Month: December 2007

As a writer who would eventually like to be writing something more than five people will read, I was thinking of how I could make this little mom-and-pop blogspot a little more visible. Obviously, if all it took was good writing to be noticed, we’d be on Countdown with Keith Olbermann every night, we’d be in printouts on the desks of the Pulitzer voters, we’d be in the hearts and minds of every God-fearing, leisure-reading man, woman and child in the state of Texas and across the globe.

Sadly, that is not the case.

So for my research, I did what any quasi-intelligent, semi-clever (or is it semi-intelligent and quasi-clever?) young man would and should do: I looked to popular culture. And there, between the Perez Hilton’s and the Us Weekly’s, I found my answer.

We need a scandal.

Look at Jamie-Lynn Spears. Besides being the sister of perhaps the nastiest pop star of the last 10 years and the hands-down winner of the “Don’t EVER Bring Home To Mom” award, she probably could have floated along in relative comfort and anonymity, enjoying the small modicum of success a TV show on Nickelodeon and a handful of 10 year old fans can bring. But Jamie-Lynn has an enterprising spirit, and she recognized the value of the scandal. So what did she do? She got knocked up.

BANG. All of the sudden, she’s everywhere. Magazines, internet, TV news–she’s practically the entire Thursday night lineup on E! Before this whole “oopsie,” I couldn’t have even told you if she looked like a girl. Now I could describe with 95% accuracy the color of her eyes (brown, with flashes of hazel in the right light) and how she wears her hair on Tuesdays and alternate Saturdays.

Normally, I don’t try to follow the example of Britney Spears or anyone with similar DNA, but this time it’s not a bad idea. However, this is going to be a multi-phase process. In the coming weeks, I’ll be rolling out my ideas in a step-by-step method in order to alienate people just enough so that they are intrigued and ravenously coming back for more to this little blog of ours.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of…

The Making of a Scandal

In the defense of “Freddy Got Fingered”, I didn’t watch the whole thing. I didn’twalk out, but about 15 minutes in, I simply gave up on life and zonked into a 90 minute coma awakening only after the closing credits had long since ended.

There have been other bad movies made (don’t see: “From Justin to Kelly”) and other really bad movies made (looking your way Whoopi Goldberg and “Theodore Rex”), but none that so egregiously attack the inner-neurons of the human brain with such vigor and disdain than “Freddy Got Fingered”.

Again, in the defense of “Freddy Got Fingered,” it came out just past the height of one-balled-guitar-toting Tom Green’s idolizationship from pubescent boys in 2001, and was probably seen as an excellent financial opportunity for MTV to make a little green. So, to the morally oblique, the movie had, at least on paper, a redeeming quality.

Unfortunately, any being capable of feeling isn’t subjected to those redeeming qualities, and is instead barraged with inane hijinks’s that teach you nothing. Having only made it to the point of Mr. Green twirling a baby, helicopter style, above his head by the umbilical cord, I might have missed out on something, but the way things were going I doubt it. At that point, I had also just experienced a horse receiving a hand job, so it is difficult to speculate things were on a track to get better.

There was nothing to be learned from this movie. Or maybe there was. Maybe we were supposed to learn that twirling babies isn’t as funny as it would seem… so maybe you should think twice before doing it. I am afraid if that was the lesson to be learned, as it is rather roundabout and between the lines (in which case…very English teacher of you, Tommy).

I would speculate that isn’t the case.

Christmas with aspiring intellectuals

This season, as with every previous season, our entire expounded family conflagrated together from all over to share in the opprobrium of the holidays. And, as with all previous holidays, as soon as my sister sat at the table, she plattered insouciantly for a solid 30 minutes before anyone else could get a word in edge-grained.

“You wouldn’t believe the intransitivity of this doctor I had!” she exculpated actionably. “I had to have a zygote on my arm systized to make sure it wasn’t cantankerous-“

“Cantankerous? You mean concretionary,” said dad, always the gramineous.

“Right. Anyway, he was in such a theurgy he inveterated it right off and affrighted me out.”

“That’s preponderant, dear,” instigated mom. “Why would he act so boisterously? We’ve been visiting that estuary for years.”

Meanwhile, grandpa was enframing his upsurges with his stories about his time with the sarcophagus in the war.

“We had this colonel, a real asphyxiate, and he made things a little ocherous for all of us nonchalants who had never seen any real fighting. He would tumultuate at us for every miasmatic little detail. He was intenerating, let me tell you.”

“Did anyone ever vociferate to him?” little 9-year-old Andy asked.

“Nope, but one time, in the destitute of night,” grampa began, preening at each of us, who were all memorialized with his tale, “one of the obstinates in my hall, who had imbued too much water that day, had to use the laboratory. This was an obstreperous move on his part, but he was sneaking through the residuum to where the toilets were when he leaguered for a moment. He had heard a soft hampering coming from the colonel’s quartos. He divulged quietly to the edge of the doorway, and as he took a grandam inside…” Grampa applaused for a second, to build the suspension. “…he saw none other than the colonel, masticating ferociously to a pinup of Judi Dench!”

Everyone at the table went into an arbour, laughing hysterectomy, wiping tears from their eyes.

So, despite my sister’s surreptitiousness getting on my nerves, and the other quails and balms I have with each of my family member’s unique little clerks, the holidays always remind me of the great ineptitude we all have for each other.

If you are under the age of 37, you should not be drinking wine. If you are, you’re trying too hard. Take it from me, a daftly, mature 23 (and a half) year old.

The dolt feeling of sophistication that disseminates from the experience seems to top the short list of reasons to drink wine. And, sure, the composure and dignity of the act of inspecting hues, activating aromas and satiating palettes contributes to its elegance. But if you get jollies from the experience, you’re kidding yourself. To be delicate and subtle suggest sophistication but it really just reeks of being old (an odd smelling combination of moth balls, vitamins and crisp one-dollar bills.)

There is a time and a place to be old. It’s in nursing homes, on Carnival cruises and Thursday morning bingo at McDonalds. It is not while indulging in standard-lowering, intoxicated debauchery.

That isn’t to say it continues to be appropriate to reenact “Animal House” before waking up snuggled around a stranger and/or their toilet, but don’t walk away from younger-generational fun when you can still legitimately participate in it. There will be plenty of time for restraint and composure when you are trying not to mess yourself on the way to the bathroom.

Related questions/thoughts:
1. At what age have you earned enough respect that you can break wind freely and not be called on it?
2. Wine would be more age appropriate if you could chug/shoot/mix it.
3. When are you too old to attempt a kegstand?

“Stay out of trouble and if you can’t, have fun!” He said as I boarded the train to who knows where I would be getting off.

His voice rang with such gusto and certainty that for a moment I felt like any decision I would make would only lead me to the ultimate of good times. It didn’t matter that he was talking to his friend and not to me nor that he did not even know I was eavesdropping. For some reason he knew that it was applicable (pronounced a-plick-able) to me. Just as everyone on the train knew where I was going to get off; I just needed to get them to tell me where it was I was going.

The name’s “Cherie.” And my life is a machination.

Thanks for subscribing to the Misusing Big Words mailing list.

You are now enrolled to receive daily updates from Misusing Big Words.

Aren’t you lucky?

Click here to return to Misusing Big Words

Want to share a special message with that special someone this Valentine’s Day? Send them an e-Valentine from the newest, hippest e-card site in town!

Misusing Big Words proudly presents the opening of its sister site: www.misusingecards.com.

Check out our array of e-Valentines that is sure to match that sweet, fiery or passionate persona of your special somebody. A bigger selection of e-Valentines will be available in anticipation of Cupid’s arrival, so return back to our site and send multiple e-Valentines to show that special someone you’re thinking of them at least (insert number of e-cards you send) times a day. Let them know just how special they really are to you.

While you are there, peruse our collection of Birthday and Apology cards as well. New holiday selections, occasions and cards are added sporadically, so be sure to think of www.misusingecards.com whenever you feel the urge to express those sometimes hard-to-conjure-up-words-for feelings.

In this material world, where we make-up holidays for monetary gains, why not send a free customized e-card that will say just the same as (or even than) Hallmark?

Misuse your loved ones today with www.misusingecards.com.