Hee Haw

Am feeling exceedingly joyous and jubilant this evening. I’m wearing a pretty dress, I’ve got soft lighting, and my lovely Bright Eyes is singing to me to leave the cauliflower in the casserole, that everything must belong somewhere.

And I feel like I belong right where I am. I’ve had 5 days of wonderful, bad-for-body indulgences: pizza, ice cream, ham, cake, cheese. I’m infused with Digourno and am sparkle-eyed from sugar.

I’ve been dancing with Belle and singing in the shower. I’ve been writing and thinking and laughing and crying. I guess things are good.

How could my life improve? Well, I guess I could get one of those cushy executive jobs. You know, the ones were the boss cruises in at 10:30 every day, and peaces out at 3:00 after having taken a two hour lunch?

Yeah being a boss sounds real good.

But I don’t think I have what it takes to be management where I work at A Very Hip Software Company. You see, you have to have certain skills. No, I’m not talking about the ability to make friends and influence people, increase profits by 200%, or revamp entire corporate structures. No my dear hannihouse readers, at my company it takes something really special?

All my bosses – they laugh like donkeys.

I’m not talking about normal-type laughing here folks. I’m talking about full-on, top-of-the-lungs, hard-style braying of the hee haw variety.

And they all do it : all the Big Guns at A Very Hip Software Company can bellow just like those bad boys in Pinocchio who were turned into mules after drinking too much root beer.

0 comments

March 10, 2005

McRib: A Grand Sandwich for Grandiose Women

I read today that McDonalds is considering outsourcing it’s drive-thru orders That is just too crazy. What are they trying to do? Hire robots to run the fryers? What if they outsource to an Indian call center? Instead of fries, will they say “would you like a squishee with that?”

What the freak?!

And speaking of bizzaro McDonalds moves, what?s with McRib? That famed sandwich is so popular it warrants its own encyclopedia entry and has inspired countless followers to pay homage to the pressed meat by creating fan sites that proclaim McRib as king of sandwiches.

Myself, I?ve never partaken of that forbidden mystery meat wrapped in its carb-laden scarlet sauce. In fact, I really don?t know anyone who has, except Rosie O? Donell, who swears by them, and a couple secretaries I used to work with. Coincidently, all the McRib fans I know are ?big boned? women.

And speaking of bones, that?s something that really freaks me out about McRib. It?s supposed to be ribs, but it has no bones. That is wrong. I liken the production of McRib to the building of a house from manure. Sure it can be molded and manipulated to look like a grand mansion, but at the end of the day, all you really have is a heaping pile of crap.

Shaping meat byproducts to look like delicious ribs is downright unnatural. It?s like what they do to those marshmallows at Easter ? They take marshmallows, mold them into chicks and call them ?Peeps.? I prefer my marshmallows the way nature intended, melted on graham crackers, squished all snuggly-like next to chocolate?

But now that I think about it, the whole Peeps thing makes sense. I mean, eating baby chicks that are made of baby chicks is far too messy when you?re wearing your Easter finest.

2 comments

March 2, 2005

Perpetuating The Myth

When I think about the state of the world today, I am appalled. Children are committing these horrifying crimes – whether bringing guns to school, doing drugs, vandalizing things, or subjecting us to the horror of having to listen to their strangled-voiced poppetesque singing of “La La” at orangebowl events – (tm Ashley Simpson).

I never got into that sort of trouble when I was a wee one. I just thank my lucky stars I grew up in boring old Alaska. I spent most of my adolescence huddled in my igloo, eating whale fat with Eskimos, always being sure to keep an eye out for roaming polar bears. Of course, there was that one time I decided to really cut loose, and ended up spending an afternoon joy riding on the back of Boris, a friendly moose.

Those were the days?

And there are some who won’t beleive me. The doubters will say “Come on H䮮i – we all know about you and your high society, cosmo-drinking friends. I’m sure you spent your teen years kicking it at debutante balls.”

And in response, I will say, “You don’t know this Alaskan gurl at all. Instead of cosmos I drink frozen margaritas. And no, I did not frequent debutante balls – I mostly stuck to dancing at snow balls.”

I’ll prove I really did grow up in the 49th state. Look here, I found a picture of when they were building my parent’s house…