my jaundiced eye

welcome to old age

Okay, so MJE just reached a milestone on Jan 6, Twelfth Night, arriving at the official pearly gates of old age. Sixty five long ones. Leave it to me ole muddah to give birth on a date that would ensure that I would have to endure the full measure of the season (admittedly back then xmas didn’t start in March). Is it not enough that I have to slog through a (literally) godforsaken xmas, then pump myself or prop myself up for NYE, then being a glutton for punishment throw a NYD party? At that point most people can, in the immortal words of Al “Carnival Time ” Johnson ” throw my baby out the window and let the joint burn down.” But nooooo, MJE has to suffer through another six days of dread.

MJE deserves an Oscar for best performance in a tragicomedy for her feigned enjoyment of the occasion. The OB&C is nothing if not consistent. Every year it’s some random cheap card (often commemorating a completely different occasion, like “get well soon” or “congrats on the new baby”) hastily snatched up along with a $6.99 bouquet of half dead flowers at the Food Lion or Kroger on his way home from a massage. This year, because it was a big one, he did pick up a couple of gifts at the hardware store while he was buying spare parts for his boat trailer.

For this landmark I was thinking surely the OB&C might arrange some sort of massive celebration. Something like the surprise trip to NYC I set up for his 65^th, or the birthday dinner at a great New Orleans restaurant for 30 people on his 50^th when I secretly arranged for the children to fly in from afar (back when MJE and the OB&C were still communicating with Albatross outside of the bank wire transfer system) as a surprise and then rented the bar across the street for the after party. I was certain he had to have something up his sleeve. He’d let slip what I misinterpreted to be a few clues one night when he’d had a snootful and I was confident enough to wear a tiara over my platinum black rooted wig in anticipation. However, I soon realized that an extravaganza was definitely not in the offing. Instead we drove 30 minutes and to some “upscale” dive, surrounded by loudmouths and toddlers, seated at a teeny tipsy table for two in a dimly lit back room next to the fire exit.

I ditched the tiara and quickly downed something called the corpse reviver and two glasses of wine as a chaser. I’m totally sure the rest of the evening was everything I had hoped for.

thanks loads

Well the holly, jolly frantic materialism of xmas is over until next month when it will slowly start to creep back in. I gave the OB&C a pasta maker and a “no oil fryer” both of which are still in boxes under my desk. Well, more accurately I gave them to myself and he was a pass through so I could feel self satisfied about my thoughtfulness and generosity. The OB&C doesn’t suffer such pangs of self doubt and so isn’t hypocritical enough to go to the transparently selfish trouble of getting me gifts. We’ve been married long enough for him to know that if I want something I will have long since beaten him to the punch before he ever picks up on any hints I might drop. And really, that whole charade is such a waste of time. My motto is: Decide what you want, get it, don’t ever use it, re-gift it and move on.

Apropos the business of the giving and the getting I was reading an article in that commie rag, the New York Times this Sunday about how the mere thought of being appreciative has become the latest means of spiritual masturbation. In the alternative universe of the truly narcissistic, simply thinking of being thankful, whether you express it or not is plenty good enough. Apparently, keeping a journal of your thoughts of appreciation is also a tonic for the self-absorbed soul. The heavy lifting of actually outwardly expressing your appreciation for something is totally unnecessary, just pondering it is sufficient. Making the effort to grunt out an actual thank you every once in a while or god forbid writing a thank you note simply demonstrates how incredibly insecure you are. Loser.

Well in the spirit of self-congratulation on her mindful appreciation MJE says, thanks for nothing.

what’s a santa to do

MJE is extremely disturbed about what is fast becoming an existential crisis that will adversely affect every parent of every lousy brat on the planet. I’m not talking about global warming, that’s chump change compared to the apocalypse on our very doorstep.

Think about it…you’ve got the holiday season nipping at your ass. This is the most wonderful time of year for you and your family. Right? It’s all candy canes and gingerbread but more importantly it’s the one time of the year when you have real leverage over your insufferable rug rats. But these happy times will soon be but a dim memory. Coal mines are closing down and coal companies going bankrupt faster than you can figure out what country king wenseslas was ruling and what the what the feast of stephen’s has to do with the price of pretzels. It’s all well and good to talk about alternative energy sources but when you get down to the real nitty gritty, with what are you going to threaten the godforsaken little monsters? A propane tank in their stockings?

Frankly, it just doesn’t have the same cachet, plus the damned things are heavy as lead. And you know that sure as shootin’ they’re going to yank the nails smack out of the mantle, hit the floor like a ton of bricks and leave a divot the size of a baskeball in your hardwood floor. Now MJE does not believe the apocalypse is nigh, I’m not hoarding evaporated milk and MRE’s, oh no, I’m going to corner the market on a much more valuable commodity. As the holidays approach I am going to spend my time moseying along the nearest train track keeping a sharp eye out for the last stray lumps of coal that may have fallen off the final fossil fuel load.

Then MJE’s gonna sell them for top dollar on ebay. And boy will I have an eager buyer. Just how much is your sacroiliac worth to you, santa?

isis inc

MJE has just learned that an Isis budget for the month of October from one of the provinces it controls was smuggled out and released to the press. Turns out, even isis has bean counters. It reads like a spread sheet from IBM for god’s sake. Who knew they used Quickbooks Pro Desktop 2015, Excel and US dollars as their currency of choice. I guess they hate everything about us except our technology and our money. Whatever.

Only about a third of their revenue comes from oil smuggled out of the country. The other revenues are generated by kidnapping ransoms, seizures of property, theft, blackmail and assorted other petty crimes. They’re like the crips, but with allah as their co-pilot. And can’t you just hear the monthly budget meeting, when the poor al’abalah responsible for kidnapping revenues misses his monthly goal. “Abdullah, what the quran??? You’re down 14% from last month! What are you guys doing out there, chewing qat and pitching tent poles under your thobes? You have got to get out there and hustle man, people aren’t going to kidnap themselves! And Haytham, I see you back there trying to slink out of the tent. Can you please tell me how you managed to let that filthy rich Masruq off for a lousy $10,000 in blackmail dough. I told you nothing less than $25,000 for that gasbag with his off shore accounts in Barbados and Bermuda. You are pathetic. Let it happen again and you are going to be one hand short, my little fariq.”

“Okay Qasim, what is this $125,000 expense for Kalashnikovs? That is insanely over budget!” “But boss, remember we ordered those cheap reconditioned ones on alibaba last month and they were worthless. You get what you pay for. And I really don’t think we want to project the image of terrorists who are waging jihad on the cheap, do you?”

“Well, you have a point. We’re not like those feckless American imperialist stooges who just print more money, generate ever-larger deficits and end up kicking the yumkin alqsdyr down the road for their children to deal with. I am proud to say that we actually work within a balanced budget and take fiscal responsibility just as seriously as we do killing apostates. So back to work, and remember to make every dinar count.”

the henpecked terrorist

the henpecked terrorist.jpg

Achmed, get your sorry muslim ass out here! WTF??? Is this the sum total of pipe bombs you’ve made this week???? Seriously, what are you doing out here, playing fantasy fatwa? You tubing your Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi imitation? Binge turban shopping on Alibaba? Again. Are you a terrorist or a terrier because I really can’t tell the difference.

And you call this a pipe bomb? Give me a break. Didn’t I tell you to follow the instructions in Inspire Magazine to the letter? Well? I’m waiting…. The answer is no you did not. As usual you couldn’t stay on task and you cut corners you lazy ass American. I do not care if your imam says you are ADHD, you have a job to do and you had better get your head in the game. I did not fly all the way from Islamabad for 20 hours in the middle seat of the last row on that lousy Air Arabia, which by the way has a worse safety record than Malaysia Air, to come to allah forsaken San Bernadino to babysit a wanna be.

I had my pick of the litter! Muslim Mingling is chock full of pathetic socially awkward guys who can’t get a girl and are ripe for recruiting to the cause. And I chose you Achmed. Abdul told me you’d be trouble, but I stood up for you, I said, no he has real potential. And this is what I get? I could have assembled this heap of crap in my burqa with my eyes shut.

Now get back to work, Mecca’s Real Housewives is on and I am dying to find out if Fairuzah and Mahjabeen get into another cat fight.

terror r us

Okay so MJE is now officially totally and royally pissed off at the goddam terrorists. What is it with these people, why can’t they sit in their basements watching pornography and masturbating like normal guys. Really. Think about the time and effort it takes to schlep out to a gun show in some godforsaken deserted strip mall to buy a couple of assault rifles, then schlep to Walmart to buy 50 round clips of hollow point bullets, then schlep to toys R us to get a remote control toy car for your IED and then on to the plumbing supply joint for the pipes for your bomb. That’s a whole fricking day of running around! Of course with the exception of the guns, you can probably order it all online and if you’re an Amazon Prime member have it on your doorstep in 48 hours, free shipping included.

Then there’s the whole execution thing. You gotta spend hours figuring out how to put pipe bombs together without blowing yourself up (imagine the stress!), then slap on hotter than hell (and frankly unflattering) bullet proof vests and balaclava helmets, load all those heavy-as-lead guns, bombs, detonators and ammo into the back of the minivan. And boy you better be able to pack like a pro to get all that stuff in there!

Then you gotta go kill a lot of innocent people that you probably don’t even know. And the kicker is you have to pretty much accept that it’s also going to be your last day on earth and be prepared to kiss your ass goodbye. Which is a really good thing or a really bad thing, depending on your perspective. Well MJE says good luck with getting your hands on those forty virgins buddy.

In the old days MJE’s fear was running into someone who was self-actualized and being bored to death at a cocktail party not someone who is self-radicalized and being blown to smithereens while enjoying a boozy lunch. Although, truth be told, if my last breath has the whiff of gin on it I’m okay with that.

Last week everyone had the holy jitters about going to Paris. But terror is a lot closer than that.

BYOT

Stephen Colbert had a rant the other night about the GOPers going nucking futs in their insane attempts to out Islamophobe one another. Their first volley was that we don’t have enough vetting to prevent Syrian terrorists from getting into the country despite the two year long vetting program that’s already in place. Therefore we absolutely do not want to grant asylum to any Syrians, who are themselves being terrorized, no way no how. Not even small children who are orphans, because they are almost certainly also terrorists.

Well Stephen, in this case I have to regrettably admit that MJE is onboard with the GOPer’s “children can be terrorists too” argument. It just so happens that we have a home grown three year old terrorist in our very family. None other than “she who must be obeyed”, Decibelle. You think negotiating with ISIS is impossible, fuggetaboutit. I would personally bet Donald Trump’s hair product allotment on our pint sized stick of dynamite being able to bring ISIS to its knees, beg for mercy and become Episcopalians. And fast. God bless John Kerry, but you gotta fight fire with fire and Decibelle is a fricking inferno.

Case in point, son Knot comes home from work and walks into the den to kiss his little yum yum and to lovingly inquire as to how her day went. Decibelle is, come d’habitude, completely absorbed in some piece of Disney tripe that she has seen a thousand times. Instead of jumping up and running to her dear father and giving him a hug and a kiss she, without turning her head or saying a word, simply points her finger toward the door in dismissal. If that doesn’t send a strong enough message she utters one word. Out.

To this MJE says. Oh no you don’t! Clamp down on the kid! To which Knot says they do but she just clamps down harder. And she has the endurance of a drugged up Lance Armstrong. In the end Knot says he usually just throws in the towel and ends up apologizing to her. MJE ain’t clairvoyant but this is not going to be pretty. Wait until she’s twelve. Knot and his wife will probably cash in all their airline miles, decamp for the middle east, join ISIS and feel like they’re at Club Med.

si triste

MJE had a post ready to publish earlier this week on her utter confusion regarding the seemingly countless number of factions fighting and killing each other in the middle east. It was supposed to be a caricature of the whole state of affairs, but given what happened in Paris this week end it doesn’t seem so funny now.

However, the final takeaway from the piece still stands:

‘It all boils down to “my god’s better than your god. “And that’s a pissing match that’s been going on since man dreamed him up in the first place.’

is it now yet

I was shopping online for a new wall clock for our kitchen. It’s been 3:27 pm for the last two weeks and even though I know that before I even look at the damned thing I am still caught off guard every time. It’s like when I’ve used the last staple in my stapler, and get that empty click sound. I know it’s bound to happen sometime but it always irritates me to the point of wanting to crush the thing with a shovel. But back to the subject at hand, so MJE is finger walking the aisles of amazon when I come across this ad at the top of the page:

Pointells Dementia, Alzheimer’s, Memory Loss Clock

It sort of makes it sound like it’s a clock that counts down to when you will be stricken with the above afflictions. Talk about a bummer appliance. But with that provocative come on, who could resist double clicking on it just to clarify? Unless of course you are already suffering from dementia, alzheimer’s or memory problems, which obviously I am not. Am I? Well sort of, but my mental lapses, if any, are most likely the result of being a seasoned sot.

The full description of the aforementioned clock is as follows:

Pointells Extra-Large Digital Calendar Day Clock with Non-Abbreviated Day, Month & Date – Ideal Clock for the Elderly & Those Struggling with Memory Loss

Talk about a dynamite marketing strategy! Who doesn’t have some old fart or brainless wonder you need to shop for? Think how thrilled the recipient of this thoughtful gift will be when they read (in extra large type) for whom this clock was created.

Perfect for your mother-in-law.

the joys of burdenhood

Well it has been a difficult stretch chez MJE. The OB&C and I have been desperately trying to extricate ourselves from our daughter Albatross’s lifelong self-induced financial plight. A pretty bad seed from the get go she has blossomed through the years into an extremely onerous and invasive plant. She has, however produced two wonderful children, which is about as miraculous as the immaculate conception. And of course grand children are the ultimate insurance policy. Lifetime coverage.

Loyal readers are familiar with one of the children, Bandoliera-Saturnalia whom we raised and who has now graduated from college and flown off to New York to break into the art biz. That is not quite as easy as it seemed from the comfort of her apartment above our garage. She did luck into some great digs on Bleecker Street, which she is enjoying immensely. It goes without saying that it’s on our dime. But she at least is somewhat gainfully employed at one of those stores that sell absurdly priced “bohemian” clothing and faux vintage stuff. Sadly, she is partial to both of those and I suspect will never bring home any actual money. But man she and her apartment will be lookin’ good!

But back to Albatross, as I may have mentioned in a previous post, one day shy of B-S’s 17^th birthday, just when we thought our necks might be unburdened, the aforementioned up and produced another child, Krylon. A sweet and bright boy, the OB&C was immediately smitten. And god knows (which theoretically he should and for which he earns a major black mark in my book) it’s not his fault he is saddled with Albatross as a mother. As dark and inventive as MJE’s imagination is even I cannot conjure up what sort of wildly dysfunctional world he might inhabit.

The OB&C and I are footing the bill for a private school for Krylon (with roughly the same tuition as Princeton) so he might have a fleeting glimpse of what “normal” people are like. However, normal in northern CA would never pass muster in most other places. Case in point, the school refuses to celebrate Columbus Day, choosing instead to celebrate Indigenous People day. Well sunbeams, have you ever seen sears or home depot offer blockbuster deals during their indigenous people day sales?

And so the noose remains tightly knotted until MJE and the OB&C firmly resolve to cut it and let Krylon’s chips fall where they may. When we do, if given the option we’d like to have it done by guillotine if possible.