armond-white.jpeg

Ugly Chick Under a Bridge Ranting at Goats

By Figgy | Eloquent Eloquence | July 26, 2010 | Comments ()

By Figgy | Eloquent Eloquence | July 26, 2010 |


armond-white.jpeg

It's Sunday afternoon here. 5:30pm. The thermostat has just 101.1. 37% humidity, which isn't too bad, considering. I have the air conditioner on (at 80 because our power bill for July was absolutely ridiculous) the fan on high pointed directly at me, and the shades closed. But even so, one peep through the blinds into the glaring sun outside makes me feel angsty inside.

Not even the ice-cold Limeade and rum is helping. I shouldn't drink rum. It makes me warm and sleepy. And though a nap would be the most perfect thing to do this afternoon, I have this horrible inability to nap. It's true! I can't fall asleep during the day. All I can manage is to doze off a little bit before I'm half-awake, with a head full of sand and probably drooling, because I am the very picture of grace and elegance. So, no. I'm gonna have more rum and do the EE. Maybe watch a Brazilian soap opera and be a consummate procrastinator. It's why today I'm dispensing with the usual shoutiness and trying to be more ... elo ... quent ... zzzzzz ...

Damn it all to hell, I almost dozed off in front of my computer. I think I need coffee and comments. Good thing it was a great week and I've got plenty of the good stuff to give ya. Rawr. Oh, and stay tuned for the opening of my new blog where I take a page out of Armond White's book and hate on stuff that is universally loved. We'll start with Betty White, puppies, sugar and rainbows. It will be called "Ugly Chick Under a Bridge Ranting at Goats." Many thanks to PyD for the name!

So sit back, relax and let Mamma Fig give the Eloquents some lovin'.

*hic*

10. White may have had the training, but not all training sticks. And he mostly certainly doesn't have any talent in the writing department. It doesn't matter what foundation his film criticism is based upon if he a) reduces it to absurdist college-freshman provocatism and b) can't communicate it coherently.

I could write pages of rantiness about how Charlotte's Web is a thinly-veiled parable about the rise of labor unions and socialism, but the sheer volume of words and outrageousness wouldn't make it any less fucking retarded. --Wednesday

[Scathing AND Eloquent. Good job, ma'am. I'm pretty sure you're a ma'am. Excuse me if you're not.]

9. I love the porcupine! But then it makes me all sad because he wants to cuddle and be loved but can't touch anyone because of WHAT HE IS and now I'm off and crying. --MyySharona

[That came from a Pajiba Love video with the porcupine who liked to play with people and have its belly rubbed. I thought it was HAPPY but apparently it's more like Rogue from X-Men]

8. My roommate and I have perfected making them as quickly as possible

Have you ever tried drinking three in quick succession in front of a mirror?

Let's just say that Bloody Mary takes the perils of binge drinking very seriously. --branded

[Blargh. I think after drinking just one of those monstrosities I'd be seeing visions of evil women coming to kill me.]

7. "M., if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be? One of those stupid fucking trees in that stupid fucking movie you made that kills people and reporters with the wind? Is that the kind of tree you'd be?" --,

6. Is it National Weight-loss Awareness Week?

Posted by: BarbadoSlimfast at July 23, 2010 1:31 PM

Posted by: BarbadoCouldBeSlimmer at July 23, 2010 1:31 PM

Posted by: BarbadoSlimDownQuickAtWeightWatchers.com! at July 23, 2010 1:31 PM

Posted by: BarbadoHatesFatsos at July 23, 2010 1:31 PM --esme

[Hee! Esme rocks.]

5. If I try to email "Armond White" will I be redirected to a picture of a shit-stained toilet?

Are you insinuating that Mr. White defecates? Not only does his gastrotic effluent not command notice, it doesn't even occur. --admin

[That Armond White "review" and the ensuing comments were just brilliant. Read it here. Bravo, people!]

4. that would be the small intestine. its not really all as long as people like to say that it is, but it is larger than the colon (the large intestine, which is only five or six feet, but much wider in diameter). i have pictures of mine if anyone needs reference. --yungriimobliatri

WRONG! You need to stop spreading lies. In fact, the large intestine is only slightly shorter than the small intestine (being only TWO football fields in length)but has enough elasticity to stop an F-14 upon landing. I'm guessing Machete used a large intestine here. --BarbadoSlim

[The intestine thing? Brilliantly disgusting. But now it will never leave my head. Nor will the image of someone stopping an F-14 with one.]

3. Ten (10!) days til Shark Week.

AWMAHGAWD!AWMAHGAWD!AWMAHGAWD!

I live for Shark Week. It is as if my Christmas, Hannakah, Summer Solstice, Kwanzaa, Easter, Thanksgiving, and birthday were in a consecutive set of seven days and I was religious.

Seriously, it is a huge fucking deal for me. It means I have to change my laptop's wallpaper from an image of a David Beckham (okay, that's a lie - it's a ferris wheel [sighs for lack of appearing cool]) to a fucking shark. My meals will no longer consist of salads, soups, or Nutella [sheds a tear] but instead fucking tuna, salmon, and fish sticks. And anyone who comes into my house these next days has to fight their desire to harpoon me because I make repeated awesome (read: lame) aquatic puns. Literally, the only way you could get me to stop watching Shark Week would be suggesting to watch Marlin Rouge with Nicole Squidman instead. HA. I fucking love it.

God. How am I still single? Guess there's always more fish in the sea.

Watch out Pajiba. 'Tis but a precursor to the events that shall unfold on August 1st. 0-penelope

[People who get excited by Shark Week are some of my favorite people. I don't really share their enthusiasm (and I'm poor so don't have cable or The Discovery Channel) but I just love unbridled enthusiasm of any sort. Too many people are so uptight and never like anything.]

[I hate to bring up this topic again with this comment but...OK no, I'm not sorry at all! I've learned from Dustin and TK to not be sorry for making you guys suffer.]

2. "I've never wanted to Human Centipede three people more."

It has moved on...to verb form. Spreading through the course of our very language, we come to the impasse. Do we erect mental barriers that forbid this monstrous menace from penetrating deeper into our social core, or do we embrace it with elbowless arms and cradle it, soon even let it become our nurturing mother. Do we fight it, or do we suckle at the very teat of it?

The Centipede moves in its muffled, macabre march.

Attach yourself, or be found in a swamp-rainbow stain on the floor behind the wake. To resist is to -mmmfrgmmrnmllr- --The Centiprophet

[And now, our #1! It's long, but completely worth it.]

1. When I was younger, say 5 or 6, a man lived in my basement. He was quite comfortable living underneath my small (at the time), dysfunctional family in his sweaty, smelly man cave. He was a moldy relic from the 80's, with big, flowing hair, a crunchy leather jacket, and a penchant for electric guitars and cheesy solos. My older brother and I were convinced he was a rock star.

My parents, and the man in my basement, were stagnant 20 somethings in the earliest of the 1990's. So while they were bogged down with something akin to domesticated responsibility, they were also grasping at the last squiggly strands of lovely freedom. They would get together, sit around in the basement, play pool, smoke pot, drink beer, listen to Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Queensryche, and Poison.

One day, in the bravest of huffs, my brother and I creaked open the basement door and tip toed down the steps into the smokey den of adult mystery. We peered around the corner and there they were, slouched on grungy couches, huddled around a 16 inch television, with the smell of Aquanet, cheap beer, and cigarettes hanging in the air, men and women in tight acid wash jeans, with giant crunchy hair, and bad tans. Adults.
Before we could escape, my father caught us out of the corner of his eye. We thought we were in trouble, but instead he waved us over and sat us down on the floor in front of the TV. The awe of being a part of this secret adult ritual washed over us, but was suddenly dwarfed when the TV finally caught our attention.

Robots, muppet-like beasts, space ships, sword fights... Star Wars. That was it. There was nothing else after that. We climbed the stairs back home. The echoes from the basement kept us up that night. My brother and I starred at the ceiling, and wept. Everything was so cold now.

Years went by, and after Star Wars everything became so different, so lackluster. The parties ended, the man in the basement moved away, my father bought a Le Sabre. It was sad and lonely and nothing could compare to that one fantastic rush. So I started huffing glue, and my brother went insane, disappeared into the Saskatchewan wilderness, sending home moose chops and maple candies home during the holidays.

I'm much older now, and some would say wiser. I've seen many movies, good and bad... But when I think back to that day, the orgasmic rush one bump of Star Wars gave me, I wonder if it wasn't the product of some youthful fever dream or too much sugar, and not enough sleep.

Whatever is might be, I don't think any of it is true. --Brian

****

Congratulations, Brian! You win at life this week!

Rah! It's been too long since our #1 was a long, rambling story of childhood trauma and hilarity. Thanks for that.

See, don't I treat you people nice? And all I ask for in return is more great comments.
Hey, how do you guys feel about another EE like the one we had a few months back, where people voted for their favorite to win? I think people enjoyed that, and I had fun with it, too. So I think it's time to bring it back, and I'll do that for next week's column. Make sure to bring your best material this week. I'll be watching (from this Monday morning to Saturday afternoon) and you'll be voting next Monday. It won't be an actual prize, because I'm poor, but the glory shall be enough.

Stay safe and don't melt.

Figgy is a displaced Honduran living in Dallas, TX. You can read more of her ramblings at her blog or follow her on twitter .


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