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Why do people keep refusing to do my bidding and/or become my personal servant? It can't be that hard to make bacon and turn the thermostat up and/or down at my command. I'm totally charming, dammit. Now rub my back.

Him: "What do you want for lunch?"

Me: "Something squishy, I have a sore throat."

"What's a 'squishy' food?"

"You know -- mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese... squishy!"

"Okay, so you want KFC side items."

"I didn't say I wanted macaroni and cheese."

"You just did!"

"I didn't. I was giving you examples of squishy sorts of foods. It doesn't mean I want those two specific types of foods."

"Then what do you want?"

"Actually, I could go for some mashed potatoes."

"Right, so we're going to KFC."

"Basically."

A co-worker then observed that we could be a sitcom. A really annoying sitcom. (Although not as annoying as anything with David Spade.)

For the record, I have not seen either of the previous "Fast Yet Furious" movies. And for the record -- because they do not have Lucas Black, adorable growds up Bow-Wow, or a plethora of hot Japanese gangster dudes -- I probably never will.

Someone once said this movie had a plot, but that person was obviously having a bad day that day. (A bad day in the sense that they forgot what a plot was.)

Step it up, will you? My friend just received a $12,000 bonus in her salary for, presumably, being awesome. I'm awesome on a regular basis and the only "bonus" I got this year was a flannel jacket with the company logo stitched on it. Last year it was soft luggage. (And the year before that.)

True, her bonus goes in to some sort of "IRA" thing (Imaginary Money Fund) that she can't access until she's too old to enjoy having $12,000. But I would rather have pretend old person money than luggage. Really, I don't need any more luggage.

Seriously, it's not like I make enough or have enough time off to go anywhere that would require some serious luggage, anyhow. In summation: More money, less luggage. Please.

I'm not lying when I tell you that my mother had a strict rule about hanging things on her refrigerator. The rule went like this:

DO NOT PUT THINGS ON MY REFRIGERATOR.

In a completely Freudian response to this, I literally have boxes upon boxes of magnets, doo-dads, clips, postcards, pictures, post-its, handy reminder dry erase board things, and other assorted fridge paraphernalia. These used to be rotated around as frequently as a set of word magnets (most likely similar to one that I once had in my possession, but cannot currently locate at the time of this posting.)

Upon our last move to Ohio, the "set list," if you will, has remained pitifully unchanged. Make no mistake: my fridge is still covered head to toe, on all three visible sides, with an assemblage of Stuff I Once Thought Would Be Cool Or Funny To Display In My Kitchen. As always, we rented a place with appliances furnished, so the refrigerator is not literally mine, but I like to create the illusion of ownership with my prized collection of Magnets I Have Purchased In Various Places I Have Vacationed. It's just that I haven't touched any of it, or moved it around, in over three years.

Until today.

Yes, today, I thought I'd perfect the alignment of a Han Solo magnet (holding a Rolling Stone clipping) (about a Ween song) (that was being rejected for a Pizza Hut advertisement) (put it in the "Or Funny" column) while I was waiting for the oven to preheat. It was during this period of adjustment that I realized someone had taken a permanent marker and scrawled onto the face of the refrigerator, behind the clipping. It was a not-so-polite statement about how much someone likes a certain part of the male anatomy.

The person slandered lives in this house.

It is not me.

I will let you do the math.

In addition to this little ditty, behind several other large pieces of paper -- paper that may or may not contain delightful artwork by a few young artists that are, in fact, my nieces, and has been, in fact, spoiled forever by the mental image of what lay beneath -- lots of other clever pieces of information involving the residents of this house and what we may or may not do with our genitalia, in addition to renditions of said genitalia, and perhaps what looks like an elephant.

And since this person took the time to sign his name to his Sharpie declarations, I now have an exact timeframe for how long they have been "on loan" in our little "gallery." The only time he's ever visited was almost exactly two years ago... when, I must admit, a large quantity of alcohol was joyfully consumed by all. He may have been making some sort of protest against the covering of our refrigerator (possibly on reconnaissance for my mother?); he may have been mocking our quaintness; he may have been incredibly wasted and in the possession of a permanent marker.

The point is: we are now forever tied to the copy of "Handprint Turkey, Finger Paint on Parchment, 8.5x11, 2001" my youngest niece so lovingly provided for us. I had no intentions of throwing this piece out, as it rounds out our collection nicely. However, we will have to wait until she provides us with a copy of her second grade report card, or her first learner's permit, or her highschool graduation photo, and then swap them out to cover the horrors beneath.

In other words, the drunken graffiti artist has just bought us a refrigerator. (Or, rather, he bought it two years ago and we're just now getting around to noticing.) This would also be the guy that screwed us out of some bit of money over a utility bill that he had not paid in six months, but had cleverly left our names on, and then failed to mention to us for several years.

I am going to find a way to pay this fucker back and rest assured it will involve some sort of insoluble paint and possibly one of his toes.

Just in case you're blind and can't see the title card, or you're wondering "Who made this piece of crap?", Gus Van Sant puts his name in the title. Convenience, people. It's the name of the game when you're making crappy movies.

That said, if you like mumbling ambiguity, try watching "Last Days"! If muttering and really lengthy shots of things like plants or the side of a building fascinate you, this is a flick you gotta rent!

Seriously, what is going on, someone tell me what I just watched. I kept thinking I rolled over on to the remote and hit the "mute" button. Then, just to fuck with me and the relative volume I'm listening at, Ricky Jay and Kim Gordon appear for fifteen seconds with some interesting, non-sequiter dialogue spoken in totally normal voices. And then they disappear. And something about the yellow pages and mormons? And Lukas Haas was a dick.

I was completely confused.

Save yourself the trouble and just download "Death to Birth" from Myspace or Itunes or wherever it is you kids are stealing your music from these days. Because that was the only scene worth the price of admission.

Him: "I'm going to the horse track on my day off."
Me: "Really? I've never been to a horse track."
Him: "Here's a list of the races."
Me: "There's a horse named GORDIE HOW! Ha ha! Put $10 on Gordie How to win for me."
Him: "Okay."

Later:

Him: "Hey, I put $3 on Gordie to win, place, or show. And he won!"
Me: "But you only bet $3."
Him: "Yes."
Me: "And I told you to bet $10. Just on him placing first."
Him: "Right. I bet $3 he'd win, place, or show."
Me: "Right. So you screwed up my money."
Him: "No! Also, his odds had gone all weird. He was like, one to nine odds."
Me: "So, you screwed up my money."
Him: "No!"
Me: "So I won a dollar?"
Him: "No, three cents."
Me: "On account of you not betting $10 on him to win, like I asked."
Him: "Right."
Me: "So, you screwed up my money?"
Him: "A little bit."

If you're sitting in front of the computer right now and your jaw hurts, that's me. I'm punching you with my mind.

I'm very close to adopting an alter ego, just to send messages to people on the internet that say: "SHUT THE FUCK UP," "EVERYONE HATES YOU," or "YOUR OPINIONS SUCK." I'm all for free speech and everything, but seriously. Shut the fuck up. No one likes you, and we're all tired of hearing about how great you think you are.

Firstly, the title of this entry would make a great porno name, as would "Cylon Sluts from Sagitarion City." Think about it.

Secondly, in reference to the [new-ish] Battlestar Galactica tv series: I have decided that when the Cylons programmed 12 "models" of robots (that look like people... PEOPLE!), they made sure all the guys were assholes and all the chicks were superwhorey. The girls spend most of season one humping various dudes and asking "Do you love me? Do you love me?" ad nauseam. Which leads me to my new name for them: Slutbots. (Or, Slutbot McNeedy-tron 5000, if you're not in to the whole brevity thing.)

My husband is neither amused nor happy with this clever idea of mine. He is especially annoyed and disturbed when I try to initiate foreplay by intoning: "COMMENCING SLUTBOT SEQUENCE NUMBER SIX NINE... ABORT TELEVISION VIEWING."