Monthly Archives: August 2009

Random n’at.

bffs

1.  The five-day forecast for Pittsburgh is obviously a giant back-pat from God for all of Pittsburgh for being so awesome.

weatherforecast

I accept that back-pat and I ask God to remember our awesomeness come February when He’s deciding how much longer winter should last.

2.  Regarding that Steelers poodle we were discussing last week, it has a name and the name is … wait for it … Roethlispoodle!

You can see Roethlispoodle in action in this youtube video.

I particularly like 1:43 when Roethlispoodle looks out into the audience and uses his eyes to say, “Hey, you. If you kill me right now, I won’t be mad.” and also at 2:47 when Roethlispoodle really JUST WANTS TO LIE THE HELL DOWN ALREADY.

Poor doggie.  I’d rather be Paris Hilton’s purse chihuahua Poopsie Binkie than be Roethlispoodle.

(h/t The Mysterious M)

3.  Speaking of the Steelers, have you seen the Steelers house? It puts the GAWD! in gaudy.

I’m all for showing the Steelers love, preferably in the form of ripping Daniel Sepulveda’s shirt off so I can see what the Good Lord gave him, but this is a bit much.

A bit.

4.  Speaking of a bit much, The Dread Lord Zober friended me on my Jane Pitt facebook (I heard demons shrieking, I did) and I accepted that request (I heard succubi weeping, I did) to find this:

yzpgbffs

BFFs?! Best friends forever? Me and The Dread Lord? Should he and I go find a tree and carve “VM & YZ BFF” into the trunk? Take a blood oath? Wear each others clothes? (I’ve got a pair of do-me boots I think The Dread Lord could totally pull off) Get one of those necklaces where he gets one part and I get the other and never the twain shall meet until one of us dies, but even then, bury me with mine clutched in my hand so I’ll never ever forget him?

Clearly he’s trying to lure me to the Dark Side with his cute little sense of humor and ridiculously interesting facebook updates, but let me say this, Lord Zober:  I have ears all over the city and I have heard some of the things you have said about me, so don’t buy me that necklace just yet.

[swishes light saber with gusto while shouting to the sky: “I’LL NEVER GO TO THE DARK SIDE! NEVER!”]

I will bet you the sum of ONE … MILLION … DOLLARS that the Dread Lord de-friends me today.

5.  This is a picture taken from the P-G showing a math teacher in action teaching fractions to students at  Manchester Academic Charter School.

hotteacher

The article is awesome and I failed the fraction quiz miserably because pie wasn’t involved, but that’s not why I’m pointing this out to you.

I’m pointing this out to you because MY MATH TEACHERS NEVER LOOKED LIKE THAT!

Teacher + brains + blue jeans + arm muscles = 100/100% hot.

Gosh, I hope I used that fraction correctly.





Woof! When “woof” means “fug”.

From the Daily Mail:

They may resemble pandas, buffalos and camels – but these animals are actually poodles, all competing for the title of top dog at ‘creative grooming’ shows across the U.S.

Something of a canine fancy dress contest, it takes just two hours for owners to transform their pets, which are sheared and coloured to achieve each look.

So you go to that site and you scroll down and then your eyeballs, they protest, all, “WTF ARE YOU SHOWING ME?!  I ALREADY SAW SANTONIO’S PENIS! GAWD!”

Poodles.  Poor poor unfortunate poodles turned into things like fairies, peacocks, and buffaloes.  Seriously. BUFFALOES.

Thoughts:

1.  I always thought that buffalo was the plural form of buffalo. I learned something today.

2.  The only NFL team that would have a fan crazy enough to transform a poodle into a football player would of course be the Steelers.

poodlesteeler

All that’s missing is a babymama for him to smack around.

3.  Who goes to a breeder or a pet store, looks at a poodle and says to themselves, “Man, I bet with a bit of spray paint and $500 worth of accessories, that poodle could be a dead ringer for a meerkat or a bollweevil or [gasp] LADY DI!”

(h/t Meck)





The Dread Lord speaks. Prepare to be destroyed.

If you’ve never been a reader of my blog before, you might not know that I branded the Mayor’s right hand man Yarone Zober as The Dread Lord Zober. You can go here to read why I gave him that nickname.

Today, I got an email from the Dread Lord himself:

Just dropping a line- Welcome to public (and un-anonymous) life! Folks tell me about your blog, though I don’t really read blogs, and I have enjoyed the title you’ve bestowed on me so much that I asked the staff to make a nameplate of it for me for Hannukah. They did, and I proudly display a “Dread Lord Zober” nameplate on my desk now. Thanks for loving Pittsburgh.

The Dread Lord Zober

I was skeptical, so I responded:

Dread Lord,

Are you serious? I’m going to need proof, as in a picture of this nameplate. In fact, a picture of you HOLDING the nameplate while handing out “DESTROY HIM” orders.

I’ll be waiting!

V.

To which The Dread Lord sent me this:

IMG00153

First, this pleases me so much. Do you think Lukey has a “Hizzoner Master Lukey” nameplate?!

Second, Dread Lord, I call baloney on the “I don’t really read your site” crap. Admit it. You read it. Sometimes you love it; sometimes you want to destroy me.

Bring it.





Facebook repost.

Some of you have asked me my view on the whole Ben Roethlisberger is a Dirty Reno Himbo fiasco (Isn’t that what the media is calling it, officially?) and I realized that outside of the 1,000 of you I am facebook friends with, lots of people haven’t read what I initially wrote about Ben Roethlisberger being a Dirty Reno Himbo ™.  Here is what I said, and keep in mind that in light of recent news, I’m inclined to believe that Benny didn’t assualt the woman, but merely had consensual dirty bow-chicka-bow with her.  In other words, he’s no rapist, just a Dirty Reno Himbo.

As I wrote:

Dear Your Highness Duke of Fug, Earl of Gross, and Shagger of Wenches:
Benny. Benny, Benny, Benny.

Benny!

It’s not enough that James Harrison beat his babymama or that Najeh Davenport went and pooped in a closet.

It’s not enough that Santonio choked his babymama, smoked weed while driving, had a twitter account allegedly called @Pussy_Monstah, or flashed his GIANT FRESHLY SHOWERED PENIS for all the world to see.

It’s not enough that Jeff Skippy Skeeve Reed is a whore. A proud whore who will beat the ever-loving shit out of any paper towel dispenser that dares cross his whore path.

You had to go and add one more flag pin on the great big map of Steelers Public Transgressions. This one in Reno.

You know, Benny, for as long as you’ve been in Pittsburgh, I’ve had issues with you. Whether it was your stupid “injury” to the Thumb Which We Don’t Speak Of, your fugness, your grossness, your playing, or anything else about your non-helmet-wearing-crotch-rocket-riding ass. And since you’ve been in Pittsburgh, you have been vehemently protected and defended by your Fug Bunnies (tm PittCheMBA).

Your Fug Bunnies.

Those insane women who take to your blog to write things like, “Benny, we met once that one time and you looked at me and I love you and I have just now carved your name on my breasts and I’m bleeding and OMG call 911! Or don’t. BECAUSE I WILL DIE FOR YOU!”

Those very same women who lit the match that sparked the flame that lit the room that revealed the light bulb that was the bright idea to start calling you The Duke of Fug and The Earl of Gross.

Those very same women who, once, so angry at me for daring to speak badly of you, called me “an barf ugly woman.”

Those very same women who believe that you really do “play for Jesus”, who refused to believe the stories of you partying in Vegas while watching lesbians make out in your private VIP suite, who, no matter what evidence I gave them to the contrary, insisted that you are pure, Godly and perfect and spend all of your time being celibate, chaste, and in prayer while buying K-9 dogs with all of your money.

You’ve successfully wrapped up a very faulted human package in a very Troysus-like wrapping paper. But I have peeked behind the paper and it’s very very meh in there.

Being rich and famous, you should know that in order to keep this Good Ohio Boy facade intact, you should at all costs, avoid The Crazy. Eschew The Crazy. Don’t touch The Crazy with a ten-foot pole or your penis.

You should not invite The Crazy to your room for sex.

The Crazy will bite you in the ass, carve your name on her breasts, and then bleed the hell all over you while dialing her lawyer’s number and vomiting repeatedly while sobbing about how much she loves your stupid, gross, fug, himbo, lesbian-loving, Vegas-partying self.

Now, all of this is assuming you didn’t sexually assault The Crazy. If you did assault The Crazy, you deserve to have Jeff Reed give you the Sheetz Paper Towel Dispenser Treatment and it should be focused heavily on your donkey omelet region, you stupid gift-wrapped bitch.

PittGirl





Miracles still happen, right?

baby_finger

It has been a long time since I read a story in the newspaper to find it splotched with my tears by the time I get to the last word.  The last time that happened was when I read how John Challis would sit up late at night with his father and would apologize to him for not being able to beat the cancer that eventually took his life at 18 years of age, but not before he managed to rally the city to make the most of the moments we’re given.

I am still affected by him.

So this week when I saw WTAE’s Kelly Frey’s gorgeous blue-eyed face in the top header of my morning Post-Gazette, little did I expect to read the story that I did.

Before I say anything, I beg of you, do not turn the comment thread into an abortion discussion.  If politics is the boiling lake of lava of controversy, abortion is the actual Sun. You can’t get any hotter. (Dear space scientists, if there is something out in the universe hotter than the Sun, keep it to yourself.) You will not convince someone to change their view on abortion by using your words any more than you will convince someone to switch political parties based on some statistics.

What I do want to tell you is this:  Kelly Frey is carrying a baby not expected to live long at all outside of the womb. You know how I feel about sick kids, and this baby is the youngest and the sickest possible and I can’t imagine ever having to look at an ultrasound and daily feel a baby kicking around with glee inside of me, all the while knowing I will never have the chance to know the child long enough to see him simply smile.

It’s heartbreaking and I just wanted to be sure you were all aware of it and I’m sure, like me, you have never wanted a miracle for someone else more than you want this one for Kelly.