I told you birds were evil!

But would anyone listen to me?

"According to witnesses, the swan continued to swim after Hensley as he tried to make it to shore. By the time rescue personnel arrived, Hensley was under water."

Swan kills swan caretaker in horrifically ironic accident

Evil!

Claire and Bender could be grandparents by now. Think about that.

Sure, Sloth love Chunk. TWENTY FIVE YEARS AGO.

Do you subscribe to Entertainment Weekly? The "20 Years Ago This Week" column regularly horrifies me. Like, worse than the wretched and off-putting "Stephen King's Weird and Freaky Little Opinions" column. (That may not be the exact title.)

This 20 Years column is a weekly shock to my system. Really, Pretty Woman is 20 years old? That was two decades ago I wanted to dye my hair red like Julia Roberts and my mom put the kibosh on that whole scheme? Really, that was 20 long years ago that Milli Vanilli won their bogus Grammy?

I can no longer read the magazine while I'm eating, lest I choke.

My initial shock came last year, when someone mentioned that Say Anything was 20 years old and I scoffed that this must surely be a mistake. Then I realized that not only was Say Anything actually 20 years old, but even worse, it being released in 1989 meant that anything from the 80s was at least twenty years old. Twenty years was the SMALLEST amount of old that 80s stuff could be.

The horror.

And then I turned on some Peter Gabriel and tried not the think about it.

Gah!

I was feeling better this morning so I went out to shovel a path to my garage. Why hello, blizzard. Next door, Jones was standing in the middle of four feet of snow shaking his head, dismayed that he doesn't live in Florida. Anyway, I was shoveling away, listening to my iPod (P!nk is best for shoveling) and I was almost to the garage door when the shovel caught my earbud cord, whipped my iPod out of my pocket and through the air, and disconnected it from the earbuds still lodged in my ears. For a moment I saw its shiny silver backing silhouetted against the bright morning sky and then it was gone. Oh fudge.


Ack! I raced to dig through three feet of snow to discover my precious object. Then I raced into the house (I may have been screaming in horror--I don't know--you'd have to ask Jonas) and dried it as best I could. It actually appears to be working perfectly; the music plays, the Moron Test tests, the Lightsaber app swishes and hums. Thank goodness Apple makes these things idiot-proof because I am the clumsiest person I know.

That was plenty of excitement for one day. The rest of my afternoon will be spent this way:

I can't wait to hear the woman say, "She stepped into the spin, then I'm not sure, but it looked like she got caught in his lederhosen."

I think my hair has jetlag.

(I feel compelled to point out that this is not a photograph of me.)

I don’t think my hair has recovered from my trip to the Arizona desert. Quite frankly it has been out of control since I disembarked from the plane.

Steps will have to be taken. Serious steps.

I really must insist that he be stopped.

I subscribe to Entertainment Weekly and I have to say, every time Stephen King refers to himself as my "Uncle Stevie" in his poorly-written columns, it makes me feel unpleasant in ways I cannot articulate to you. I hesitate to call it disturbing, but it's creepy at best.

Why does Hollywood insist on bastardizing my childhood?

As I sit here, there are wicked plans brewing in Los Angeles. Plans to attack and destroy the memories that we children of the 80s hold dear. Plans to do something so heinous, so vile... Well, let’s just say it: plans to remake Footloose.

I know!

Sacrilege!

I first heard about it several weeks ago, when Zac Efron apparently came to his senses and decided to drop out of the project. I was horrified by the news of a Footloose remake, but I was content (or willfully blind enough) to believe it was an isolated incident. Perhaps an outgrowth of that wretched new 90210 the CW is torturing us with. Turns out no, the insidiousness doesn’t stop there.

A few days ago, I stumbled upon this! An untitled Big Chill remake! You need a title? How about "We’re Out Of Fresh Ideas So We Decided To Decimate Your Most Cherished Memories"? Too wordy? How about this: "Utter Crap!"

Clearly things were getting out of hand, but it all came to a head this morning, when I read a blurb in Entertainment Weekly about the upcoming Red Dawn remake. Oh my stars, you guys, this could not be a worse idea. You can't make that movie now. You need the presence of Cold-War-nuclear-holocaust fear to make this idea work. You can't set it in the 80s and just have the Russians attack. No one is afraid of the Russians anymore. Except maybe the Chechens. So, you're forced to set it in the present day and change the villain to the Chinese or the North Koreans or something. Oh, that’s going to go over well internationally. The British are still angry about The Patriot. (Actually, I’m still angry about The Patriot, but only from a movie critic standpoint.) Also, no one is afraid of the Chinese or the North Koreans. Except maybe the South Koreans. So what else is there? The Pakistanis? Yeah, like they could get it together to hunt down a band of high school students turned guerilla freedom fighters in the Michigan wilderness. And all of this is just politics when what I really want to know is why does Hollywood insist on bastardizing my childhood!

What’s next? I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what: they touch The Goonies, they are DEAD to me. No one touches The Goonies. It’s like putting Baby in a corner.

There are some television depths to which even I will not sink.

"My lips of death are coming for you..."

So, we've established that I have somewhat trashy tastes when it comes to television. Even now, I sit here watching the Rock of Love Reunion in which the constestant who may or may not be a transsexual just punched out the contestant who collapsed in a drunk, crying heap on a speed bump and stayed there, drunk and crying, for an hour. Classy!

But I will not, WILL NOT, be watching the upcoming Daisy of Love, starring the runner up from the second season of Rock of Love. There will be drunken antics, there will be wackiness, there will be hijinks aplenty, but I will not see any of them. Every time see a commercial for this trainwreck, I'm afraid her collegen lips are going to come through the screen and smother me. It's terrifying. Also, I'm frightened watching the show could cause viewers to contract some sort of hideous disease. It's not worth your health, people.