google, because of their Calendar (I can unclick the period stuff so it doesn't show up when I'm JUST trying to see when my car insurance is due). Plus it's color coded. Wait, let me stop and warn you that I am a shameless Google Whore. Picasa? Google product. Blogger? Hello. Google checkout? Makes online net-worth obliteration a BREEZE. Bookmarks. RSS feed. Documents. Chrome. Gmail, it's been a long road, but I love you too. Too bad Nexus One doesn't have a keyboard. That's my downfall, though, not Google's. When they come out with some form of MP3 debut, I'll donate the other kidney, too, and just pee pepsi for the rest of my life. My next adventure is mastering GoogleVoice. Mercy. I need a cold shower in a nunnery. ††

My review of the inversion: I want to kill it in the face.

My review of YouTube's selection of endoscopic sinus surgeries: Thank you, exhibitionist doctor who annihilates nasal polyps, and laups entire lobes of pointless tissue from turbinates. Then replays the footage in fast-forward with Tchaikovsky playing over it, and posts to the internet. You helped your patient breathe, and you convinced me to go back under that knife.

My review of my car: It's 10 years old now. It squeals when it's cold. But it crawls bravely over the tundra-like snowy, rough terrain of our cul-de-sac every morning in 4WD as I pull away for work. I named it the Warthog. I am Master Chief. When I summit the mounds of snow by the curb, towering six, sometimes even eight inches into the sky, I make sounds. Ppgggfffffccchhh! Brrrrmmmmm! Prrff! Grrwwww! In short, I'm referring to the sounds your brother would make playing Army Guys (the name of that game) when the Guys were in combat and firing weapons...or when Tonka trucks brutishly dominated the topographical death trap of somewhat expensive landscaping in the back yard. †††

That's all for today. xo/km

†This was Marianne's word. I mean, it's our entire generation's word, given that so much stuff really does suh-huh-huuuuck, but do they ever spell it out?

Marianne does.

††Apps, I hear iPhone users talk about them a lot. All the apps I ever wanted, I have, and they've literally changed my life.

††† One day, my purse will call you. I will either be making these sounds out loud, or having a conversation you will be involuntarily privy to. It may go something like "I know you love Jimmy John's. There's not one here, though. How bout Cafe Rio?" and then you will wait for the person's response, but you won't hear it because that person is ReBF and I am certifiably insane. The End.