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Ssshhhh!!! I’m Writing a Post About Librarians

For the next two days, I will be attending a librarian conference and will be without Internet access.

Let me just repeat that.

I will be without Internet access for two days during NaBloWriMo. I am committed to a daily post and I will be without Internet access for two days.

Any way, you may be wondering what exactly happens at a librarian conference.

Well there’s workshops on all kinds of stuff, like:

  • bun accessorizinghotbuns
  • Shushing techniquesshushingtechnique
  • Dewey Decimal Trivia

deweygame

  • Primal Scream Therapy sessions directed at Googleprimalscreamtherapy

It’s not all work.

There’s alloted time to get to know other librarians and socialize:

socializing

Speaker7 will not be able to comment for a few days but it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love you. She does, however, hate NaBloWriMo.

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Fifty Shades of Ewww (pgs. 401-450)

I’d like to begin this post about pages 401-450 of Fifty Shades of Grey with a public service announcement:

Please do not dispose of your tampons in toilets.

I know you might be in the heat of the moment, about to bang on the floor of the bathroom, but please dispose of your tampons in the trash receptacle. Or if you’re banging in a public stall, please use that little trash container that resembles a mailbox.

Why am I bringing this up?

Just wait…

So we left off with Ana hightailing it to her mother’s house in Georgia to get away from Christian’s log ride so she can think about their arrangement with some clarity. If you need to know how we got to this point in the story and hate yourself, you can click here to read previous installments.

Ana’s exodus results in heavy email action. When I read this, I felt like I do at work when someone sends out a mass email about something non work-related like joining a volleyball league, and everyone who replies back hits “reply all” rather than “reply sender” so I have to sift through 45 emails about “I’ll do it” or “Fun! What time?” or “I’d like to volley your balls.” And you feel like replying back “Can you not reply to all of us because no one gives a shit about your smiley emoticons,” but you don’t want to be that person, the one that causes that mass email “Jeez, what’s her problem?” to be sent out, and then you have 65 more replies to sift through. And they’re all filled with frowny faces.

I could just summarize and say they email back and forth about how much they miss one another and how much Christian wants to penetrate Ana’s down there, but then you miss out on the suffering, and that’s what this BDSM relationship is all about, gentle reader.

Christian signs off, saying he has to meet someone for dinner, and Ana deduces it’s the woman who made Christian a sex slave when he was 15. Ana calls her “Mrs. Robinson” because she is clever…wait, I’m sorry, I meant the opposite of clever, which is stupid buttface.

She finally decides to Google Christian’s name, which leads to the best line thus far: Holy Cow! I’m on Google! 

Yes that is sooo very difficult. That’s why I only got 185,000 hits on a search of images for projectile vomit. You know what’s difficult? Not being on Google.

While out for drinks with her mom, Ana decides to send some more emails (!?!) about her dislike of Mrs. Robinson and how it impacts her down there:

Christian instantly replies “I see London, I see France” and it turns out the reason he can see her underpants is because he has flown to Georgia and is presently in the exact hotel bar as Ana and her mom.

That’s so creepy hot and sweet!

They murmur and pout and grit their teeth and look at their hands and arch eyebrows and glower, and sulk and tap dance and help a Nigerian prince secure freedom, and eventually head upstairs to Christian’s room to add their genital fluids to the walls of the bathroom.

Ana’s on her period. God, I’m so fortunate to know this. Aren’t you? And that’s when Christian pulls out her tampon and flings it into the toilet. Please refer to the PSA at the top of the post.

They then commence the banging. Before he mounts, he likes to say “I’m going to have you ______” and then adds the location. We learn that his member is covered in her menstrual blood…that is my little early Christmas gift to you. Now I’m going to throw up off the porch and have someone snap a picture so it can be added to the projectile vomit archive. Holy cow! I will soon be on Google!

After all the sexing, Ana feels she needs to get to know Christian better. “What’s your favorite film?” she really asks him.

The section ends with them about to go gliding–hopefully directly into a ravine.

Only one more recrap to go!

How To Write the Greatest How-To Post

People want to know things.

Simply typing “How to” into Google generates interesting queries like “How to make head cheese,” “How to last longer in bed” and “How to breed a rainbow dragon.” Interestingly no one has created the query “how to teach a rainbow dragon to make head cheese while lasting longer in bed.” That doesn’t mean they don’t want to know.

In fact, I would like to know…er…I mean, my friend Friend, no, not Friend. . .uh. . . Plate, Plate Fork, would like to know. If anyone has any idea how to make that work, please write a how-to post on it. You will learn how to make it the greatest after reading this.

So how do you write the greatest how-to post? It’s surprisingly easy! Just follow these steps.

  1.  Place your fingers on the home row of your keyboard. Type “How To. . .” except don’t use ellipses, fill it in with something like How To Smell a Wine Cork Without Looking Like an Idiot or How To Wrestle in Jello Without Getting Diabetes.
  2. Brine the pig head overnight.
  3. Go to sleep. Do not stay up and watch the Ab Rocket Twister infomercial. I can go from flab to fab in just five minutes? I might need to stay up. No, no, I should go to sleep.
  4. Wake up. Drain and rinse the pig head. Place the head into a big pot, fill with chicken stock. Log onto your blog. Type something under your How To. . . headline. You didn’t change the ellipses yet? Change the ellipses into something like How To Change Ellipses into Words. Okay now write something underneath it. It should be something amazing.
  5. Skim the fat as needed. After a few hours, pick off the edible meat from the tongue, nose and ears. Cover it with plastic wrap.
  6. Throw up quietly into a bucket.
  7. Mix the meat with parsley and other flavorings like MSG and barf.
  8. Go back into your blog, write something even more amazing than the last thing you wrote. Like, make it super amazing.
  9. Cover and refrigerate overnight.
  10. Go to sleep. Don’t stay up to watch Blue-Eyed Butcher on Lifetime.
  11. Remove the plastic wrap and serve with pickles.

If you followed all the steps, your greatest how-to post should look like this:

source: wikipedia

Whatever you do, do not eat this.

To Know the Actual Love For You

Wouldn’t that be something–especially today of all days, the 14th day in the month-long celebration of National Bird Feeding? To know the actual love the actual someone has for the actual person who is you? I wish there was a list of actual tips. Maybe written by someone for whom English is a second language. Then I would know if a guy has a love for their girls.

The Internet never ceases to amaze me, whether it be sating my never-ending desire to know all there is to know about adult baby syndrome or helping to master the intricacies of the Shake Weight®, it always comes through for me. Google even made me a video Valentine I never finished watching because I clicked on a link to learn how to get freakishly long eye lashes (cow urine moistened onto the eyelashes followed by dollop of bird urine, cover with gauze). It was difficult to read through the gauze, but I did find a website that answered the age-old question:

How is it possible to know the actual love of the guy for you?

Tip 1 – When he takes interest in your matters like your work schedule.

I asked Mr. Speaker7 if he knew what I did at 10:35 a.m. today. He responded: “No, what did you do?”  I have been giving him the silent treatment ever since, and broke it only to say what I would like to order for take out.

Tip 2 – When a guy keeps a track on your habits.

I break my silence. What is my number 1 habit? I ask my husband. “Sitting in front of a computer screen for hours,” he responds.

The correct response is ribbon sorting.

Tip 3 – When a guy wants to spend more time with you, dates out with you and shares your favorite pastimes, then he is madly in love with you.

Do you want to mix up these ribbons and then sort them by thread count? I ask. “It’s been a really long day,” sighs Mr. Speaker7

Tip 4 – If he tries to be friendly with you, it show signs of love for you.

I think the supermarket cashier is into me because he said “Here you go. Have a nice day” rather than spitting in my face, a clear sign of no love for you.

Tip 5 – Changing of topic when you discuss about your future with him is not a good sign of a healthy relationship with your love.

What is the future of your relationship with my love? I query breathlessly. “…” responds Mr. Speaker7 because he left the room 20 minutes ago to stop answering these questions.

Tip 6 -His every action will make you believe he loves you.

Really? His every action? All humans poop. There was even a book written about it. Should I see if he is or is not pooping on a photo of me? How far do I go here? I mean your tip is very specific and helpful, but where do we draw the line? Ball scratching? Yes, ball scratching.

I think that’s a good tip to end on especially since Tip 17 is “knowing when to end your blog post on a positive love note shows he feels in love with his love over you” and there are 3,259 other tips. And Mr. Speaker7’s action of folding laundry when I hate folding laundry is clearly making me believe he loves me in a sharing of not-favorite-pastimes-kind-of way.

Happy Bird Feeding Month to you all!

Ronald Reagan’s name is mentioned in this post.

I’m drunk.

This was unintended. I knew I needed to write a Turd of the Week™ post. The orphans of America need it. The widows of America need it. The widowed orphans of America need it.

But let’s say it: I’m in a bit of a slump. Does that make you feel better, you widowed orphans with your gruel and your tears and your “please, sir, I want some more”? I bet it does. I bet it feels just as good as a second helping of slop slopped into a dented bowl.

So I opened a bottle of wine and poured it down my gullet, hoping the fermented grapes would help me on my turd vision quest.

There is a veritable turd cornucopia happening in D.C. at this moment. The Conservative Political Action Conference, CPAC, is underway. Ann Coulter has stated that only pretty girls are right-wing. The name Ronald Reagan has been mentioned 5,124,902,321 times. And I have heard too much…hence the drunkative drunkical drunkation drunference of 2012 sponsored by Beringer.

I really should have stuck with sussing out the “emotional” interview a “real” “housewife” had with a “real” “doctor.” I am meaning the collagen-lipped Taylor Armstrong and the celebrity-rehabbed Dr. Drew. But I gave up after one fruitless Google search and a half-hour wasted on Facebook reading people’s Pinterests.

And while they are both turds, they did not meet the stringent requirements of Turd of the Week™.

Rep. Sen. Mitch McConnell spoke at CPAC. This is him:

He said many things I didn’t understand, but then again I do not speak turtle. He ended his speech with the rallying cry: “Don’t pick on Fox News!!”

Not bad.

But then I thought I should watch Newt Gingrich’s speech. It was 30 minutes long. Thirty minutes long. It was thirty minutes long. It was as long as a sitcom rerun without the commercial break. It’s still happening. I began writing this blog post after his 10th mention of Ronald Reagan. I pick up my earbud, and he’s still talking. “The corporate tax rate should be 12 percent. Ronald Reagan,” he bleats.

And I down my second bottle and weep.

President Obama wants to declare war on the Catholic Church, Newt insists. I am thinking this has something to do with the new health care rule that requires insurance coverage for birth control. As someone who has frequent affairs, Newt should be a fan of birth control. But he’s more a fan of pandering to a crowd of people who likely also use birth control otherwise the Duggan family wouldn’t have a reality show, right?

So he’s a giant-headed giant turd.

I’m going to go pass out now. jggjkljadlkdj

We’re All With Stupid

Ashton Kutcher is a well-paid moron.

Yup.

This is fact, and therefore makes about as interesting a news story as gravity keeping us from floating all around and people being created 6,000 years ago by Xenu, the dinosaur engram.

Yet there are a bunch of news stories circulating about Ashton Kutcher, aka a well-paid moron, tweeting something moronic on Twitter.

The fact that a well-paid moron, aka Ashton Kutcher, would have only a cursory understanding of one of the most horrifyingly horrible-beyond-horror-in-its-complete-and-utter-wrongness new stories, is not news.

Because he is an idiot. And yet he is now a featured star in this sordid, I-will-never-get-my-eyeballs-clean-from-reading-the-grand-jury-report, mess.

A Google search of “ashton kutcher penn state” returns almost 1 million results whereas the phrase “speaker7 for president” returns nothing. Where is the justice? (Yes, I understand that by writing this, I will be only adding to Ashton’s Google result count, but now at least there might be one result for “speaker7 for president.” And if I became president, I would immediately dissolve three federal agencies: the education department, the commerce department and .  . . um. . . that other one….right, the Twitter department)

Seeing these stories about Ashton Kutcher almost make me mad enough to tip over a news van and chant the name of a football coach who pretty much gave tacit approval to someone in his employ to rape many, many vulnerable, defenseless children. Almost–I would never do something so bewilderingly moronic.

Admittedly I don’t follow Ashton Kutcher on Twitter. I don’t follow anyone on Twitter because I don’t understand it and I waste enough time on the Internet as it is. But I guess Mr. Kutcher will now have some PR firm vetting his tweets as if he was reporting from the Hindu Kush mountain range with the 2nd Ranger Battalion.

Mr. Kutcher feels “responsible to deliver informed opinions” to his 8 million followers.

I wonder how the PR firm will transform such bon mots of misinformation as #Twoandahalfmen the party starts now on the East Coast? Possibly #Twoandahalfman is a party I never want to attend on the East Coast?

We shall see.

Update speaker7.wordpress.com is now being vetted by a PR firm.

Common Courtesy lives on

Some believe that common courtesy has gone the way of the dinosaurs and political compromise. I know some people believe this because I did a Google search and received 65 million hits. The inverse–courtesy is alive and well–only garnered 3 million hits therefore and hence four-score-and-ipso-facto, courtesy is dead. Research + statistics=proven statement of a fact. It sure seems like it’s true even if you might question my mathematical statement, which I wouldn’t do because I will totally go America all over your ass (reference). People seem a tad more tightly wound and freak over the slightest provocation. Just a few seconds ago, my husband asked me to watch our child for a second and I flipped over the dining room table in response. And there’s that ruder then the rudest rude interview conducted by Piers I Imports with the Witch Lady where he asked her questions based on topics covered in the book she was hawking. Nervy.

So courtesy is dead and everyone is just plain awful…or is it and are they? Let me share an uplifting story that clearly shows people aren’t the succubuses (succubi?) you think they are. As I mentioned in the above paragraph, I have a child. He’s a young-un. Whenever we leave the house, we resemble nomads with the amount of gear and accessories we tote to keep his *big head distracted (*I don’t mean to say I think he’s an egoist, he’s really got a huge skull). We had to make such the trip today for a little PT time at the local gym. I was the pack mule while my husband carried the child. We were about 10 feet from the entrance, when these older men exited with their racquetball racquets. One of them stopped to hold the door open and with just the slightest trace of irritation in his voice, yelled “Come on!” What an obvious gentleman.

So the next time you find yourself about to key the car of the jackal who stole your parking space, think about the older guy yelling “Come on!” to a couple who had not even made the requisite eye contact displaying a request for help–and it will make you gouge just a little bit deeper.

Tubes

I vaguely remember some article about the Internet and people and not remembering, but I couldn’t quite remember what it was about so I entered the fragment “Internet people not remembering” into a search engine and found an article about problems with Internet banking (did you know a lot of customers are resistant to change and that’s why they resist Internet banking? That’s incredible), and then the article I was looking for, which I then had to keep a tab open on it because I kept forgetting what I was reading.

Here’s a link to the article in case you don’t trust my summation. OK,  so the basic premise is that people can’t recall anything because they rely on Google to do it for them and they’d rather not be bothered to think about an answer first. So for example if your husband asked you a question about some actor…I can’t think of an actor’s name and don’t really feel like doing so, so we’ll call him Joe the Plumber, and your husband wants to know if that is the same Joe the Plumber who was in the movie Hard Bodies V: Van Wilder’s Sophomore Romp and you don’t even feel like thinking about the answer because you’re wondering if you should go ahead and open that Internet bank account, but jeez that’s a big change, so you say “Go Google it.” And then something happens, I don’t know, he Googles it or something and learns about that guy, I guess, I’m not really clear on the point of the story or the point of the blog post at this point.

Science.