Video [Game] Killed the Radio Star[let]

A good friend of mine, well lets just call him Torrent, gave me a copy of the hot new Sim game called SimChina! So I installed it last night and played it for a few hours, and then, talk about crazy, I looked up and its freaking February! Talk about falling into a two month k-hole!

The game is pretty awesome though! The goal is to keep your factory running at top capacity. You can import workers from rural villages, and then when they sass up and disrespect your absolute power as factory owner, you can have them put in jail for expressing freedom of thought. My first factory was producing dog food as an export; I was able to cut costs by supplementing the ingredients with workers who were producing below efficiency. Luckily, switch from the production of dog food right before the American market found out the food was essentially poison. My new production line was up and running with the proverbial Big Leagues, producing plastic keytars for the XBOX game “Keytar Hero: Kajagoogoo.” My factory quickly became a massive conglomerate with the mission to sabotage the American education system by subverting the youth into not doing their math homework, thus positioning my conglomerate to take over the world!

No, the irony is not lost on me… but whatever, my dream to take over the world is very nearly realized… granted, only in simulation form, but you gotta start somewhere, right? Now if only I could educate my little sim workers so they would be smart enough to hack into Google and steal their corporate secrets before they pull out of the country. But the only way my SimWorkers can learn is through access to interweb classes from DeVry, but I had to set the interweb to “censored” so that my workers do not have access to radical ideas… oh the irony, indeed…

I should probably get something to eat...

Sinderella

I was getting ready to go to a Halloween party at Jack Nicholson’s house with my friend Pygar last night when I received a Robo-Call from Ticketmaster telling me that I needed to call them to correct a problem with my Miley Cyrus / Hannah Montana tickets [don’t judge, I mean how often do you get to see not one but TWO superstars on the stage… I wonder if they’ll do a duet…]. Of course I immediately put everything on hold in order to call back. I had front row seats after all. Well, let me just say, dear readers, that the US Government is doing this whole “Gitmo Interrogation” thing all wrong. They don’t need to be blasting Van Halen's “Panama” or doing water-boarding torture to these suspected terrorists… they just need to have them call Ticketmaster customer service. Now that’s freaking torture, I tell you what. After being on hold for four hours, turns out the show has been moved to another venue and I no longer have front row seats. Bullocks to that, I say, I didn’t really even want to go anyway… I was just talking it up so that I could jack up the price when I scalped them to Roman Polanski [I was even going to throw in some ‘Ludes…].

After getting off the phone, Pygar is all pissed off because he’d been waiting the whole time and we’re totally late for the party, but whatever, he was dressed all Ren-Faire. Which is totally weak, because he goes to Ren-Faire every year, so it’s not like he really even put any thought into a costume, he just pulled it out of the closet. Lame. I do have to hand it to him though, he may be a blind angel, but at least he isn’t totally affected like those other Ren-Faire people, fucking Ren-Faire, I swear. Actually, I take that back, instead of Ticketmaster-boarding, we just need to stick terrorist suspects in a room with Ren-Faire people, oh man, that would be torture. Gives me chills just thinking about it.

Anywho, so we finally get to this party, and yeah it was totally bumping, but by the time we get there, all the booze is gone, and everyone knows that “All Cranberry and No Vodka makes Frau a dull girl!” So I need to play catch up, but all they have is freaking Coors in a keg [Really. Coors. In a keg]. So I pop the ‘Ludes that I was going to give to Roman and everything is going pretty cool. I’m all mellow yellow, and this hot guy dressed up as Lindsay Lohan come up to me and starts putting the moves on, and I’m all cool, and we totally go out to the hot tub and start making out and he is a super hot kisser. Just as things are heating up, Pygar comes over and he wants to leave because he’s bored and he hates Coors [not that I blame him, but still, he makes a horrible wing man]. So then I’m off like Cinderella, I don’t bother to give my snogging partner my number or even tell him my name, I love to leave with an air of mystery. Though I don't leave a slipper behind, clearly Cinderella wasn't wearing Pradas, otherwise that bitch would have made sure she didn't drop no slipper.

This morning, I rolled out of bed around, well, who am I kidding, it was just half an hour ago [I can’t miss Oprah], and I’m reading the paper but when I see the headline, I nearly choke on a Boo Berry. Turns out that the guy dressed like Lindsay Lohan wasn’t a guy dressed like Lindsay at all, it was Lindsay Lohan. And there, on the front page, above a picture of Lindsay giving me a tonsillectomy is the headline “‘Samantha Who?’ Lindsay makes nice with new gal pal!”

"Scissor-me-timbers!” I exclaim to the Boo Berry Ghost, who says nothing. Though I can feel him silently judging me with those sleepy eyes of his. Well I certainly hope she wasn’t having a flare up… thats the last thing I need...

When life hands you lemons...

I was cold chillin’ at the local Coffee Bean with Angie talking about our plans for Halloween. I had asked her what she was going to be, and she said she was going to dress up as “Octomom.”

“Ah, a little ‘Victor/Victoria’ there. That’s fun,” I said, but she just stared at me as if she didn’t quite understand. “Julie Andrews?”

“No, Frau, Octomom has nothing to do with ‘The Sound of Music.’ Surely you’ve heard of her,” She said. I paused for a moment then sucked up the last of my Blended Ultimate. “Isn’t that your third one?”

“Yeah,” I answered sleepily. I explained to her that for the past month I had been staying up all night trying to capture some activity of the paranormal type on my fancy new digital camcorder, and it had started to really take a toll on me the past few days, so I was hitting the caffeine harder than I usually do.

“But you told me that you already knew that the ghost of Michael Jackson was haunting your place.”

“Yeah I know, but I was just trying to get some footage that I could sell to include in the final cut of ‘This is It.’ So far the only thing I got was some ghostly footprints when Michael moonwalked through some baby powder I put on the floor.”




“But, Frau, the movie came out already. It started playing yesterday.”

“Dang it, seriously?! Hmmm… well maybe I can use the footage and make like a total low budget horror movie out of it.”

“Uhm, Frau…,” she started, but then trailed off. Clearly jealous of my freaking fantastic idea. It’ll be like the “Blair Witch Project,” only better! I'll show her... I'll show all of them *MWAHAHAHAHA*

Eye spy with my little eye...

I don't know if this is one of those freaky "Magic Eye" pictures that were all the rage in the 90's or what [I always hated those fucking things anyway]... but they say that J-Lo is in the picture below, but for the life of me, I just can't see her. You would think that I would at least be able to see her ass or something, but seriously... just can't see her. I've looked at this image for hours on end... but nope, no J-Lo... Perhaps, dear readers, you can help a sister out... can you see J-Lo?


I know, its hard, huh?

Number Nine... Number Nine... Number Nine...

I was cruisin down the street, in my six-fo when I saw the spirit of my friend Pygar cast in a glow of shimmering lights. Fearing the spirit would fade before my eyes, I jumped the curb and pulled the car to a stop right in front of Pygar.

“Oh Spirit, will you speak to me?” I implored, running up to him

“Hey Frau, I was going to call you.” Pygar said.

“CUT CUT!” yelled an obnoxious Steven Spielberg, well I guess that is kind of redundant.

“Wait, what’s going on?” I asked, confused.

“We should wrap up filming today, and I should be around tomorrow to pick up Chi-Chi.”

“Chi-Chi?”

“My Puggle… You were watching her... while I was on location filming. We’re doing some pick up scenes here in LA and should finish today.”

“Of course of course, I, uhm, just didn’t realize that it was going to be over a year. I thought you had died.”

“Frau, Angels don’t die, Angels are love.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Love dies all the time, just look at Hugh Hefner and Holly Madison,” I said, but only received a blank stare in reply.

“I’ll swing by tomorrow and take her off your hands,” he added calmly.

“Sure, sure, of course, I’ll be around all day.” Oh cursed Fortuna, why hast thou spun your wheel away from me. I had put Chi-Chi out in my back yard, oh so many months ago and sorta left her there. I spied her from the kitchen window just last week, she was burning sage and listening to the Indigo Girls, I’m afraid she’s gone totally feral!

I drove away, frantically searching for a pet store, if only I had gotten that iPhone, I’m sure there would be an app for this. From the corner of my eye I spied a shop called “Puppies and Pussies” across the street. I took a chance, hoping it wasn’t some sorta of lesbian bathhouse, and flipped a u-turn. Traffic stopped and horns started blazing as I jumped the curb and pulled to a stop right in front of the door. People continued to honk, I can only assume they recognized me and were clamoring for an autograph.

“There’s no time, sorry,” I waved to my fan base as I exited the car and threw the shop doors open. It was very dramatic. “Shopkeep, how much is that doggie in the window!” I cried out, pointing to the Puggle behind glass.

“Sorry, we just sold him. The gentleman is in the bathroom right now. Maybe you can talk it out with him,” she said just as I heard the toilet flush.

“NEMESIS!” I screamed and pointed, all Body Snatchers style, at Rufus Wainwright as he exited the bathroom. I guess I don’t need to tell you that he was dressed like Judy Garland after a bender.

“Well, well, well, little Miss Pretty, it seems I have thwarted you yet again,” he said, picking up a white kitten and stroking as if he were channeling Telly Savalas.

“Technically, you haven’t paid yet,” the Shopkeeper mentioned on the side.

“Technically nothing!” he yelled and threw the cat at my head. If ever my catlike reflexes were going to be any use to me, it definitely was in that moment, while a cat was flying towards my beautiful face. I quickly leapt out of the way into a display of toys, where I landed with a loud squeak, just as the cat sailed by, its hiss like the buzzing of a seriously pissed off bee flying past my ear. Unfortunately, the Shopkeeper wasn’t so lucky, and she ended up taking that pussy right in the face.

As I struggled to get out of the pile of squeaky toys, Rufus seized the moment and napped the Puggle. “Now I’m off to go play ‘Beatles Rock Band,’ suckers!” he cackled as he ran out of the store. He knows how to run in heels, I’ll give him that much. Once I recomposed myself, I followed shortly. I just had to leave, as the screams from the Shopkeeper were starting to really annoy me. Total drama queen, and I don’t have time for that kind of drama in my life. I ended up having to go to the dog pound, where I picked up a German Shepard. Pygar should be none the wiser, he is blind after all. Besides, more people need to rescue dogs from the pound and not support puppy mills. If only everyone knew that there are some great dogs that can be found there… and knowing is half the battle!

Spin me right round...

I was reading an article at NME.com about how Johnny Marr was going to be playing on the new Postal Service right after he finished playing on the new Miley Cyrus record, or was it Hannah Montana? I get them confused, all of these white girls look alike to me. Anywho, its crazy, who isn't he playing with these days, well, besides Morrissey. So naturally I started to scour the interweb to listen to some leaked tracks [you know, once I discovered the interweb wasn't just a delivery method for porno, it has actually been quite useful]. Just as the track finished loading there was an annoying knock at my door. I quickly slipped into my bathrobe and opened the door to find Jodie Foster [who looked like she was fresh from a Bad News Bears game] with two roughians standing behind her.

“Madame,” Jodie started, “you owe us 2.4 billion dollars.”

“First, Ms Foster, I would like to say that I am quite flattered, but these scissors don’t cut that way. And even if they did, just look at me.” I said with an open handed Vanna gesture to my hotness, “I wouldn’t have to pay for it.”

“Madame, my name is not Ms. Foster, I work for The Record Company—“

“The Record Company? Awesome, what does a bitch have to do to get a digital remaster of Gucci Crew II?”

“Madame, that is not why we are here.”

“Why not!?! Don’t you people realize the masters are degrading as we speak! Degrading. As. We. Speak!”

“Madame, you owe us 2.4 billion for illegally downloading album tracks from the Britney Spears album.”

“Miley Cyrus,” I corrected, or was it Paris Hilton?

“Same thing."

"I know, huh..."

"We will take a personal check.” Faux Jodie continued.

“Well I don’t have 2.4 billion dollars,” I lied. Of course I wasn’t going to give this Faux Jodie anything. I hadn’t even listened to the track yet, sure I was going to download it if it were any good, well I probably would have downloaded it if it sucked too, because if it sucked, I shouldn’t have to pay for it. If I was guilty of anything, it was second degree manslaughter, but I was never convicted, and the statute of limitations expired last year.

“Well, if you can’t pay us, then we’re going to have to smash some shit up,” Faux Jodie said, then did one of those silent instructive head nods to her roughians, who then shoved past me and started over turning my furniture and what not.Then they pulled out my collection of classic vinyl. When Faux Jodie pulled out my signed copy of Bob Denver’s Spoken Word I pleaded with her for mercy. She merely cackled and threw it mit viel spaß against the front steps.

Her roughians joined in the heinous act. I think one of them actually started to eat one of the records, I dunno, he wasn't quite all there. Then, just as quickly as they came, then turned into a black smoke and vanished, one of them even too my robe.

I was left standing there on my front porch, naked and shocked. How could The Record Company do this to me! I was a loyal consumer. I even made the immediate switch over to CDs back in the day... and sure they were overpriced, but they promised me that they price would drop when more people switched to the new medium... even though prices went up instead of down. If I was guilty of anything, it was trusting too much, that and the previously mentioned manslaughter... statute of limitations, fuckers, try and convict me now!

A Haunting in Long Beach

So last night I was putting together my new Ikea bookcase, it looked really cute in the catalogue so I ordered it, I think it was called the Solange [seriously, where do they come up with these names?]... anywho... I was just finishing up when lights started to dim and flicker and I heard the low pained moaning coming from the basement. I grabbed the broom and rapped the handle on the floor.

"Will you shut up! I swear, Christian Charles Philip Bale, if I have to come down there!" I threatened. He obviously knew I meant business, as he quieted up right proper.

The lights continued to dim and flicker as a ghostly image began to manifest before me. I reached for a weapon, grabbing the thing closest to me, the Allen Wrench from my Solange Bookcase toolkit. I gripped it stoutly, holding it like a sextagonal shiv.

"Who are you spirit, the power of Frau compels you!"

"Tis I, the ghost of Mickey Rourke's Face," the spirit howled.

"Oh shit," I said to myself, "this is some bad Juju!" I quickly dropped my improvised shiv and grabbed the phone, ringing up my spiritual adviser, Miss Cleo. She promised to rush right over.

I distracted the spirit with a rousing game of Stratego while we waited. He was actually quite nice, despite his sad history of being severely beaten and abused. Three hours later, Miss Cleo finally rolls up, smelling of Nightrain and Patchouli.

"Go into the light, spirit, it is time for you to rest now," she then began chanting in some unknown language, well that or she was just slurring her words so badly. The lights then brightened, flashed off and then back on again. The Ghost of Mickey Rourke's Face still hanging in the air, all weathered and worn.

Then, from the darkened hallway, a cry echoed out, "EEEE-HHHH, Sha-mon...!" as another spirit moonwalked by.

I squealed with delight, after all, I did have tickets to one of the London shows. "Do 'Rock With You,'" I called out to the spirit.

"Sorry," the Ghost of Michael Jackson said, "I'm only doing stuff from 'Invincible.'"

"Nooooooooooooooooooo!" I cried out into the dark night as he began singing "Break of Dawn." Haunted by the Ghost of MJ and I don't even get to hear fucking "Off The Wall." Totally. Lame...