The man in slush-dirtied Kenneth Cole knock-offs trudged through the industrial park. The Cup O’ Noodles clutched in his angry, defeated, ashamed, rueful hand followed. Or something to that Stephen King’s The Gunslinger series effect.
Archive for the ‘What child is this?’ Category
Here’s a personal truth – I like big, stupid, ridiculous, blockbuster action flicks. If your movie has intensive CGI, theater-shaking explosions, martial arts, motorcycle chases, evil women who kill, spaceships, robots, natural disasters, spandexed people with mutant abilities, rocket launchers fired backwards for laughs, or anything that requires sheepish actors to act against a green screen and opposite an “X” made out of tape, there’s a distinct possibility I’m in your theater. This brings us to the Transformers franchise. These are some stupid movies. But they’re BIG, EXPENSIVE, VISUALLY THRILLING stupid movies and the robots transforming from vehicles (and now dinosaurs!) into robots is so thrilling. The fifth grader in me wants all the toys, and wants to be riding in Bumblebee when the Deceptacons attack and Bumblebee has to quick change to a robot and I go flying through the air and over a bridge and HE CATCHES ME and sparks and crashes and he turns back into a car and I’m safe! The CGI that James Cameron-lite director Michael Bay provides is top notch, and I can honestly say that the Transformers flick prior to this weekend’s Transformers: Age of Extinction had some of the loveliest and movie-experience enhancing 3D I’ve ever experienced. So, yeah, dumb movies.
This post should be an interesting attempt to relay an uncomfortable yet amusing incident whilst still maintaining an a modicum of respect towards the setting. Hopefully, this won’t come off as “yah, so we were at that Nazi place in DC and these bitches…” Knowing me, it probably will. Alas!
The other Mr. Harvey and I were in DC to celebrate his 40th birthday at the beginning of this month. He’s not one for big parties where people look at him (that was actually a concern he voiced once…people looking at him…when he doesn’t have his hijab on) so we thought a quick jaunt somewhere fun would be keen. Plus, we’re both currently unemployed (we’re the American nightmare) and had the time laying around and look, Jet Blue has a deal! Cherry blossoms and new bars in which to get intoxicated and new sidewalks to stumble upon while drunkenly abusing Uber!
Despite it being a birthday trip, there were some tourist attractions we had wanted to see that weren’t exactly going to be the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese (that’s not a gay sex reference). We had both heard that the main exhibit at the Holocaust Museum was a sobering must-see. We got our tickets online for our 1st day there so we could get the horror portion of the other Mr. Harvey’s birthday out of the way.
It’s an interesting space. I wouldn’t call it pleasant because it’s designed to evoke concentration camp imagery with a lot of brick and exposed girders. Another interesting feature? The staff, for the most part, are made up of some really extreme personalities. Most of the service industry members we encountered in our nation’s capital that trip were really friendly, laid-back and warm. I’m not sure why, but most of the staff at the Holocaust Memorial were WROUGHT. Witness our first exchange with the female human that womans the entrance elevators to the main exhibit.
We make our way in-between her velvet ropes (that came out dirty) but Scotty has us pause so we can call up our tickets on his phone. Please note in advance that there is no line behind us or in front of us. At that moment it’s just the Harveys. My husband has been searching and scrolling for maybe two seconds when she attacked.
Holocaust worker: Tickets?
Husband: Just calling them up on my phone here…
Holocaust worker (perhaps she didn’t hear him?): I said, do you have tickets?
Me: He’s just getting them on his phone.
Holocaust worker: Well, maybe you should move over there to find them so you’re not blocking the way, ok?
I look behind me and note the absence of any other people behind us. Just some velvet ropes. Air. Is this a fire exit? My husband, who does not suffer being spoken down to by fools, bitches, or maniacs, jerks his head up from his phone. Sometimes I feel like there’s a rubber band stretched to its extreme in his brain. That rubber band is marked “JUST TRY IT, BITCH.” I myself loathe confrontation. I’m the shrinking violet who nervously laughs when he forgets to hold a door for someone AND RUNS BACK TO DO IT because I want them to know I didn’t do it out of spite. It makes me look like a wackjob but it’s all designed to not get a dirty look or have anyone think “remember that asshole who didn’t hold the door for me at the mall” before they fall asleep that evening.
“I’M CALLING IT UP RIGHT NOW,” he said in a slow, emphatic tone. Oh dear. Before Officer Friendly could ignore that and ask for tickets again in a disgusted monotone, they popped up on his phone. She waved us through towards a bank of elevators with a chubby, indifferent hand. Another holocaust worker shot out of nowhere with blond curls and a peppy demeanor. She was the radiant ying to ticket bitch’s yang. You would have thought she was seating us at a Disneyworld character breakfast. She had obviously never read up on XYKLON-B or what they were making the lampshades with in Nazi Germany.
We were put in an elevator with a large, equally happy family. Mom was smiling widely as they bantered. She was standing directly in front of the elevator’s panel of buttons. Smiling. No button was pressed. Nothing was lit up. Nothing was moving. A couple of dreary pics of German soldiers added to my discomfort from above. Do I…move her? What do I say? Can I get in there? What if she thought I meant her ass? Her ass was almost ON the panel. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. WE WEREN’T MOVING. There’s no switch outside they can press? It’s hot in here. They’re talking like it’s fine. Is this like the Haunted Mansion and we’re actually going down but it’s so mechanically deft we can’t feel it? Scotty didn’t notice. He’s looking at his phone and reading the walls. Swiss Family Oblivious are laughing and chatting like it’s the cherry blossom festival. THERE’S GONNA BE FOOTAGE OF EMACIATED CORPSES BEING MOVED OFF OF TRUCKS WITH PITCHFORKS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THOSE DOORS. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE. I made my move.
“Can I…” I advanced towards Denim Elevator Panel Ass, weakly pointing behind her. She looked at me, and then turned to see why I was invading her space. Her mouth opened wide and she began giggling.
“Oh! OH! We were just sitting here! I’m sorry!”
“Way to go, Mom!”
I smiled nervously (“Oh, that,’s ok!’ I shrieked), sweat beads barreling down my ivory expanse of a 10-head. Social anxiety is the fucking worst. Button pressed. Nothing happened.
Nothing happened. We were in a hot elevator with nothing happening. They didn’t even give us a button light for assurance. Was this part of the show? That’s fine, we deserved to suffer. We deserved a portly ticket taker making us feel stupid. We didn’t go through what all those people went through. We deserve to sweat and feel awkward in this hell-avator.
The doors sprang open. Cool air rushed in. The happy Holocaust worker regarded us quizzically. Blonde curls bounced as she cocked her head to the side like a curious toy poodle.
“Well, um, wait? What happened?”
“I guess we weren’t going anywhere…” Denim Elevator Panel Ass Mom offered helpfully. Happy went to get Grumpy. She waddled over with a ring of keys and her usual stank face. Resentfully flipping open a little door on the panel, she shoved a key in, and pressed the button again with a girthy finger.
“This breaks…,” she announced moodily to no one in particular. She was never one for an apology.
The doors shut, the floor shook and hydraulics hummed. Up.
“DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK DUDE!”
“FUCK FUCK FUCK DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
“DUDE DUDE DUDE DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
That’s how their conversation initially sounded to the person unschooled in “young douchebag.” Eventually I and the other spectators who were just trying to mind our individual business while waiting for our rides were able to figure out that someone gave someone a dirty look. A girlfriend might have been involved? Pinhead #1 was white and short. Pinhead #2 was perhaps Filipino(?) and short. I say “Filipino” because he had brown skin and Asian features. I am a close-to-middle aged white woman and I have next to no clue how to discern between certain ethnicities. White people in America are clueless. There’s guilt about it. To be frank, there’s not so much “guilt” as there is “fear of being found out as ignorant.” Yes, I worry about these things.
Pinheads #1 and #2 did a lot of literal chest thumping, I noticed Pinhead #2 still had one earbud in. Was he being coached? It’s like Cyrano De Roxanne!I need to completely remove my ear buds when I speak to people, and when I order at Dunkies so I am sure to SCREAM at the counter person without meaning to.
The threats and dialogue got increasingly more amusing. It was confirmed by the smirks and chuckles of the two other young men trying to separate them.
“Dude, you wanna fucking go? You wanna fucking go?”
“I’ll fucking slap you, man.”
“You’re gonna stab me? YOU’RE GONNA STAB ME, MOTHERFUCKER?!?!”
I’ve never seen someone get so enraged by thinking someone threatened to stab them. Most people would just run, or find a brick, or call a cop. Pinhead #1 began clawing at the neck of his t-shirt, and flexing his (sub-standard) muscles. It reminded me faintly of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, a former WWF (that’s what they called it back then) wrestler whom I used to watch as a child and thrill to his weird speech intonations when I wasn’t staring at spandexed man ass and pretending to care about champion belt match outcomes.
There’s more –
who was so annoying in The Day The Earth Stood Still that I wanted to reach through the TV and alarm DSS. The Smith family are always together on the red carpet, and the kids are always in edgy outfits despite being kids. I hate that. I had boogers at that age.
Will is one of those guys that there are gay rumors about but I tend to think he turns to dudes only because sex with Jada looks like it might be painful, like humping up on a large concrete hexagon. She just looks like she has a lot of edges. Ow.
When you’re 9 and fabulously wealthy, you get to cut hot singles in the studio about whipping your hair. It makes me a little uneasy. I don’t think a 9 year old should be whipping her hair about. I think I saw Morgan McMichaels showing a rotund housewife how to do that so she can reclaim the sexy fire in her life on Rupaul’s Drag U. Little girls don’t need to be anywhere near sexy fire. They need to wait until they’re at least 30. Doesn’t she have dolls? Why is someone auto-tuning a 9-year-old?
Imagine you’re the producer and you have to bow down to this little girl in the studio. “I want a sound like when unicorns booty dance. WHERE IS MY CAPRI SUN?”
What about Yo Gabba Gabba and blankies *sad face*? The lyrics sound fairly clean, but who at 9 has the drive to go running around with her little gal pals and giving face and acting like they are grown-up fierce ladies, and being the terror at the food court? Who am I kidding? They all do.
Also, her music has one up on her mom’s. Cause Jada is a big dykie Korn fan or some shit.
So Gisele just had Brady’s kid Benjamin (except she didn’t get kicked off the gravy train for it like other bitches. Hi, Natasha from Sex & The City) and now she’s giving interviews how she’s the best mother ever as if she was the first woman to have a baby. Arrogant tramp. And she’s also on this kick where she has declared that all women should breastfeed. She even said so in an interview with Harper’s Bazaar (via The Daily Mail). Start your breast pumps, ladies.
“I think breastfeeding really helped. Some people here think they don’t have to breastfeed, and I think, “Are you going to give chemical food to your child, when they are so little?”
“There should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months.”
So would that be like, Norfolk County District Court that would do that sort of thing? This ho has been a mom for seven months and now she’s trying to tell you how to raise your kids? EFF THAT! Let me tell ya a little something. I have a friend who was like TERRORIZED by the tit nurse (or whatever you call her, lactation nazi?) after giving birth into giving it a try. My friend (who is a sane woman who loves her two children) said it was comparable to having some sort of demonic lamprey clamped to her boob. DEMONIC LAMPREY!!! Isn’t it enough she massaged a child with her innards out of her cave of pleasures? A BIG CHILD out of a hole that doesn’t really make sense to push people out of? That’s where I say “My body has done it’s part. Let’s go down to the CVS and buy that fake milk stuff!”
My friend opted not to breast feed. It just wasn’t her. The kids will be fine. Watch one of them win the Nobel Prize or cure cancer or kill Miles from Work of Art! Then that kid needs to walk up and slap Gisele Bundchen in her supermodel mouth for being so damn fascist about breast feeding! She should be more worried about this lesbian business her husband has going on. My Mom didn’t breast feed and look how I….shit, you bitches need to breast feed.
Ok, I totally don’t understand the Justin Bieber thing because he’s 3, but I do understand tween/teen fanaticism because it’s totally how I felt about (old-school) Johnny Quest when I was five. Seriously, the turtleneck…the twink haircut….I was down for it. I was crying and screaming and holding signs at our TV. Plus, the Bieberdom is starting to yield some interesting shit…notably that his parents are getting yanked into the tween idol maelstrom and we all know that never works out.
Point is – Justin’s dad has his own website, complete with plenty of topless photos. And Playboy has reportedly offered Justin’s moms 50K to show off her tatters. SCORE!
So the next chapter in the Twilight…you aren’t really wanting me to type “saga” are you…just kick me in the nuts, then…premieres in LA on Thursday. It is now 10:22 pm Eastern time on Tuesday. Guess who’s camping out down at LA’s LA Live complex with cardboard cutouts of Robert Pattinson, tearful declarations that they would have his baby if only he would look at them and SEE THEIR EXTREME LOVE, and shitty panties (there is no way Ashley is getting out of line to use the bathroom at the taco place on the corner because he might show up and look at Jenn instead and Ashley got Robert’s face tattooed on her upper lip because he is vampire majesty who stalks her dreams and she will run Jenn over with her parent’s Honda Element if Robert ever dared look at Jenn and not her)? Yeah, Twihards. (more…)
So my friend Madams sent me the link to the blog of Mercede Johnston. Who’s she? She’s the sister of Levi Johnston. Who’s he? He’s the redneck youth who knocked up former vice-presidential candidate/bimbo politico Sarah Palin‘s daughter Bristol. Apparently, Mercede (Madams is funny because he suggested she was named that because Mrs. Johnson thought Mercedes was the plural) hates her twat of a former-girlfriend-in-law and needed to set the record straight. I LOVE when adjunct non-celebrities of sorta-celebrities set the record straight. Oh she’s got a Paypal button on her blog, don’t even disbelieve it, honey.