Monthly Archives: September 2012

It’s Time to Kick Some Monk Ass


Forgive me for my absence, my Lovelys, there’s really no excuse. Unless, you count the three 15 hour days I worked last week. And the Catholic wedding I had to play piano for. Oh, and the many monk nightmares I’ve had in the past week. Let me explain about that one.

So remember how I mentioned walking through the amazing and scenic campus of St. John’s University. Yeah. Nevermind about that. Those days will forever be a distant memory.

The day after our last jaunt through St. John’s, I was having a carefree conversation with a coworker and he mentioned to me that he was once a student at St. John’s Prepatory School. We were discussing the tiny Prayer Chapel that is situated alongside the lake and how it was quite a trek through the wooded pathways to get to it and find there was nothing but two chairs and a pregnant Mary statue within. My coworker then dropped the bomb that a student once hung himself within those very walls- because he was being molested by a monk at the school. I asked what punishment the monk received for such rancid behaviour, and my coworker shrugged and said, “Not much. Don’t you know? St. John’s is well-known for the monks taking advantage of the students and nothing ever being done about it. There’s a whole website dedicated to it.” He went on to with a story that when a monk is accused of heinous behavior such as molestation and the like, he is not jailed or stoned, (as he should be), but instead is forced to live in the many basements of the Abbey LOCATED ON CAMPUS and not allowed to have contact with students.

While I cannot yet deny or confirm whether this last part of the story is true, (as several people I’ve mentioned it to are convinced my coworker was pulling my leg) I CAN confirm that there IS a website dedicated to the many many victims of monkish molestation. While the complainants remain anonymous, the accused do not. The website comes complete with pictures of these disgusting pervs and lists of their many sins and disgraces. While I do not necessarily know what physical traits molesters have, I can assure you that as I clicked on each new offender, a chill of disturbance flowed through my body at the sight of their general creepiness. My Rockstar and I read through the entire website, growing increasingly bothered. ( I am certain the 100 Proof Southern Comfort I was drinking did nothing to help the situation.)

After getting our fill of repugnance at such abominations and the fact that nothing is being done about it, I tried to slumber. Yeah fuckin’ right. Do you know? I had chilling dreams of monks (who are supposed to be the servants of God) taking advantage of young innocent kids who look to these people for guidance. Needless to say, there wasn’t much sleep going on that night.

I realize this is nothing new to the Catholic church, nor is the covering up of such behaviors. I hear the Catholic Church is a powerful entity, and it’s probably not a good idea to fuck with them. But you know what? Bring it on, Pope! Because I am fucking furious. Not only have many lives been forever tainted by these monks and their ridiculous No-Sex policies that they obviously cannot deal with, but my perfect walks with my family will now forever be blackened by thoughts that some kid is probably getting ass-raped in the building I’m walking by. So fine. Nothing is being done about it? Then nothing should be done about it when I just go ahead and beat the living shit out of these fuckers. Who’s comin’ with?

P.S. If you all want to see what has so greatly disturbed and enraged me, go HERE

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Meet Gorgeous Jewish Singles!


Good evening, my Lovelys! Or rather, goodnight- as it is nearly 11 P.M. in my world. I arrived home from a gruelling day as a Pizza Hut to find this in my email Junk Box:

Meet Gorgeous Jewish Singles Now!

I applauded my inbox in rightly deciding this was Junk, as I do not recall at any point requesting information about dating Jews. Don’t get me wrong, I find Jewish people quite intriguing, what with the whole God’s Chosen and larger-than-average- schnoz aspects. I have always wondered, “Do you think God gave Jews larger noses so they didn’t get big-headed about being the Chosen ones?” Anyhoo, while I enjoy educating myself on the history and traditions of the Jewish race (Race, right?) I would like to clear up the few reasons that I would be unwilling to find myself in a relationship with a Chosen One. (Besides for the obvious reason of the existence of my Rockstar.)

1. No Christmas.

Oh, yes, I realize that there are eight crazy nights of Hannukah with menoras and dreidles and… well other Jewish things, but what about Christmas trees? And Santa Clause? And Baby Jesus? It’s just not the same putting the presents under a menora. And anyway, I cannot help but think that Jews are the grinches of the world, as it seems they wish to do away with Christmas…..No offense, my Jewish peeps.

2. Shabbath.

I suppose preparing all day to not work for a night is not such a bad idea. In the Baptist world, this is known as Sunday, but really, there’s nothing wrong with it beginning on Saturday night.

3. Adrien Brody and Adam Sandler

Yes, I know that Adrien is an Oscar winning actor who is greatly talented blah blah blah. And that Adam Sandler most certainly is not. But if these are the likes of which I’d have to choose from to procreate with if I became a Jew… well. That’s all I need to say. On the other hand, that Harry Potter kid I have a crush on is also Jewish.

4. Tasak’s Disease.

What, you ask? How does Sparklebumps know the hereditary diseases that are a risk to Jews populating the Earth everywhere? I TOLD you there were eduacational benefits to watching Eliot Stabler repeatedly! Anyhoo, chances of me creating a child with Harry Potter who has Tasak’s is very slim, since I was not born a Jew.

5. The Holocaust.

It is true that there will probably never again be such a horrid race purging as the Holocaust, but if there does happen to be, I guess that would be the one time that I would be thankful for my diluted Swedish/German roots.

Anyhoo, as you can see, there really aren’t that many reasons not to become a Jew, and as I am greatly intrigued by religions that are not my own, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to give Daniel Radcliffe a call…

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A Future Eulogy for Morgan Freeman


Due to the recent faux news of Morgan Freeman’s death, I have been inspired to write a eulogy in his honor. It is hoped that my exceptional writing skills may be brought to his attention and he will ask me to read at his funeral when he actually does decide to take a dirt nap. Or if not, he will at least be impressed enough to ask me to costar in his next movie. Anyhoo, here we go….

What will we do now, Morgan Freeman? Without your soothing voice to lead us through penguin marches and car commercials, we will now be subject to a new black celebrity voice that will continue the long line of recognizable black celebrity voices that began with James Earl Jones and will carry on the tradition of becoming insanely famous and then selling out just to be heard. My bets lie with Cee Lo Green.

You have entertained the world for decades, though I’m not certain I could name anything you starred in before Shawshank Redemption. Your best performance in my mind was in a little known movie called Feast of Love, which my Auntie and I viewed in the theatre; and while we were slightly disturbed and yet highly entertained by the number of sex scenes in said movie, we both heaved a great sigh of relief when the director decided to cut short your scene with your onscreen wife- no offense, but as it is sweet to believe couples in their 70’s still bump uglies, you must admit that it is best left to the imagination. I do not believe there is a way to tuck saggy balls away so as not to offend.

But I’m getting off subject. In the movie I mentioned, your performance was heartbreaking and wonderful when you spoke of your dead son and how it was all your fault he turned to drugs. It was equally inspiring to see you redeem yourself by almost adopting the young pregnant girl featured in the movie. Hoorah for you.

I must state that in your later years, I was a bit appalled at how many movie roles you procured. True, your acting is superb, yet after you started scooping up every wise elderly gentleman role, I could scarce recall any other Hollywood celeb that was in your age range.

It’s true, the news that you were to marry your step-daughter came as a slight shock, though I applaud you for doing someone that is less than a third your age. I wonder, did you need Viagra? I can tell you from experience though that dating someone of a different generation matters not- it may even be the natural Viagra every man needs.

I adore you too, for not making a big stupid deal of Black History Month. I agree that every person should take pride in their heritage, but to have a whole month dedicated to them? I do not go around spouting about Swede History Month; by rights I should be furious that there isn’t such a thing. But you, Morgan, as I, appreciate that people are people, no matter their skin color, though I am admittedly intrigued that you had freckles, if, in fact, that’s what they were. 

Morgan, you have played God, Batman’s machinist, Clint Eastwood’s sidekick, Miss Daisy’s driver, and a plethora of other wild and exciting characters. Yet, I will fondly remember you best as the assassin who yells out “Shoot this mutha fucka!” at the near-end of Wanted.

 

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A Mole Without A Face


Happy Sunday, my Lovelys! Although it certainly didn’t begin that way…

I found myself imprisoned and without a cook at work for this- the day of the first Vikings game. It is becoming glaringly clear to me that in this world, there are exactly 3 people who are willing to bust their butt in the world of employment. (Me, Myself, and I) The rest are just mere names attatched to phantom beings that only show up to work when they have nothing better to do. So, while I was missing a chance to serenade my church family with my jazzy pianist hands and awe them with my bedazzled footwear, I was instead rushing around in a blustery panic preparing for a pizza storm that never came.

Around two oclock this afternoon, I escaped the Pizza Hell and returned to the loving and waiting presence of my Rockstar and his Daughter. One of the only benfits of living in the outskirts of a city known as St. Cloud is that there resides nearby a lovely Catholic-based college named St. John’s University. It is ensconced in a large clump of trees that is quite lovely to jaunt through. So off my Beloveds and I went to peruse the near-fall colors that grace our almost-neighborhood.

How exciting it was to cross the wooden bridge that overpasses the major highway near St. John’s. The Daughter squealed in rapture every time a trucker passed under and blew his horn. Every time, I wondered if there would be accidents caused if I were to lift my shirt and do a happy dance for those same truckers.

Onto the forested path we continued, being bypassed several time by youngling college boys without shirts who were training for track or football or some other disgusting form of physical exertion. As each one passed, I thought to myself, “Too youngtooyoungtooyoung OH! Much too hairy.” It’s quite disturbing really how someone who looks so young can so resemble an emaciated ape. To be clear, I wasn’t looking for something on the side- just making observations.

We walked yet further, discovering a beautiful lake that the college had much rudely kept hidden for its own recreational purposes. We snickered when two more track stars blatantly disregarded the posted sign that stated “No Swimming” and plunged into the icy depths in only their too-short running shorts.

We passed a beautifully manicured garden area marked “Private Monastic Prayer Grounds :Keep Out” that came complete with a tiny stone cottage. While I pondered to myself the thought that it was very selfish of the monkish people to keep the most gorgeous part of campus to themselves, my Rockstar asked the question, “What is it they need privacy for?” To which I replied with naught but a crude and graceless hand gesture that my Rockstar burst out laughing at. He rambled on then with a grand idea of how we should switch all the signs to “Private Masturbatory Prayer Gounds” or “MOANastic Area”. I giggled.

After walking amongst the aged buildings covered in ivy, I decided that I may have indeed missed out by not going to college. No- not because I lack the knowledge that I surely would have gained there- because I most certainly am more intelligent and well-learned than most college students I’ve known, but because I missed the daily chance to trek to the Food Building which sports woodwork created by none other than my very own Rockstar.

On the path as we journeyed home, we passed a dead mole. I was immediately enthralled by the fact that he hadn’t a face, which caused the curiousness to rise in my Rockstar’s Daughter, which resulted in him admonishing us both not to “get too close to that gross thing!” Once again, as we walked the overpass, I contemplated pulling up my shirt and flashing the horny truckers below a glimpse of my excessive sweater meat, but thought better of it. All in all, it was a wondrous day. Even with the mole.

 

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The End Has Come; A New Life Has Begun


It may seem glaringly obvious to those who depend on my witty musings on a daily basis that I have not been present as of late. I urge of you who’s lives have been dull because of my absence to write fuming letters of anger and disgust to the writers and creators of the T.V. show Glee.

It’s true, my lack of writing in the last month has been partially due to the fact that I’m working 60+ hours weekly as the leading Pizza Slut in my store. However, if it were not for Glee and the 22 hours of it that are available on Netflix, you most assuredly would have had near-daily postings from me.

When the show Glee debuted, I was unable to watch it because I was working at my bookstore the night it was on, so I had to live vicariously through the only show-choir boy I knew who raved about it incessently at work. Since then, my feelings toward the show had gone the way of Twilight and Harry Potter– so much hype was there that it made me reluctant to form an opinion on the subject.

Finally, a few weeks ago, I decided to bite the bullet and begin my life as a Gleek. While enjoying my day off in a state of near coma-ism, I flipped virtually through the many choices Netflix had to offer me and settled on Glee. I am ashamed to admit I sat and watched the first 7 episodes without moving from my seat. While the show at times is a bit over-dramatic and downright ridiculous, the fact that it contains numerous actors with amazing singing talent is enough to have hooked me. Sadly, though, I was faced with the reality that despite my youthful appearance and demeanor, I am a decade or older than the characters in the show, yet found myself slightly aroused by the teen boys as they belted out Journey and Fat-Bottomed Girls. But nevermind about that.

I was fastly enamoured with the character Curt and his struggle as a gay teen boy, and without a doubt found myself wanting to meet and befriend his stunning and amazing self. Sadly, he is fictional, so I cannot, but the boy who plays him is quite wonderful enough to meet.

Jane Lynch is disturbingly good at playing a wretched cheerleading coach intent on the Glee Club’s demise. However, my heart broke when her handi-capable sister died, and I found myself bawling as the Club oohed and aahed to Pure Imagination. There were several other instances when my tear ducts overflowed, as well, so it is proven that despite the sometimes childish storylines of the show, there are some good writers employed.

The attraction of this show to me is the fact that with no reason whatsoever, the characters burst into song at various intervals, which is exactly as I think life should be.

I realize that yet another season of Glee is impending, as well as the third season that is unavailable on Netflix, but as for today, I would like to state that I have finally finished the second season, and so have dislodged my ass from the indent I’ve created in my Rockstar’s lazyboy, and shall endeavor to once again bi-daily at least entertain you with my ramblings. XOXO

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Tired


I’m too tired to sleep. So while I’m lying in bed trying to makeout with the Sandman, I think to myself, “I should get up.” But I’m too tired to. So I lie in bed until exhaustion overcomes me. In the morning, my damn alarm goes off and I think to myself, “I should get up and eat breakfast before work.” But I’m too tired to. So I doze off and on until the last possible second and then I rush to make myself semi-presentable. While washing my face, I think to myself, “I should do a super fun makeup effect with my newly purchased 100 shades of eyeshadow.” But I’m too tired. So I slap on an uninteresting shade of beige and off to work I go.

When I get to work, I think to myself, “I should call all the applicants and set up interviews.” But I’m too tired. So I struggle through yet another day at work with fewer people than I need because there is no one else to call. When I’m closing up the store, I think to myself, “i should really do as good of a job as I would like to.” But I’m too tired. So instead I do a job that is not up to my standards.

My skin is too tired to make the effort; my feet are too tired to wear heels; and my boobs are too tired to stay perky.

When my friends call me, I don’t answer, because I’m too tired to sit on the phone for extended periods of time, and I have nothing to talk about except work. When an intersting song pops into my head that I think I should write down, I don’t, because I’m too tired to think of a word that rhymes with “winter”. When I get home from work, I think to myself that I should make a beautiful lunch for my Rockstar to take in his ugly lunchbox, but I’m too tired. There was also a point last week when I almost turned down a little Naked Fun Time with my Rockstar because I was too tired. Almost.

Basically, in the end, I will have no friends because I’m too tired to hang with them, no Rockstar because I’m too tired to take care of him, and no job because I’m too tired to do what I’m getting paid to do. Then I will have all the time in the world to sleep…

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Filed under Beauty, Humor, Life, Uncategorized, Work