Jingle Balls

Contributed by Kris

In case it’s not totally obvious at this point, I should say that my mind gravitates towards the absurd.  I find that I’m drawn to artists who make really odd choices whether that is in lyrics or in instrumentation or in personnel.  And in doing my research for my summer soundtrack, I had a really bizarre pull to a Christmas in July theme.  That led me directly to a recent release by Mrs. Olivia Newton-John and Mr. John Travolta.  Wait, who?  Did they remake Summer Lovin’ to the tune of Jingle Bells?  Sadly, they did not.  But they did team up again to produce an exceptionally crap-tastic Christmas album, This Christmas.  

I should clarify.  ONJ was on her game; the voice is still strong with that one.  JT (not Justin Timberlake, who is currently sporting Barry Gibb’s falsetto) seemed to struggle… and by struggle I mean lose the battle.  So why would I want these two dictating my mood all summer long?  

Six words: I Think You Might Like It.  The song has generous helpings of auto tuned voices (cough John cough), cheesy lyrics, and sleigh bells.  This is the song that will be played in the elevators in Hell or in Mr. Travolta’s case, elevators in Xenu’s volcano.  

I know it sounds like I’m crapping all over this, and I am.  But in the best way possible.  This song is infectious.  Like Hep C infectious.  I dare you to listen to it while staring at the accompanying photo.  You’ll never get it out of your head.  And for that quality alone, it is Summer Jam worthy.  It’s also pretty ballsy that they named this jingle I Think You Might Like It when everyone involved knew damn well that we probably wouldn’t.  So what I learned after listening to Olivia and John is that my search for The Summer Anthem of 2013 will continue… cuz this ain’t it.

Let the Music Play

Contributed by Kris

It’s that time.  It’s time to set the whole tone of Summer 2013.  Will it be a Summer of Love?  Will you need an anthem to rave and drink to?  Or is it a season of loss and sadness and sunburn?  Of course, I mean it’s time to pick a Summer Jam.  You’ve gotta be proactive.  You can’t just passively stand by and let the Top 40 determine the whole course of your next 3 to 6 (depending on the effects of global warming) months.  You’ve gotta take just a few minutes for yourself.  Listen to your heart.  Listen to your inner voice(s).  Listen to Pandora.

I’ve really cut it close on coming up with my own Summer Jam.  Since I primarily listen to NPR on my morning drives  and to old country music on my iPod, my choices tend to come down to Terry Gross and Charley Pride.  Fresh Air does not a Summer Jam make.  But as I am still trying to make a choice, I decided to share some of the finalists for my Summer anthem.

You’re the Reason Our Kids are Ugly by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty - This one is a little tricky because it could signal that you and your lover (to use an 80’s throwback reference) are in the midst of a Hot Summer Feud or that you’re pregnant again.  Neither option seems like a great way to spend your summer months.  And everyone knows that heat, humidity, and pregnancy bloat are a terrible combination.  I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that my relationship is stable, and I will not be having any more kids (dogs/cats/turtles).  But this song is still a strong contender, and not just for the Ruth Buzzi shout-out.  It’s upbeat and snarky and funny and bitchy.  It practically demands that you drink to get through it and through the work week.  It speaks to the disappointments that we all feel from time to time with our mundane lives.  And it gives us the freedom to blame someone else for those problems.  What’s better than a guilt trip and a whiskey?  I can’t think of anything either.

I'm Gonna Do This

Contributed by Sarah:

Two Things

Contributed by Kris:

Dear Morning Commuter,

Holly Holly Holly Holly Holly Holly Beach

Contributed by Kris:

Thursday

Friends!  Hugs and Air Kisses.  Stairs of death.  Visors with our nicknames!  Freezable drink bags and coozies!  How do we get all of these groceries in the fridge?  There is NO room.  You cannot see the table.  I need a drink.  We all need a drink.  Rocking chairs!!  And a view of brown waves crashing along the shore.  This is a ghost town.  Catch up.  Refills.  Spillage down cleavage (this motif will repeat often).  Linda, get the hose!  Laughter.  International sign for Waffles.  We are learning new things.  Time to break in the Fry Daddy.  Tater tots wrapped in bacon

and kissed with jalapeno.  Delicious.  Time to walk the beach with Linda.  Dead fish.  Dead fish smell.  Seriously, like baby dolphins except not.  Porta-potties on the beach.  Genius.  Back to the porch.  iPod time.  And singing.  And Chicago popcorn.   I’ll make love to you!  I mean it.  T likes Jim and Ginger too!  Bonding.  Feeding the legendary Puddin’ Pop Hush Puppy Catherine Grace Halbert of the Alexandria Halbert Sea Pee-ers a bite of Chicago.  Probably drunk.  More laughter.  Fritters.  Put them in our face.  Decide to make banana pudding (confirms drunken state).  Passing out commences.  How does this get any better?

Friday

Nobody is sleeping late.  Wait, what?  Gulf breeze is keeping it pleasant.  It’s close to 9.  We need a drink.  Fritter and Peaches start cooking.  The fear of the chicken liver is real.  But it is overcome.  Mimosas may have a helping hand.  How many bottles of champagne?  A bunch.  It’s not even noon,  but we’ve found our drunk.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Porch Twerkin’ with the gang.  Not ready for advanced.  But we learn where our Twerk buttons are.  Porch Twerkin’ commences.  Wally Wally Wally World.  Keep your feet turnt out.  Sweet ‘Tater gets mechanical.  Found a good use for the outdoor shower, ahem.  That man on the plow is circling again.  Drunk crafting with Puddin’ and Lucy.  Oh, it’s a competition.  Paint on Grace’s elbows… and fingers… and maybe face.  She is winning.  Plow Man is in a cement truck now.  Hot Dawg and Waffles and Fritter brave the beach with the sweetest beach cart known to humankind.  It can hold up to 4 beach chairs and a cooler.  Or 4 dead children.  Some bananas need a nap.  And a snack in bed.  Check on the

beach crew.  There is burning.  And the birds are crazy.  Dead fish smell.  People can drive on this beach.  Mostly in trucks with Confederate flags.  That’s right, plural.  Back to the safety of the porch and those rocking chairs.  Linda, get the hose!  Realize we actually forgot a few groceries.  How is that possible?  Trip to the store.  Plus we need ice.  That poor ice maker has had it.  Waffles takes a cat nap on the drive through the marsh.  Is laughed at cuz it’s adorable.  Lucy and Matt make crawfish dip.  Drink it up.  Where did those kids next door come from?  We can get louder.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Ready for advanced twerkin now.  Cards Against Humanity.  Sweet ‘Tater is killing.  Laughter.  T is drunk, and funny as hell.  The Blood of Christ ends it.

  Smell Yo’ Dick.  Funky Fresh Senior Choir sings Hey Ya’ and Ridin’ Dirty.  See, we’re louder than those kids.  Find crumbs from Puddin’s lunch nap snack.  We were warned.

Saturday

Early to rise.  Everyone.  This never happens.  Wait, Lucy is still asleep.  Someone has to represent.  Crock pot tater tot casserole.  Yes please.  And we all need the recipe.  And we need to finish these bottles of champagne.  Wally Wally Wally Wally Wally World.  Feet are still turnt out.  Get low.  Drunk.  Grace is still wearing crafting paint.  Rocking in the chairs and listening to the Gulf.  People are parking trucks and RVs on the beach.  Only in Lousiana.  Booze spillage.  Don’t tell Linda.  Hot Dawg is experiencing swelling.  The sun is cruel to fair skinned folks.  Headed to beach with Guac and Hush Puppy.  Load on the sunscreen.  Roll over every 20 minutes.  Gotta finish this drink before the Jim gets too hot.  Sun is stealing my buzz.  Back to house.  Time to bbq.  Fritter is grilling hot dogs and vegetables.  We need the roughage.  Neighbors won’t let Fritter feed the pug a hot dog.  Poor, mistreated mutt.  Lucy to brussell sprouts:  ‘how does it work?’  That happened.  Laughter.  We are all vegetable experts, so we tell her how it works.  She has no love for the grilled sprout.  Eating is becoming work.  Full time job.  The sun and booze have zapped us.  Energy is

Have A Cow

flagging.  Pictionary and drinking and rocking on the porch.  We are definitely louder than the kids.  We are definitely tired.  We are definitely gonna have a lot of food leftover.  We are still laughing.

Sunday

Last day with our Chicago family.  Boo!  More porch sitting.  We have run out of champagne.  Shit’s getting real ya’ll.  Wonderful Gulf Breeze.  The Fry Daddy has a very regimented fry schedule til the girls fly out.  Grace does not have paint on her anymore.  When did that happen?  Lucy is done crafting.  That pergola will take what she gives it.  Hush Puppy finally gets hush puppies.  TV time and drinking.  Brother starts circling.  Quick trip to soak up some sun.  Drinking has become a job.  I need water.  Maybe I’ll stay sober tonight.  Back to house.  Hot Dawg’s ankles are still swollen.  Some kind of Bates Motel marathon is happening.  T and Waffles are heading out.  (Throw up International Waffle sign now.  Seriously, do it!)  So much laughter and so many stories.  UP is thrown out as possible location for next year’s trip.  Kinda like we have an exchange student program happening.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Brother and Jackie land at the same time as our girls depart.  Guess I could have one more drink.  The bottle is almost empty.  Cut to Lucy stories on the porch.  Scooby!!  Puddin’ dating stories.  Asbergers!  Brother stories.  Tchefuncte!  Laughter.  I gotta cook shrimp creole.  Holy Hell… I’m

drunk.  This was not supposed to happen tonight.  What this creole needs is more heat… ummmm…. Nope.  You can see the table.  Dinner happens.  It is good.  Our faces are melting off.  Grace decides she wants to live, so she takes a nap.  Smart girl.  Sarah gets  nicknamed T.T. by Brother.  We are once again in peak form and rocking on the porch.  Oh no.  Peach Moonshine.  Bonds of friendship dictate that you drink from the jar.  Oh no.  That jar is empty and I’m taking pictures with Jesus.  Stairs of death… especially when you’re hammered.  Seep Seep Nigh Nigh.  My feet are turnt out.

Monday

Shut ‘er down.   Holly Beach, you have been everything I needed.

HGTV @ 1:00 a.m.

Contributed by Ben:

My Annoyance with HGTV @ 1:00 a.m.

Long-haired brother of Property Brothers:  Your designs are usually great.  However, how many times can you say that the backsplash is “dramatic” and really mean it?  I keep wondering when the backsplash will start tap dancing and/or have jazz hands.

Delivery people:  How hard is it to deliver the correct couch?  When people order a grey couch, they really don’t want the brown one.  The fact that these delivery people continue to bring the wrong couch tells me one of two things:

     A. They are color blind.

   

     B. They truly want to be a designer and believe that the 

      brown couch will create the correct mood in the space.

How dare you!  Bring me the grey mood that I asked for in the first place.

Realtors:  Oh Jesus, help me…  When your client says, “I have a budget of one million bucks,” why oh why would you show them houses for one billion?  When someone says not a penny more, they usually mean that they can’t afford the top budget of one million, you greedy whore realtor.  Sometimes your gamble pays off, and the dumbass buys it.  But that doesn’t make you a good realtor.  It makes you a greedy whore and an enemy to the prosperity of ‘Merica.

Dumbass Yuppie couple buying a Lake House:  Why???  You have no children; you don’t like Nature; you work too much to really enjoy the place; you don’t have any friends.  No one likes you!  On second thought, maybe you belong at the lake.  Stay away from me until I decide to move to the lake.

P.S. Mr. Yuppie… The side by side fridge at the lake house isn’t small.  It definitely isn’t too small to hold your “weekend beer.”  If it is too small, the fridge isn’t the real problem, now is it.

One more thing:  Canadians, just because you are paid a decent living wage doesn’t mean you get to rub it in our faces.  If you can get excited about a two bedroom shack that needs upgrades for $440,000, then I say that you, Canadian, are welcome to come by my garage sale any day!

Rhymes with Name?

Contributed by Lucy:

Can you find the word that does not, in fact, even remotely rhyme with "name?" 

Courtesy of Rhymes.net.

Dear Cashier,