Bones to pick

Begin rant.

Bone One: Sergei posted recently about this phenomenon in our area, where all the east-west streets are under construction so you literally cannot ‘get there from here’. Yesterday, in a rush to get the kids to their respective sporting events, I discovered yet ANOTHER main thoroughfare with drab orange barrels blocking half the lanes. Is this some sort of conspiracy? I mean, I know the roads have to be worked on in the summer, when the weather is nice…but ALL the roads? Are ya kiddin’ me? Conspiracy, I tells ya. All designed to sell more soda pop and bath mats. Or something like that.


Bone Two: I have a confession to make. It’s not pretty, and I don’t know why I can’t get free from its grip. Here goes. I’ve been having lustful thoughts about those Geico cavemen. (Shoot me. Shoot me now. PLEASE.) It’s not that I think they’re boffo spokespersons for selling insurance, and let’s face it…they’re not particularly pretty to look at.

Or ARE they?

I dunno, there’s something about that hairy, big-foreheaded, metrosexual-meets-mastadon look that really gets me hot. Maybe it’s because I made mango salsa last weekend, or the fact that those commercials are on All. The. Time. Or perhaps it’s because of that damn Royksopp song that is haunting me. Possibly it's that no one in the blogosphere seems able to find a photo of the actor Jeff Daniel Phillips, one of the sexiest cavemen (I can't believe I just typed that). Perhaps it’s the righteous indignation, and how maybe he just needs to chill with me and a bottle of wine, out on the terrace, where we laugh and joke and I see the innocence behind his overgrown brow, and he is so taken with my homo sapien charms that he can’t resist touching me with those huge meaty paws of his, grunting and groaning like some animal, ooh baby, like an animal, and just before we….
GAH!

What?

There is definitely something wrong with me. I blame the hormones.

I even became all consumeristic yesterday and went to this website and played around a little. They did not get naked for me. I was hoping. But I am 100% sure their tv show will tank. Sure. 100%.


Bone Three: The other commercial that has done me in lately is this one, because of the damn song, so catchy (it’s called “Voila”, by Michael Tolcher). THEN I made a stunning realization this morning. It’s the Hilton Hotel chain. Hilton. As in “Incarcerated Paris” Hilton. Which got me thinking…any time anyone stays in a Hilton Hotel (or any of their other brand hotels…Hampton Inn (dammit, I liked that place, too), Doubletree, Embassy, Homewood…we’re feeding money into Paris’ pocket, and feeding her extravagant habits. Do you realize she NEVER has to work a day IN HER LIFE? And that her family consists of gazillionaires? Who don’t give a crap about anything but who are very certain they can buy their way out of any situation? That she and her ilk are in danger of becoming role models for our girls? Argh. The whole thing makes me want to spit. Let’s all buy motor homes and avoid hotel chains, camp out in someone’s back yard, and stop charging our vacations at 17% interest so we can buy the Hilton family more vacation property and cocaine.

End rant.