This is the sordid story of burning passion and hot bodies. No, it's not that type of story, sickos! Back in the late 70s and early 80s, there was a new boom in the exercise craze. Led by the likes of Richard Simmons, middle-aged housewives everywhere donned leg warmers, Spandex, and headbands to stretch and sweat in front of their console TVs.
Now, The Old Woman having an addictive-type personality, was all over this like ugly on an ape. The Family's brutal "no fat" policy of ribbing, and overall meanness didn't help either. So it's easy to say that mom was into it. It's also no secret that she was addicted to expensive clothes. She was a clothes horse. Fuck, she was a whole mounted Cavalry. I don't have any real data to back this up, but maybe, just maybe, the exercising reduced the spending a tad.
The Old Woman's favorite aerobics guru was a man named Gilad Janklowicz. His show was called Bodies in Motion. I always thought he was Greek, but looking at Wikipedia, he's Israeli. Anyway, he had an accent. His show came out at a time when VCRs were first causing a revolution in the home. Mom was born in a time when there was no such word as technology. Yet The Old Woman could program the shit out of that Zenith. We had enough Bodies in Motion taped on VHS to last a lifetime. All, basically the same episode.
Mom would start in the morning when Gilad came on. I'm pretty sure the show was on ESPN. You could always hear The Old Woman's bracelets and necklaces clanking with every jump and bounce. Gilad was actually a good salesman. It was like he was speaking directly to Mom. I swore he said, "Come on Dorothy, you can do it!" once. Oh, how mom loved her foreign salespeople. The heavier the accent the better.
Unfortunately for the everyone, The Old Woman traded her exercise addiction for the buying and attempted raising of these asinine Cocker Spaniels - worst dogs ever! That pretty much killed all of mom's energy. Tending to the various issues and diseases of the two bitches was her full time job, driving everyone nuts in the process. Hence, this is why I loathe pets.
I don't want to watch hillbillies, Amish teenagers, Armenian no-talents, bearded backwoods jackasses, toothless critter wranglers, leather-skinned middle aged housewives of any state, dancing with anyone or anything, or anyone in New Jersey.
1. Your Facebook friends tell you how "great you look" even if you're a complete mess.
2. Those microfiber golf coats don't look half bad.
3. It's just easier to sit while you pee.
4. You'd rather watch the History Channel than have sex.
5. You try to avoid any food with onions in it.
6. You haven't listened to the radio in your car in years.
7. Every room in your house has an air freshener.
8. You can't wait until one of your kids turns 16 to be the designated driver.
9. There's no reason to go to the movies when they're out on RedBox in two months.
10. Pre-cooked rotisserie chicken.
How to tell if your hosts are alcoholics:
If the kid's dad brings you a beer from the garage cooler that's filled with ice and beer, and he or the mother aren't drinking, then they are alcoholics. You can sort of tell by the look of agonizing ecstasy on their faces by watching you drink. They'll wait until the cake is eaten and everyone is gone to go all Days of Wine and Roses.
Weiner went on to say that next season of Mad Men will take place in modern times. "Expect to see Don Draper sitting at his desk answering emails on a MacBook Pro." Weiner says excitedly.
So zealots, quit blowing people up. It's really dumb.
With the announcement of the new Google Inactive Account Manager, people close to death can now be sure that their personal data will be wiped from public view. If you should die all of a sudden, (hopefully), this cyber Do No Resuscitate clause can delete your Gmail,+, Blogger accounts, etc., after a specific time of inactivity. I've set mine to a year. Now you won't have the worry, as you're rotting away, that some asshole is trashing you on your blog. They'll have to actually come to your grave to piss on it.
Another wretched purchase of ToM. I don't remember this one being around for long. I'm sure it suffered a short agonizing death at the mechanic's shop.
3. The Plymouth Gran Fury.
That's right bitches! The classic 70s and 80s cop car. Another middle of the road staller. This pos was in the shop weekly. For some reason people loved to smash into with their equally shitty cars. Maybe they were trying to get back at the police in some weird way. At any rate, I despised this Fury with a fury. It was the car that I learned to drive in.
Luckily, like at Pearl Harbor, the Japanese came along and handed the American's their asses. We actually had a choice and not just put up with buying these wrecks.
Now the only way that these memories are fused into my brain is because of my mother's makeup. Makeup, you say? Yes, makeup. Let's just say my mother more than the average suburban housewife. The base of her makeup was water, fire, and locust-proof. She didn't just wear a little blush and maybe some eyeliner. No, this was all-out Hollywood movie set, studio light-proof coverage. So, hence, this sort of cake requires lots of effort to take off. You're talking, a hundred years of paint layers on door molding.
After dinner, my sister and I, let's call her Jennifer, would get our pj's on and climb into my mother's bed. She would get out her tissues, cotton balls and her giant vat of cold cream. I can still remember the smell of that cold cream. I am a male, so I don't know if it all smells the same. I imagine it does. My mother bought the most expensive makeup, lotions, and creams you could buy. When she left this earth, her skin was flawless.
As mom would start removing all of her eye makeup, she would tell us stories about our older siblings. You know, how, let's call him Al, would make the rest of the kids give him their money for some scheme of his or some other mean thing he came up with.
We would laugh until bedtime. And look forward to doing it again the next night.
What everyone fails to realize is that we live in a plutocracy (the wealthy and powerful rule the hordes of poor). Democracy is an illusion and a lie. Your only rights are to toil away in your gray cubicle feeding the rich until you die. Oh sure, there are some that escape the Matrix, but not very often.
And that Charlie Brown is what America is all about.