I have been so busy being the coolest bitch on the planet that my poor blog has fallen by the wayside. My life is not interesting enough to talk about on a regular basis, so I have come up with a way to blog with a purpose. Not a staggering life-altering purpose, but a purpose nonetheless. A while back I brought up the amazing website Songfacts and our tendency to vote on anything and everything that comes to mind. I've decided to randomly go through the list of my Top Fifty Favorite Songs and tell you why I love each song and what part it has played in my life. I will report that I have extremely varied and odd taste in music, from the almighty Tenacious D to Etta James to Run DMC to Rick mother fucking Astley. You may read the original post here. And don't worry, we've done a second Top Fifty since that post so you've got at least 100 golden nuggets to look forward to.
It is the last day of November and the last day of my self-imposed sentence to blog daily. Sure, I fudged a bit with some double posting to make up for a couple missing days, but you got 30 solid blogs out of me. Suck it if you don't like it.
So what have we learned about Kari aka Tenacious Peaches?
1] I cuss too fucking much. 2] I love the shit out of Shannon. 3] I am one tractor pull away from getting my official laminated redneck membership card. 3] I always go for the cheap joke. 4] I whip out my cans way more than necessary.
Fascinating creature, ain't I? Thanks for coming along for the ride, people. Love you...mean it!
I've suddenly become a target for Asian porn spammers so I've finally caved in and activiated the word verification thingy. I blame Bev and her blog about Dr. Duk Dong. I think reading that put me on some sort of watch list. I can only imagine what reading about Lady Gaga will bring me.
So I'm watching Spongebob mother loving Squarepants with the Peachlette today when I see a scene where the absorbent and yellow and porous fellow tells his driving instructor, "See you next Tuesday!" Being the vulgarian I am, I got the reference right away. However, at a football party I attended this evening, I shared the story and no one got it. Am I alone in knowing what this phrase stands for? Help me out, people. Do I have to spell it out for you? Fine, here it is.
STEP 1: Go buy a turkey STEP 2: Take a drink of whiskey (scotch) STEP 3: Put turkey in oven STEP 4: Take another 2 drinks of whiskey STEP 5: Set the degree at 375 ovens STEP 6: Take 3 more whiskeys of drink STEP 7: Turn oven on STEP 8: Take 4 whisks of drinky STEP 9: Turk the bastey STEP 10: Whiskey another bottle of get STEP 11: Stick a turkey in the thermometer STEP 12: Glass yourself a pour of whiskey STEP 13: Bake the whiskey for hours STEP 14: Test the lurkey for numbness STEP 15: Take the oven out of the lurkey STEP 16: Floor the lurkey up off of the pick STEP 17: Turk the carvey STEP 18: Get yourself nuther scottle of botch STEP 19: Tet the sable and pour yourself a glass of turkey STEP 20: Bless the saying, pass and eat out
This should catch me up with daily blogs. Less than a week to go in November. Will I make it?
TOP TEN THINGS THAT SOUND DIRTY AT THANKSGIVING BUT AREN'T:
10. "Reach in and grab the giblets." 9. "Whew...that's one terrific spread!" 8. "I am in the mood for a little dark meat!" 7. "Tying the legs together will keep the inside moist." 6. "Talk about a HUGE breast!" 5. "And he forces his way into the end zone!" 4. "She's 5000 pounds fully inflated and it takes 15 men to hold her down." 3. "It's cool whip time!" 2. "If I don't unbutton my pants, I am going to burst!"
... and the number one thing that sounds dirty at thanksgiving but isn't.....
1. "It must be broken 'cause when I push on the tip, nothing squirts out."
I've mentioned this before but I'll remind you again as it has to do with this story. I was born and raised in Connecticut and after a slight 3 year detour in Florida, I have lived in Georgia for the past 18 years. My family train was firmly parked in Dysfunction Junction yet I have very distinct traditional memories of Thanksgiving. We always had our odd assortment of relatives (step and otherwise) over to the house for a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. My mom and I would have an official ceremony to name the turkey every year before we stuck it in the oven. I remember such names as Penelope, Frankenfurter and Zsa Zsa. Real Norman Rockwell type shit.
Now I love my in-laws and consider them to be more a family to me than my own. However, we don't see eye to eye on the Thanksgiving process. More often than not, they don't serve turkey.
No turkey on Thanksgiving? That's by God un-American. They also have random side dishes that I certainly did not grow up with. The oddest of the odd is pear salad. I apologize in advance if this is something you eat but that shiz is nasty, yo. This culinary delight consists of half of a canned pear filled with mayonnaise and topped with shredded cheese and a cherry. What the frikkity frak felch? It's like someone tripped in the kitchen and said, "What the hell...we'll just go with it."
I couldn't bear the thought of a turkey-less Thanksgiving this year, so I made my own for the three of us. Sure, we'll be eating the bird for the next 5 weeks, but that's okay. It made me happy to hold on to one of the few good memories I have of my childhood.
It is my pleasure to introduce the Turkey of the Peach Family 2009 - Bessie Higgenbottom.
Daughtry performed at the AMAs Sunday and I was once again paralyzed with love for that bald bastard. I've been in deep smit with him for years, as evidenced by my first public declaration seen here.
I mean, really...how can you resist this? He is truly the other white meat.
My group of peeps went to see Daughtry a couple of years ago. I was there with the besainted Mr. Peaches on our anniversary weekend. That alone tells you what a marvelous man he is. Anyhoo, Daughtry rocked our collective faces off and I "woo-ed" like no other fat old woman in the history of fat old women. As we were leaving the venue, we realized we were right by the tour buses. To this day, I don't know if I really saw him or just imagined it, but in the moment I swear I saw my beloved bald Daughtry board one of the buses. This is when I decided to whip out my then 38 year old cans and shake them in public. Why, I have no idea, but I was very proud of myself for having done so.
This story was brought to you by the letter "T" for tatas, tomatoes, and titties.
Warning: There is nothing funny or clever about this post. If you are looking for the usual tasteless yet sometimes humorous vulgarity featured on this blog, come back another day. We's about to get sentimental up in this piece.
This is for the sweet Peachlette, my beautiful daughter Ally, in honor of her 6th birthday. I cannot believe how blessed I am to have that tiny little person in my life. I had no idea how much I needed her until she got here and I am thankful every single day for the miracle that she brought to my life. *sob*
This blogging every day shit is getting to me. It's hard to find the time every day, hence the multiple blogs in one day.
I was watching The Silence of the Lambs for the trillionth time today and I was again astounded by how much I love it, especially the scenes with my man Buffalo Bill. Here are some random parodies and such.
I hate trains. I live in a teeny tiny south Georgia town with a ridiculous amount of train traffic. The tracks basically cut the town in two with only 1 overpass and the piss poor alternative of getting on the interstate for less than a mile to go over the irritating iron horse.
And of course, being the transplanted redneck I am, I live by the train tracks and the overpass. I hear the goddamned train whistle all the freak-frakking live long day. Most of the time I can tune it out, but when I am aware of it, I am ridonkulously aware of it.
I'm watching The Wizard of Oz and having the time of my life. This is the greatest movie of all time and I love it so much it hurts.
I totally believe that Dark Side of the Moon syncs up with Oz and I don't even get high.
For you know who.
Gotta love Family Guy.
Shout out to The Wiz!
Click here to see the Diva Off clip from my new favorite show of all time Glee, featuring Kurt and Rachel. The song is Defying Gravity, from the Broadway musical Wicked, which is based on The Wizard of Oz. It's all circular, man.
I would be remiss if I did not share with you a picture of my sweet Ally dressed as Dorothy for Halloween last year.
My child has lost her freaking mind. I swear she stumbled upon a meth lab on the way to recess. She is zooming through the house like Speedy effing Gonzalez.
Here she is showing me the contraband Now & Later she snuck into her room at bedtime. I don't know how she got it past me. I think she called in Jack Bauer and CTU for a rogue candy smuggling operation. Damn it, Chloe.
And here is the Tasmanian Devil jumping on her bed. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the three wisemen, the sheep, the gold, the frankincense, the myrhh, and the star of Bethlehem.
She's lucky she's cute or I would have put her in a basket and left her at an orphanage a long time ago.
I love me some Jeopardy. I've watched it with Alex Trebek as host since the 80s. He's still not the same without the Canadian porn 'stache.
I have tried out for the show twice, to no avail. That shit be hard, yo. However, I'm determined to keep trying until I make it. I haven't tried out since Ally was born, so I've got to get it together and, in the words of my silver fox Tim Gunn, make it work. I need to make this happen before La Trebek retires, which should be soon considering he has to be in his early hundreds.
I'm so obsessed that my ring tone is the final Jeopardy theme. A student stole my cell phone out of my office about a year ago, so I keep my new phone in my bra to prevent future thievery. Every so often I forget to turn my phone to vibrate and my boob will ring out, "Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo, doo doo doo doo, doo, doo...bum bum."
Obviously, any talk of Jeopardy would be incomplete without without mentioning the SNL Celebrity Jeopardy skits featuring Will Ferrell as Trebek and Darryl Hammond as Sean Connery. A special shout out goes to Norm MacDonald as Burt Reynolds aka Turd Ferguson.
10 Commandments of the D 1. Never stop Rocking. 2. Legalize all drugs. 3. Quit your day job. 4. All Religion should be taxed. 5. Cut down on carbohydrates. 6. Fuck her gently. 7. Never believe what people tell you after a show. 8. Always take a spoon full of Metamucil after a heavy day of eating. 9. Get at least 9 hours of sleep a day. 10. Eatin' ain't cheatin'.
The lovely and delightful Bev wanted her devoted readers to show their office spaces. Since I have a huge girl crush on her, I've decided to comply with her wishes. I am very easily manipulated.
Here is my work 'puter. Note the blog, people.
Artwork by the southern Picasso, Ally. I don't think you can see it too clearly, but there is a picture of her in a tiny little University of Georgia Bulldog cheerleader outfit. I don't want her to grow up to be an acutal beer pong playing, crystal meth snorting skank UGA cheerleader, but she's cute enough right now that I'll allow the fantasy.
Sidebar - Here's one of my favorite UGA jokes:
Q: What do Georgia and pot have in common? A: They both get smoked in bowls.
Moving on, here is more art by the miniature Monet, a picture of Mr. Peaches and the Peachlette, and a thank you card from one of our sweet students. I love most of them.
Yes, I am one of those mothers who have pictures of their rugrats all over the place. Go frig yourself if you don't like it. This is my area of motherly statues and a cutout of Ally in her ballet outfit. Notice that amongst the nurturing environment is the plant that I am systematically trying to drain the life from.
Sidebar - Here's one of my favorite jokes addressing my terrible grammatical habit of ending sentences with prepositions:
A Southern belle finds herself sitting next to two New England yankees on an airplane. The belle turns to the yankees and asks, “So, where y'all from?”
The yankees look at each other and turn up their noses. One of them says, “We're from a place where we don’t end sentences with prepositions.”
Without missing a beat, the belle replies, “So, where y'all from, bitches?”
Yes, I'm still sticking with my "post every day in November" self-imposed sentence. The Rerun post from earlier is technically my Saturday post. I was unable to blog yesterday because I was at the Big Pig Jig.
The Big Pig Jig is a yearly barbeque competition and festival held in Vienna Georgia. The Big Pig Jig is now one of America's largest cooking themed festivals.
*Over 120 cooking teams are expected to compete for top honors.
*Competition rules state that barbeque is defined as pork meat only that is prepared on wood and/or a charcoal fire.
*Over 25,000 festivalgoers are expected to take in the two-day event this year.
*Cash prizes are awarded to the winners and prizes awarded in the past have totalled over $15,000.
The Jig really is a big deal around these parts. It's been featured on the Food Network as part of the show Good Eats with Alton Brown.
One of my favorite things about the Jig is the yearly themes. This year it was "Pigieval Times". Other themes have been "Hogaritaville" and my beloved "The Wizard of Hogs".
I'd like to point out a couple of things before I regale you with my favorite Pig Jig story.
First, it is held in Vienna, GA. 99% of people on God's green earth would call the town Veeenna, as in the capital of Austria. However, the lovely citizens of south Georgia refer to the town as Vyenna, as in I don't know how to pronounce words correctly. Of course these are the same people who call the town of Milan, Millin, as in "chillin' like a villian taking penicillin in Milan". Jesus Christ on a cracker.
Second, the thriving metropolis of Vienna boasts one traffic light. I grew up in Connecticut until the age of 19, lived in Florida for three years, and then moved to Georgia. Not just anywhere in Georgia, mind you. Vienna, Georgia. I was driving home after work late one night and to my utter amazement, a goat wandered into the intersection. I swear the bastard paused for dramatic effect under the one traffic light in town just to freak me out. That shit doesn't happen in Connecticut. Martha Stewart simply would not stand for it.
Okay, it is now time for my Big Pig Jig story.
The delightful Mr. Peaches and I were married on October 14, 1995. My two bffs, Julie and Betsy, flew down from Connecticut to be my bridesmaids. We did not plan this as part of the nuptial celebrations, but the wedding just so happened to fall on the same weekend as the Big Pig Jig. Being the good hosts we are, we took the wedding party to the Jig to show Julie and Betsy how the rednecks lived.
People, we had the betrunken time of our lives.
There is really not much to actually do at the Jig unless you are part of a cooking team. One would think it would be a smorgasbord of porcine taste testing, but it's not. It's a competition, so all the teams are cooking for the judges, not for the general public. It's great if you know a team, because they will feed you much pork and beer. My darling friend Tara and her husband Jeff were kind enough to shower me with delicious ribs yesterday. 'Tis manna from heaven, I tell you.
Anyhoo, back to the redneck bachelor/bachelorette party. There were three girls and three guys in our crowd, wandering around trying to see what we could get into. My friends were flabbergasted that you had to purchase beer tickets at one booth, then go to another booth to get the beer. They were even more flabbergasted that one had the option of buying a 12 pack of beer (Bud or Bud Lite - anything else is goddamned un-American) and walk around with it.
So we proceed to see the limited sites of the Jig. Back then, they had a mini carnival set up with rides. Personally, I refuse to get on those fly by night rides. Have you seen the people that set the rides up? Mother fucker, if I can't trust you to brush the 3 remaining teeth you have in your head, I damned sure ain't gonna trust you to put together a 3 ton mechanism that could potentially be my final resting place. Hell to the naw.
The guys in our group, including the besainted Mr. Peaches, didn't care about such logistics, so they got on the Tilt-a-Whirl. This ride has cars that turn independently whilst the ride is also turning. The girls, including my betrunken ass, thought it would be funny to flash the guys as they were spinning around toward us. Of course it never occurred to us that as we were flashing them, we were also flashing everybody at the Jig.
To this day, I still have the urge to lift my shirt up whenever I go to the Jig. Good times.
Why do most of my stories end up with me whipping out my cans?
I'm tired but I can't sleep. I'd sleep but I'm too goddamned tired. The Sandman can kiss my exhausted non-sleeping ass crack. Here's some sleepy stuff for you.
God/Allah/Yaweh/Hasselhoff had best let me have my goddamned bacon and light bread for breakfast before he calls me home or else I am gonna be one cranky beeyotch. Don't make me throw some 'bows up in heaven.
On the advice of someone near and dear to my heart, I've started watching "The Big Bang Theory". I must say that it is rocking my nerdly world. I dig me a dork. Enjoy!
I sing whenever the mood strikes me, at the top of my lungs, making the ears of those around me bleed. I know I suck, but I still want to be heard, damn it.
I have been known to pick up any object around me and sing into it like I am on stage at the Apollo. It doesn't matter what it is, although I have an affinity for singing into beer bottles. A quick glance at the pictures of me posted by friends on Facebook confirms my madness.
Criminy, I don't know if those pictures make me proud or embarrassed.
Anyhoo, I am laying the groundwork so I can tell you that my all time favorite sing-into-my-beer-bottle song is "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad", featuring the vocal stylings of Mr. Marvin Aday, aka Meat Loaf.
Songs just don't get better than this, people. It is so achingly sad that you can almost hear Meat's voice start to break from the sheer emotional power of it all. I just cannot resist its melancholy cheesetasticness.
A year or two ago, after listening to me belt out the song for probably the thousandth time, my dear friend Kelly informed me that she'd never really paid attention to the lyrics. After the shock wore off and I was brought back to consciousness with smelling salts, I proceeded to perform the first of many heartfelt renditions of "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad".
This dramatization came to be known as "The Spoken Loaf".
I start out quietly, allowing the story of the two lovers unfold. I speak into whatever is closest to me, clutching my hand to heart. I throw in the occasional cuss word or three for emphasis, such as "there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you, mother fucker". I really come into my own right after the drum break following the classic line, "But there ain't no Coupe de Ville hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box." I go from speaking to singing, letting all the hurt and despair flow from my body with broken notes and wild gesticulations. I end the spectacle on a gentle note, with my voice cracking and the back of my hand on my forehead, whispering, "Baby we can talk all night, but that ain't getting us nowhere."
I'm too distraught to go on. Enjoy the Loaf, y'all.
Baby we can talk all night But that ain't gettin us nowhere I told you everything I possibly can There's nothing left inside of here And maybe you can cry all night But that'll never change the way I feel The snow is really piling up outside I wish you wouldn't make me leave here I poured it on and I poured it out I tried to show you just how much I care I'm tired of words and I'm too hoarse to shout But you've been cold to me so long I'm crying icicles instead of tears
And all I can do Is keep on telling you I want you (I want you) I need you (I need you) But there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you Now don't be sad (Don't be sad) 'Cause two out of three ain't bad Now don't be sad (Cause) 'Cause two out of three ain't bad
You'll never find no gold on a sandy beach You'll never drill for oil on a city street I know you're looking for a ruby in a mountain of rocks But there ain't no Coup de Ville Hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box
I can't lie I can't tell you that I'm something I'm not No matter how I try I'll never be able To give you something Something that I just haven't got
There's only one girl that I will ever love And that was so many years ago And though I know I'll never get her out of my heart She never loved me back Ooh I know I remember how she left me on a stormy night She kissed me and got out of our bed And though I pleaded and I begged her not to walk out that door She packed her bags and turned right away
And she kept on telling me She kept on telling me She kept on telling me I want you (I want you) I need you (I need you) But there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you Now don't be sad (Don't be sad) 'Cause two out of three ain't bad
I want you (I want you) I need you (I need you) But there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you Now don't be sad (Don't be sad) 'Cause two out of three ain't bad Now don't be sad (Don't) 'Cause two out of three ain't bad
Baby we can talk all night But that ain't getting us nowhere
It's Monday, so why wouldn't I be a cranky, hateful bitch? I was trying to get my stank ass attitude on earlier when my besainted husband told me my favorite corny joke to cheer me up. And I'll be damned if it didn't work because now I am full of sunshine and light once again.
In keeping with that spirit, here are some "walks into a bar" jokes. I'll start out with the one that made me BOLLADS (bark out loud like a dying seal) earlier. ______________________________________________________
A grasshopper walks into a bar. The bartender says, "Hey! We have a drink named after you!" The grasshopper asks, "Really? You have a drink named Steve?"
Three strings walk into a bar and find a table. The first string offers to get their drinks. He goes to the bar and asks for three beers. The bartender says, "I'm sorry buddy, but we don't serve strings here." The string walks back to the table and and tells his friends what happened.
"That's ridiculous," says the second string. "I'll get us something to drink." He goes to the bar and politely asks the bartender for three beers. The bartender says, "I thought I told your buddy we don't serve strings in this bar." The second string sadly walks back and and tells his friends what has happened.
The third string says, "Screw this. I know how to get us something to drink." He goes to the restroom where he ties himself up and ruffles up his ends. He then walks out to the bar and asks the bartender for three beers. The bartender looks at him, shakes his head and says, "Look buddy, I know your friends told you that we don't serve strings in this bar. You're a string, aren't you?"
To which the third string replies, "No, I'm a frayed knot."
Of course I must mention the ultimate "walks into a bar joke" with no punchline from The Breakfast Club:
A naked blonde walks into a bar, with a poodle under one arm, and a two foot salami under the other. She lays the poodle on the table. Bartender says, "I suppose you won't be needing a drink." The naked lady says...
