(I swear, I’m not crazy.)

What’s up with Winnie the Pooh’s name?  First of all, no one ever calls him “Winnie”, they always say “Pooh” or “Pooh-Bear”.  Second, he’s the only one whose name does not reflect the animal that he is.  WTF.*

Rabbit’s a freakin’ rabbit and Tigger’s the one who bounces…

Is Christopher Robin wearing mary jane shoes??

Why does the honey look like Velveeta?

I still have my Winnie the Pooh doll.  Once upon a time, he had a little musical box under his famous red t-shirt, so when you pressed his belly, you would hear the theme song.  It was cute.  Then my brother punched the shit out of that bear and the music box stopped working.  The tune became warped and sad, so I snipped it out.  Pooh Bear lost his song.

Sorry, that was a tangent.  I was meaning to write about the slandering of Heffalumps and Woozles.

You know, Disney, you made elephants so cool with Dumbo.  You gave them hope, and dreams.  You told them they could fly, if not literally, then metaphorically.  Then with The Jungle Book, you kinda bogged them down.  You drafted them into the army!  I know it was the late sixties, and there was Vietnam, but damn.  And then with Winnie the Pooh, you not only murder their name, you start telling people that they’re honey thieves!  Elephants don’t even eat honey!

And the weasels… mmm… I think you just took advantage of their name.  Besides, they steal chickens, not honey.

It’s just nonsensical prejudice.  Saying that a particular species as a whole is a bunch of psychedelically colored hoodlums who are particularly talented at playing musical instruments and stealing stuff…

Disney, this is worse than the penis on The Little Mermaid cover.

 
*edit… I just wikied the origin of Winnie the Pooh’s name.  The author’s son, Christopher, had named his toy bear Winnie after an actual bear at the London Zoo, and a swan named Pooh.  Why a swan was named Pooh, I do not know.  And then for the book, it is said that Winnie’s arms are too stiff to swat a fly at his nose, so he goes “pooh” to blow it off.  Nonetheless, why is he “THE Pooh”?

Good lawdee, it’s been almost a year.  Wanna know what I’ve been doing?  I know you don’t, but shut up.

Well, first, I was working two jobs.  Both had their perks,  but then I had to go with the one where I was working from 6am to 3pm or later, on my feet all day, not giving myself a break, all because I am insane.  It was fun, though.  Can’t complain when your boss gets you drunk on a regular basis.<3<3<3

What else, what else… lots of fun happenings.  I saw Paul McCartney, Neil Young, and Roger Waters (good music year).  I’m going to have a sister-in-law come next March (woot!).  I received my first lewd text message(s)/photo and was thoroughly unimpressed.  I went to Key West during Spring Break and actually found parking.  I smart-mouthed more customers… and then became unemployed (through no fault of my own!).  I threw up a few times.  I got a new gyno (good story there).  I made it through the rapture.  I started a new blog, which, sadly, contains some real, serious content.  I’m sorry.  And just now, I survived some really hot leftover Thai curry.  Got any dragons that need slaying?

So there’s a summary.  I’ll tell you stories later, but I just wanted to let all the crickets know I’m still here.

Mmmm, that curry was good.  My colon loves me.

“If my family hadn’t bought that ice cream, I would’ve put my dick in it.”

Blue Bell Ice Cream is obviously doing something right.

Carry on.

1) A sway to the left.  Because there is usually a correlation between the consumption of tea and “progressive” “white” “culture”.

2) Tattoos.  Ink and a cup of tea?  Most badass juxtaposition. Ever. (Besides turtles with ninja skills).

3) Consumption of non-FDA-approved “tea”.  See factor #1.  Also because… I mean… duh.

4) ESTROGEN.  Lots of estrogen…

We currently have nine employees, only one of which is a male, and before long he too will become female by osmosis.  Little did I know that this past weekend all our ovaries were conversing…

“OooMG.  I want pizza.”

“It’s too hot in here.”

“Fuck. This.”

“Seahorses…”

“You’re fired!”

And somewhere in between, I seem to have suffered some uterine peer pressure.  After Sunday’s meeting and carbohydrate-laden potluck, my internal teapot decided to shout and pour out.  (sigh)  But it’s okay.  You know what’s delicious?  Pouring milk over a bowl of cookies.  I know, shut up.

But recently, my SAT scores made a second coming.  A glorious, ray-of-light-shining-through-the-clouds reawakening.   See, after my battle with statistics and finite math this spring, I was lost and confused in terms of whether my C and B- would suffice so that I could graduate and burn the school down.  See, there are various complex, non-sensical rules regarding basic curriculum math scores.  These rules are made up so that people who do not meet the standards have to repeat classes that are totally irrelevant to their major so that the school can get more money from tuition fees.  Clever.  My English department advisor and the math department advisor were… for lack of a better term… useless?  (Sorry, Mr. English advisor.  That’s not really true.  It’s the system, right?  Yeah.  Wink, wink.)  There was a lack of information.  Not surprised.  So I went to the main advising center where people know things.  Important, life-changing things that us commoners would normally be ignorant of.  Bastards.  Anywho, long story short.  Turns out my SAT scores waived me from having to meet those aforementioned standards of doom.  I think my eyes welled up in front of the advisor I talked to.  I shook her hand, told her, “This is one of the best days of my life… where’s my diploma?”

FYI, I skipped the graduation ceremony.  I thought about it, knew that it would make my family happy.  But I couldn’t stomach the thought of paying to sit around for three hours, wearing a hat that would be unflattering on my head, just to have my name called and walk across the stage for ten seconds.  (Caring is not one of my stronger talents.)   Time and money will be better spent tonight with my awkward family, having a zagat-rated meal in a gay-owned restaurant.  Sweet.

My diploma arrived in the mail the week I found out I was liberated.  I made an origami swan.

“And for you, hun?” the waitress asks me.

“I’m gonna have the fruit platter.”

“No you’re not.”

Whuh?  I… I don’t understand!  Why?  Is there no fruit?  Am I being punished?  Arrested?  Deported?

“Fruit’s no good today.  If I’m not eatin’ it, you ain’t either.”

My eyes widened, filled with tears of gratitude, faith and love.  For I wholly believe, friends, that this woman was an incarnation of Jesus.  It all makes sense– Jewish, brings you food, calls you out on your shit, and protects you from evil (like nasty produce).  I was saved, people.  Sure, saved from bad fruit, but SAVED, nonetheless!

“How about a stuffed tomato with cottage cheese?” I ask. (Shut-up, I like cottage cheese.)

“Sure, why not.”

Thanks, Jesus.  FTW.

P.S.  Here’s the truth about Easter