November 2005

child's play // catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Wednesday, 11.30.05
A week ago, I was innocently surfing the interweb when I stumbled upon these monstrosities: Japanese robot dolls that serve the dual purpose of 1.) amusing the elderly and 2.) horrifying me. Apparently, these things track your sleeping patterns, and either praise or chastise you, depending on whether you "lead an orderly life." In other words, they are robot dolls that watch you in your sleep and judge you. I believe the words I'm searching for are "Sweet zombie Jesus, why?" or possibly just "asasdflansfajbgf."

Dolls freak me the fuck out. I'm sure there's some sort of deep-seated 'Chucky'-trauma to blame for that, but so deep is my revulsion that I don't even want to try to figure out the roots of my hate; I just want 100 feet between me and Barbie.

About 3 years ago, I was a cashier at Retail Hell, a store that sold everything from clothes to baby shower gifts to home furnishings, all at low, low prices. Our customers were the dumbest, cheapest, tackiest people on planet Earth. (Fun fact: in those days, if you were very still, and listened veeery carefully, you could actually hear my soul dying.) All the registers were located in the center of the store, behind a circular counter; behind the registers were shelves, on which were balanced bracelets, bags, and -- oh yes -- dolls. Ugly, porcelain things, dressed like Victorian girls, watching me from their little perch, boring a hole in my neck with their unblinking eyes. I stopped working there when I realized that those voyeuristic porcelain dolls didn't seem that hideous to me anymore. I knew a lot of things were suffering from my working there -- my grammar, my will to live, my faith in the human race -- but a blow to my taste was the last straw. I quit and never stepped foot in that place again.

Anyway, in between these and Super Dollfies -- ridiculously expensive Japanese customizable dolls that have a cult following, complete with freaks that find these things attractive and take pictures of them in suggestive poses -- Japan seems hell-bent on killing me from horror. You may have won this round, Japan, but this isn't over. This. Isn't. OVER.

xbox 360 degrees of fun // lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Monday, 11.21.05
I'm so stupid, internet. Tell me what to do. Should I wait in line with the greasy mongoloids at Best Buy to get a new XBox 360, or should I just wait it out? I only want it because I've been reading about it for the last three months. For instance, I can probably tell you how many premium and core units each store is getting in the tri-state area. I know how many tibbleflops of power are pumped out of the 360's juicy innards, and I know that the innards are, in fact, juicy. The problem is, I have this stupid thing called a job which greatly decreases my desire to stand out in the freezing cold with idiots for all hours of the night who want to talk about what it's like to kiss a girl that isn't a guy dressed like a prepubescent anime character with enormous tits. Maybe I'll just take my chances and attack store after store on my lunch break in hopes that one of them forgot to sell one of this season's most anticipated gifts. No one shops at K-Mart, right?

Oh, and here's an early Thanksgiving present to those who entered the Happy Junk Drawer Challenge. Everyone wins. All three of you. You'll all get access to the junk drawer to fill with your meaningless jibber jabber. This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for being so lazy that I need others to do my work for me. Thanks for entering!

Entry #3: Catherine // lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Friday, 11.04.05
Well this it, the final week of Junk Drawer challenge entries. Who will win? How will I decide who wins? Do I have to pay these people? Tune in next week, but before you tune in next week, stay tuned to this week for a hot beef injection courtesy of Catherine.

Is it possible to be allergic to red meat? I think I might be. This breaks my heart, as red meat is indisputably the king of meats. I mean, come on, what kind of challengers is it up against? Fish? Though I love sushi, like most Americans, I prefer my fish in processed-beyond-recognition 'stick' form. Besides, I once read about a woman who was enjoying her fish dinner until she got a bone stuck in her uvula. A BONE. IN HER UVULA. I want my food to kill me gradually by clogging my arteries, not by pulling some stealthy-ninja-assassin bullshit.

Anyway. Every single time I have had steak these past few months, terrible, unholy things have happened in the otherwise happy land of My Gut. This summer, I had an awesome internship with a boss who put lunch on the company credit card; naturally, I ordered a steak with fries the second I got a chance. That night, my gastrointestinal tract reenacted 'Frankenstein,' with the steak as the angry villagers. The stormy castle? My colon.

After recovering, I had steak again two nights later. (I'd assumed that first time was simply God punishing me for eating meat on a Friday, as I'm just that Catholic. I am ... not bright.) After expelling everything I'd ever eaten from pretty much every orifice but my ears, I curled into a sobbing ball and wondered if I'd have to kick my boyfriend, Meat, to the curb. But the next morning I decided that I'd been too hasty, and meat and I again were BFF.

I was one black eye away from being Tina Turner to meat's Ike.

This morning, I had a hamburger for breakfast, as it was the the only edible thing in the fridge apart from a CostCo bottle of Bahama Mama. By noon, I'd had the "Oh my God, he's not pretending to be a jackass to hide his beautiful-but-tortured soul, he is a jackass" realization about my boyfriend, and am now throwing his things out the window while listening to Dashboard Confessional. Meanwhile, my stomach is auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. It's typing up its resume right now. If anyone can tell me where I can buy it a teeny little attache case suitable for interviewing, please let me know.

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