OOC – The eyes are the groin of the head

At my old blogspot there were certain blog tropes that I hated. One of them was the “I’m drunk and/or high right now so this post is going to be super weird!” post. I am not on any sort of pain medication but this still kind of feels like that sort of post.

An HR lady at a job once told me that my worst trait (and I have many according to her) is my desire to publicize my failures. I will admit that yesterday when I poked myself in the eyeball with the corner of a gift bag and sliced that eyeball open like a boar eating a cantaloupe, my instinct was to e-mail everyone I knew and tell them how stupid I am.

Since my eye stings, obviously I can’t work out today. I thought I was past the point of looking for excuses not to work out but here we are. Mildly disappointing.

The good news is that I still have 20/20 vision. I got laser eyeball surgery about 20 years ago and you’re supposed to go to the ophthalmologist every year to see if your vision is degrading because laser eye surgery is still new enough that they don’t really know the long term effects, but I never do it. And my vision is fine so my laziness has been rewarded after the fact.

The bad news is I can no longer make fun of someone I know for having to go to the ER twice for getting glitter in their eye. Or at least I have to cut the fun making in half.

The only weird thing about my visit to the clinic was the doctor wanted to shake hands. We’re both there wearing masks and there’s signs everywhere about covid and she wants to touch me? I waved her off, which people really don’t like. I was hoping that sort of thing would go away for good out of the pandemic but people seem to be backsliding.

I saw Salma Hayek on an advertisement for an HBO show and I thought to myself “What HBO show is Salma Hayek on?” Turns out she’s going to be on a new show where she plays a woman whose boobs start talking to her. This sounds insanely awful to me, but perhaps I’m not the target demographic.

It put me in a mind of another show on a streaming service that I don’t think exists anymore where little Anna Kendrick went on a cross-country adventure with a sex doll that came to life. I started writing a script for that concept for a reboot of Mannequin only it was a horror movie because if a sex doll came to life, I figured it would be pretty upset about it’s existence.

Salma Hayek said recently that she was happy to be cast in the Eternals because the only roles she gets offered now are “old hooker” or “grandma”.

I never saw the movie Grown Ups but I understand that in this movie Salma Hayek plays Adam Sandler’s wife. And there’s a scene where Sandler goes to a yoga class to ogle the instructor. Because Salma Hayek isn’t hot enough. For Adam Sandler. I used to think that the media didn’t really have much effect on people but I’m starting to change my mind. Maybe things like this are part of the reason that mouth-breathing troglodytes used to come into my store and say that Halle Berry wasn’t pretty enough for them. They’d do her if she begged them, but it would be charity.

I watched the Matrix 4 the other day. It was fine. I was never a big Matrix man but I was interested to see what it was about. It felt very much like Force Awakens in that it was mostly just a remake of the first movie only I loved Star Wars enough that a remake got me with its emotional manipulation. I’d say a good 15% of the dialog in Matrix 4 was someone speaking directly to the audience saying “remember how much you liked the first movie? This is that again!”

In conclusion there was a show on IFC called Documentary Now! that was pretty good overall but the best episode by far is a parody of the Thin Blue Line called The Eye Doesn’t Lie.

December 3, 1973 – Why couldn’t it have been girl scout cookies?

I don’t know if it’s something all military people do, but Blue and Martialla love planning.  They say things like PAWPERSO and draw diagrams on napkins and move around salt shakers on tables and stuff like that.  They should get some of those little army men like they have in the movies.  Blue and Martialla talk and talk and talk and in the end generally we don’t do anything.  I mean sure, maybe that’s because I get fed up and do something rash before their plan can happen, but they should account for that if they love planning so much. 

Who knew that navigating the world of criminal syndicates would be so boring?  Why do they need outsiders to do all their dirty work?   I guess it makes sense, if you’re a criminal mastermind, anyone you can handle without losing too much you’ve already handled, so you’re left with rivals that you can’t safely attack – it takes interlopers to break a stalemate.  And if they fail who cares because they’re not your people anyway.  Disposable assets. 

Martialla wasn’t entirely wrong about what she said.  She wasn’t totally fair either, but she wasn’t out of line to speak up.  We’ve been avoiding each other.  Honestly I’ve been sulking.  Just a little bit.  It’s one of those things you do where you know you’re doing it and you know you’re being immature, but you can’t seem to stop yourself.  Maybe I should go to one of the temples around here and learn to mediate, get some discipline or enlightenment or something.  If nothing else I hear those monks can fast for days without any issue, maybe at the least they could teach me a technique for suppressing my hunger.  Or maybe I could just find some diet pills.   

Blue and Martialla were out ‘scouting’ so I was sitting in the closet-apartment staring at the wall when there was a knock at the door.  No one has ever knocked on our door before.  It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing.  I theatrically pulled myself up off the floor with a sigh and went over to answer.  At the doorway were three women.  One of them was wearing a strip of sheer black fabric in the manner of a deep-V thong one piece swimsuit.  Another was literally dressed like a dominatrix, black leather dress, thigh high boots, she even had a riding crop.  The third was the most conservatively dressed of the bunch, because she had a cape over her black (of course) bustier and garters set. 

“Uh . . . can I help you?” 

The one with the cape frowned slightly “Are you Lason?” 

“I don’t know what that is.” 

They looked at each other and then the dominatrix spoke up “Maybe we have the name wrong, you’re the woman who robbed the casino, right?” 

“Uh . . . . maybe?” 

Vampirella had to get her voice heard “Can you control men’s minds with your pheromones or not?” 

I rolled my eyes “Oh lord, I should have known you were looking for her based on the way you’re dressed.  How did you even get here like that?  Do you have change for the bus in your crotch?  No, I am not the woman dressed as a hooker that TRIED to rob the casino with a bunch of mind-controlled morons and her ass hanging in the wind.  I’m the woman that successfully robbed the casino WITH PANTS ON like an adult.” 

Dominatrix looked over my shoulder “If you robbed the casino, why are you living in a closet?” 

“I’ve had some financial setbacks, shifting priorities in the marketplace and such.  I assume you’re looking for her because you’re recruiting, are you guys The Femme Force Five?  You’re going to lose the alliteration if you become The Femme Force Six.”

“No, and also the Femme Force Five already has seven members, according to them traditional counting is an oppressive patriarchal tool.”

“Of course, so who are you, the bikini bandits?  I’m not interested, but I’m glad you’re here because I have to tell you ladies something and you’re not going to like it but you need to hear it.  Now understand, I am not one of those bra-burning far left types that say all sex is rape, but . . .” 

Cape leaned in slightly “You don’t look like you’re wearing a bra.” 

“I lost my bra, forget about the bra, this is not about bras.  Well it sort of is . . .” 

Vampirella looked confused “How you lose your bra?” 

Dominatrix looked down the hallway “Did you check the laundry room?  I think I saw it on the way in.” 

“I . . . what?  Look, here’s the bottom line, I understand wanting to look sexy.  Really I do.  Especially when you’re performing, because what you’re doing really is a performance.  I get that.  When I’m on stage . . .” 

“On stage doing what?” 

“I’m a singer.  But that’s not important, I’m saying that . . .” 

Cape peered at me again, she must need glasses “A singer?  Should we know who you are?” 

Before I could answer, Vampirella snapped her fingers “I knew I knew you from somewhere! You’re that girl that sings Love Me Sexy, aren’t you?’ 

Dominatrix smirked “You sing a song called Love Me Sexy and you’re going to lecture us about the way we dress?” 

I shook my head “No, I mean yes, I do sing that song sometimes but that’s a Jackie Moon song not mine, and yes that’s actually exactly what I want to talk about.  When I’m on stage . . .” I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts “I’m all discombobulated here.  Look, here’s what I’m saying.” I pointed at the whip the one with the cape had on her hip because of course she had a whip “This is a problem, okay?  What are you doing with a whip?  Why do you have a whip and your boobs out instead of a bulletproof vest and a rifle?  You don’t see a man running around with a whip, do you?  Because . . .” 

“Zorro had a whip.” 

“He did?  Well forget about Zorro, that’s a different thing than what I’m talking about here.” 

Cape put a finger to her mouth “Didn’t Alan Quatermain have a whip?” 

Dominatrix nodded “Yeah, and Sherlock Holmes did too.” 

“What?  Sherlock Holmes never had a whip!” 

Cape did that thing where you close one eye and look up when you’re trying to remember something “Yeah . . . yeah he did, in The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.” 

Vampirella shook her head “No, that was a loaded riding crop, it’s a Bartitsu thing.” 

“What the hell is barbijitsu?”

Dominatrix waved her riding crop around “But this is a whip basically right?” 

“Why do you guys know so much about Sherlock Holmes?  It doesn’t matter though because . . .” 

Cape stepped back behind her two pals “You’re right, it doesn’t matter because you’re not who we’re looking for.  Kill her.” 

The dominatrix stepped forward with a kick to the gut that sent me stumbling backwards into the room-closet.