8 Reasons Lists Are For Sissies

For the past two days, Anna has been totally pimping out her plan for world domination, which is, simply put, list-making. She says it makes you look more legitimate and God knows I am in dire need of that.
So, I have decided to jump on her awesome bandwagon and make my own list. So, pay attention, kiddies. Here goes.

Shonda's 8 Reasons She Thinks Lists Are For Sissies
1. I want to remember the wildly important shit I need to do solely on the superb power of my brain. I mean, sure, I'm gonna totally drop the ball at times. For example, I've been twisting my mind in knots for weeks to muster up the memory to renew my license so I don't have to take the whole freakin' test again. I thought about putting it on a list, but lists are for pussies, right. So, I wandered down to the tag office today after weeks of the information pinging around in my skull to complete the quest.
They were like, "Dude, this expired a month ago."
And I was all, "Ummm....a month minus one day."
Then she was all cleaver and said, "We don't have a grace period."
And I was like, "Shit, do I have to take the test? I barely passed it the first time and even then it was just by the grace of being a skinny, flirty 16-year-old and striking the good fortune of getting a slightly pervy driving instructor who was slap dab in the middle of his midlife crisis. I mean, I don't think a fatass housewife in gray t-shirt will have the same postive effect twisting her gum and batting her eyelids."
And then the super cool lady eased my concerns by saying, "You don't have to take the test. You just have to have your birth certificate."
So then I blurted, "Well, hell, that's even worse. I live 30 miles from here and tracking that bitch down will be harder than finding an American bank with money left to lend."
And that's when it hit me.....my birth certificate was in my car, where it has been since we went on our cruise in May. Like once a freakin' week I've seen the damn thing and thought as I stuffed it in the crevice beside my seat how taking it in the house and putting it with all the other "properly-filed" important paper work inside the house was the responsible thing to do. But, I would leave it, you know, 'cause I like living on the edge.
I ran out of the tag office and went straight to the birth certificate in my car. So, my inefficiency and supreme unorganization totally paid off, bitches!
Oh, I forgot to mention, though, that the license making machine broke on the girl right before me, so I spent 30 minutes sitting at the kiddie bench staring at a list of the presidents for nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, I do think I have all their middle names memorized now, which should come in handy when I chant them in question form at Alex Trebek while my two sons stare at me as though my hair is on fire.

2. If I started making lists, the polar ice caps would most certainly melt into a rushing universe of water. Now, I know you are probably thinking, "Geez, Shonda, I think your wacky liberal mind is finally eating itself. One list won't rise the temperature of the earth by 20 degrees."
Well, perhaps, ONE list wouldn't. But, in order for the purpose of list-making to be realized, you must actually arrive at the desired location with the aforementioned list. Since I would have to make a list about the list and, in order for it to work, I would have to repeat that process so many times my fingers would bleed from all the rapid writing, at least 8 trees would have to meet their chainsawed end for the mission to met success.

3. I am not Go Go Gadget. Shocking, I know, but I am not. So, for a list to exist (rhyme time, bitches), I would have to figure up a way to transform my finger into a pen. Although my house is a virtual ocean of pens, they all have a use.....one use.....the same use. And, what is this vital purpose, you ask?
Ummm.....to hold my stringy hair out of my face. I have a few mere drops of sanity left and they all depend on my hair staying out of my hair and off my neck. If, for some reason, Operation Keep My Shitty Hair Away From My Skin fails, I fear I will storm into some random barber shop and violently perform the Britney Buzz upon myself. Sadly, I don't possess Brit's class and charm, so I just don't think I could pull the 'do off like she did.
Before all my damn hair ties mysteriously evaporated into the great nothing, our household pens were allowed to be used for other purposes, you know, like writing. Or as medieval weapons in the Great Battles of the Little Brothers. But, for several months now, each and every hair tie I own has vanished. Wait, I take that back. I have one that is broken in the middle so I have to twist it around my hair like 14 times for it to hold up a pony tail and then the wrap is so tight it makes my temples throb, but still, my hair isn't touching my damn neck.
I have intended for a long time to splurge the $3 for the package of 30 hair bands, but I just never remember when I am at the store. If I made lists, I would totally put that shit on it.

4. Shopping without lists turns the boring, drab experience of household duty into a sport. Seriously, I think Las Vegas bookies should make odds on it.
"Hey Moe, Susie Homemaker's got a big birthday party this weekend, plus her diabetic father-in-law is spending the weekend. She has 22 items to buy at the grocery store, 17 to buy at Wal-Mart, plus she needs to have the propane filled in the guest house. I will lay you 4 to 1 odds that she forgets at least 9 things."

"Well, Lucky, let's make it a parlay. I'll say she does remember the propane, but that she forgets to buy the anti-allergic soap her mother-in-law needs at the health food store. Plus, my money says she remembers the kid's cake, but forgets the candle and that she forgets at least 11 items at the grocery store."

"You're on, bitch."

5. For chronic underachievers such as myself, the rare shopping success is an absolute self-esteem boost. When you realize that your outting was victorious, you can relate to Alexander the Great when he conquered the world. Well, the part of the world that they knew existed at the time. Alex can't be docked for the regions he didn't know about just like I can't be punished for not being aware that Rowdy ate his last pickled jalapeno. I don't eat them, I don't like when my bottom burns like a peeing sailor with the clap. Therefore, I cannot be held responsible for replacing them unless Rowdy directly tells me that ass-burning pickled jalapenos are gone.

6. 'Cause I like to party. I realize that has absolutely no relevance to this particular discussion, but I giggle like a school girl every time I get to that part in The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. My sister always busts that out at random times. I find it humorous each time she does, but I bite my lip to strangle the laughter. I mean, seriously, she can't be the pretty sister AND the funny sister. That funny shit is mine. I only let her be the pretty one because I think beauty is for vain people. Well, that and I'm too cheap for plastic surgery.

7. Because I can't find one of those chalkboard necklace contramptions to wear around my neck. Now, if I could hunt down one of those awesome jems, I would make lists for the sole purpose of making my poor husband shake his head and continue to wonder out loud just how many different types of Mexican date rape drugs I slipped him on a daily basis until I lured him down the aisle. Seriously, I should write a book titled, "How To Get Any Man To Marry You Before They Realize What A Thorough, Batshit Crazy Wackjob You Really Are."

8. Well, I'm only to number 8 and I'm out of aimless ramblings to add to this list. I think that only furthers my argument that I am a bad list maker and should just never, ever have to do it. Plus, lists are for sissies.

Our Country Boy Convert

Here we are on day 4 of the Webling invasion on the ranch. In case you don't know what I mean, my friend Mollie's boy has been bunked up with us while she and her man have been partying down in Vegas.
As my husband would phrase it, Carson is a town boy. Now, for my non-Okie readers, I'm sure you are giggling at the notion of a young man who lives in a community of 10,000 that goes by the name of Elk City being a "town" boy. But, to Rowdy, any area that is inhabited by more than, I don't know, 500 people spread out over 20 square miles might as well be South Central Los Angeles.
Just a few hours away from home, Carson the "town" boy, he's already picked up some of my "country" boys' ways. On morning one and morning two, he found his way to the bathroom to tinkle in the potty. But, by yesterday, he was outside with my boys, masking in the freedom of whizzing off the porch.
Rowdy, as you know, is totally down with the exploitation of child labor. The day he found out I was pregnant with Ridge Rowdy daydreamed about the day he could bark, "Jump down in that grainery, boy, and clean that shit out," or "Run down there and grab that gate and let's sort of those sick calves." I could go on forever. And, as Rowdy continues to inquire about just when I will be caving in and bearing one more future employee, I know his motivation. Dude, we are getting old and we need some teenagers about the time we are 50.
Anyways, after the boys finished their lunches, we went outside to to play and sweep underneath the carport. When Ridge got his new boots for school, we started calling his beloved old pair that he's worn every single day for a year his "work" boots. He just couldn't take the pain of totally retiring them, plus it keeps the new ones looking shiny a little longer.
So, as we went outside, Carson shucked his checkered shoes and pulled upon a spare set of ours while declaring, "These are MY work boots!?
Yup, he's becoming a country convert. Rowdy is basking in his victory. He has one more night with us, so perhaps I'll send him back in a pearl snap with a lunch pale full of calf fries.

The Clothes Hangers are Melting My Brain

To The Person Sneaking Into My House to Steal My Clothes Hangers,
Fucking stop. No seriously, stop. I'm hip to you, I know what's going down. I mean, what other explanation is there for 20 hangers disappearing each and every week. Are the children gobbling them up for a mid-morning snack?
Every time I do laundry, and I mean every damn time, I have two or three items left in the basket without a hanger to call its own. This is leading me spiraling toward an inevitable meltdown, friends.
So, listen up close hanger thief, I'm through with being nicey nice Shonda. It's time for the claws to come out, bitches.
Sincerely,
Shonda

PS--If you would like to donate clothes hangers toward the cause of me not going completely apeshit crazy, by all means, do. They only have a life-expectancy of 1 month max at our house, but perhaps that will save me from an inevitable freak out.

The Death of an Immortal

As I logged onto myspace this morning, I saw my friend Susan had posted a bulletin titled, "Paul Newman has died." Reading it, I felt like I was a bit out of breath.
You see, I have been a long admirer of Paul Newman's, and not just because he was one superfly 83-year-old that I dreamed of five minutes alone with in a coat closet.
At a time when our country was sending our sons to die in an unpopular war, Paul Newman made the hard choice of making his opposition public, a decision that could've cost him his career. And, because of the actions he took, he found himself on the original Nixon's enemy list.
Now, as you know, I reference Nixon's enemy list often because, really, it is some of the craziest shit ever to come out the Oval Office. The top of the list detailed the goals of existence, which was, "This memorandum addresses the matter of how we can maximize the fact of our incumbency in dealing with persons known to be active in their opposition to our Administration; stated a bit more bluntly—how we can use the available federal machinery to screw our political enemies."
We all know the guys in charge now have thrown their power around to burn anyone in their powerful paths (do the names Joe Wilson and Valerie Plame ring a bell?), but even these assholes weren't nutty enough to whip out a pen and paper and make a fucking list to carry around in their lapel pockets. Nixon, as it is, was a special kind of crazy. When reporter David Schorr read the list on live air, he didn't even realize he, too, was on it until he got to his name.
Beside each person's name was an explanation as to how and why they were unlucky enough to have Tricky Dick deploy the IRS upon them. Paul's said, "Paul Newman, California: Radic-lib causes. Heavy McCarthy involvement ’68. Used effectively in nationwide T.V. commercials. ’72 involvement certain."
Nixon had hoped that he could disentegrate Paul's character and the American people would instantly distrust the actor. The mission failed and Newman said on many occasions that he considered being on the list was the greatest accomplishment of his life. One of my favorite authors, Hunter S. Thompson of Fear and Loathing fame, said that not making the list was the biggest disappointment in his.
Paul was a celebrated actor and director, as well as a businessman. He said of his wife, the woman he wed in 1958, "I have steak at home, why go out for hamburger?" Of all the marriages we see melt into a bitter nothingness, Paul and his beloved Joanne Woodward gave us a shining example of lifelong fidelity.
Paul spent his life fighting for the underdog, a true romantic until the end. As someone who shuned the Hollywood lifestyle, he died in the Connecticut farmhouse he raised his children in.
As those who fought the imperialism of Nixon continue to leave this life, I tip my hat today to the great Paul Newman. You will be missed, not for your acting, but for your patriotism.

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Thousands of Cattle Still Missing

Yesterday, the New York Times published an article detailing the ongoing efforts to find and rescue the 25,000 cows that are estimated to have gone missing as a result of Hurricane Ike two weeks ago. 10,000 of the cows have been found alive, but the others are still missing or already dead. The efforts of the groups and volunteers working to rescue these animals (and the livelihoods of farmers and ranchers throughout the region) are truly heroic.

Rare articles like these remind us that after the initial media circus surrounding natural disasters dies down, the terrible effects for local residents linger for months and years. At Farm Aid, we try and bring attention to these issues and help farmers in the areas through our Family Farm Disaster Fund. Last week, we gave $30,000 in initial grants to four groups working to help farm and ranch groups in the region. Please donate today to allow us continue to respond to this and other disasters in a timely manner.

In addition to the article, be sure to check out the amazing photos of cattle and the rescuers in the area.

Lessons From the Past

Our country is in danger, not just from foreign enemies, but above all, from our own misguided policies. This war must be ended and, in my judgement, can be ended. It doesn't involve giving up, but it does involve not continuing to follow the same bankrupt policies that we are following at the present time.
Bobby Kennedy, 1968

The "Don't Be A Douchey Joke Thief" Campaign

In case you've somehow missed it, the heavens came together this week to make the universe just a little more harmonious than it was before that. No, I am not referring to the fact that the government is finally keeping it real rather than trying to mislead you into believing that you live in a capitalist country. That's not it at all.
Dane Cook, douche bag supreme that he is, is finally being recognized as such by the rest of the world. Apparently his little puppy has been shitting all over his Los Angeles neighborhood and, in keeping with being a total dick, Dane has refused to pick up the doo. I mean, he is a semi-star, right. You wouldn't ask Brad Pitt to pick up shit. Except that Brad Pitt isn't a dick, so he would.
The neighbors complained, the poop continued. His landlord gave three formal notices to pick up the mess, the poop continued. The landlord finally filed a lawsuit to evict Dane and, after the judge ordered his ass out, Dane suddenly takes this shit (pun very much intended) seriously. While appealing the ruling, Dane has explained that leaving the apartment would deal him an emotional hardship. You see, Steve Martin and John Belusi once lived in the same building and Dane claims that he draws inspiration from that for his work.
Here's my question: Are you fucking kidding me, Dane? Inspiration for what? Writing? Pah-lease! For comedy fans like myself who are constantly looking for a good act to follow, we know that many of your jokes have been stolen, straight up stolen, from other comics. Listen up, Readers. Do you know how to tell if a Dane Cook joke was written by someone else? If you laugh, that's how.
For my dime, few things are most lowdown than a joke thief. It goes beyond stealing money, it steals the craft the writer uses to make money.
In case you don't take me at my word on this, just watch these two videos below of jokes Dane Cook has stolen. Then you can join me in my quest for the extermination of Dane Cook, or at least his presence on my television.


When I rented Dan in Real Life, I was excited to watch this movie with my man Steve in it. But, I couldn't get into it. I spent the whole movie wondering how that asshole Dane Cook got in the damn thing. Where all the actors dead? Couldn't they find some vagabond on rubbing alcohol to play the part?
I'm far from alone on these sentiments, just google it. As yeeeah, said, "In what might possibly be the first concrete evidence that God exists and does not hate us, Dane Cook was evicted from his apartment because he is a selfish, oblivious asshole who refuses to use a pooper scooper."
Now, I've believed in God my entire life, so I don't see this has the first evidence of his existence like yeeeah does. I just think of it more as Him giving me this little gift to make up for the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson presidency, kinda like when your man sends you flowers after he feels up the babysitter.
So, heed my warnings, Readers. Dane Cook is a dick and, even worse, a dirty joke thief. Don't watch his movies, no matter how much you love Jason Biggs and/or Kate Hudson. I've always enjoyed both their movies, but I won't be watching this new movie My Best Friend's Girl. Why, you ask. Because Dane Cook is in it and, unless the video is of him being a joke thief or getting evicted or enduring some other act of misery, I will watch no footage that includes him.
I think I am going to have some of those bracelets made to raise public awareness. We will call it the "Don't be a Douchey Joke Thief" campaign.
Or, as yeeeah also said, "I mean, you can’t expect a sack of shit to go around cleaning up piles of shit. That’s like asking someone to shoot their own brother in the face."