And all through the house, not a something-something was stirring, not even a mouse.
Then, Maha decided to go downstairs.
Ensuing conversation: “What was all that noise…?” “I fell.” “Oh my God – you didn’t make a sound!” “What do you mean?” “I mean, you didn’t scream? I only heard the falling.” “I don’t tend to scream when I fall.” “What?” “It happens so often, anyway. I just get sad that it won’t stop.”
I thought to share my awesome drawing talents with you. I hope you like it; it took me 17 hours to complete.
.1. Zach Gilford ought to eat a sandwich and fatten up a wee bit; (I hope that it is Baby Jane whom he is eyesexing in the distance). .2. Connie Britton is rocking each one of the pictures. .3. Jesse Plemmons is adorable and I wish to take him out for a drunk. I mean drunk. Damn it. I mean DRINK. I hate typing in a blind-fold. .4. Brad Leland? Buddy Garrity? Fry me up a chicken-fried-chicken steak with a side of double-fried potato wrapped in shake-n-bake, please. .5. COACH ERIC TAYLOR. You’re a fox, and for the record: unlike other audience members, I have no conflicted feelings about whether I’m more interested in you being my husband or my father. Now strip, please. .6. Taylor Kitsch? What? Who airbrushed you to within an inch of your fantastic arms? And if you’re not airbrushed, then what shade of bronzer is that (sharing = caring, thirty-three)? Also. Why isn’t there a picture of your bum in the promos? And why aren’t you horizontal? Foolish. (Psst. Did you notice in above item no. 3? I have a blind-fold, and it’s for you, Timmy…meow…mmm yum, creepy enough for you?…)
Watch Friday Night Lights, please.
Additionally: I hate football, and I also hate hockey when forced to watch games on television.
I do, however, love watching both live. And it is for this reason that I have on my list of Sports-Specific Must-Dos In My Life the following two items: (1) Watch a UT at-home football game against whomever (something I flagged in my head the first time I went to Austin and visited the Darrell K. Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium); and, (2) Watch the Grey Cup.
So. Even though I don’t like these sports and am only familiar with the ins and outs of futbol (the only sport I can watch on television), I am going to be seated in one of the most coveted seats at the next at-home UT football game. I will also, as is familiar to many, be clueless and searching for COACH ERIC TAYLOR at the side of the field. I plan on finding a Booster and getting the low-down on their football and sports-related nosiness. I plan on finding Mack Brown’s wife and hanging out with her. I plan on wearing orange and geeking out on UT ways, like, currently? I am Googling special UT chants and learning them, while also Googling special UT hand gestures and learning them, so that when I greet the other fans, I will know the secret handshake.
More to the point, I also plan on making up my own UT-specific song and singing it to myself during the game; as importantly, and in an effort to appear football aware, I will also be repeating whatever I overhear from those seated next to me…only, I’ll say it louder, smarter and like I mean it more than they ever could.
Here’s what I have so far, to the tune of the great MC Hammer classic You Can’t Touch This! (you must sing it out loud; it makes way more sense that way):
Can’t touch them (x2) Can’t touch them (oh-oh oh oh oh-oh-oh) (x2)
Longhorns! Hit so hard makes others SAY! Oh my Lord Thank you for blessing them with big strong arms and thighs that can Bring home the big W for UT A superdope homegirl from Canada And she’s known as such In her head imagination FUN!
Can’t touch them (x2) Can’t touch them (oh-oh oh oh oh-oh-oh) (x2)
Anyway – it is all I have right now, though working diligently to complete a full song by game day, October 10th.
Are you watching this show yet? Are you watching Friday Night lights yet? Why not? What could you possibly be doing that hasn’t allowed you to watch this show just yet? It will make your life a brighter one – trust me. You will learn, you will think, you will cry, you will try to make out with Tim Riggins and instead receive an electric shock because your saliva hitting the television screen is not the brightest of ideas. At least that’s what I hear from other people.
Friday Night Lights is brilliant from A to Z. It is the best acted, written, directed television show I have ever watched, and you should be watching it too, unless you consider The Kardashians interesting, then Friday Night Lights doesn’t require your low IQ in its audience. You would be a fool to let this show pass you by; and so when you watch it, please make it count so that we ensure this show stays on the air.
The beautiful man in this promo is Coach Eric Taylor (HI! Kyle Chandler); the beautiful woman Principal Tammy Taylor (HI! I LOVE YOU! Connie Britton); the man looking over his eyeglasses, the character bringing electricity to this show Joe McCoy (I shake my fist at you (lovingly)! D.W. Moffett). (East Dillon better kick Panther ass, Writers.)
In honour of this show, I am creating a new category label titled Friday Night Lights. At the bottom of this entry, you’ll find it – click it if you’re interested in reading all of my sad & lame entries.
Also, please note the greatest birthday present I have ever received is this UT Longhorns at-home vs Colorado football game ticket. (I was so excited to receive this that I nearly passed out…don’t you dare judge me, unless it means I come out smelling like clean fresh shampoo.)
Darrrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium 40 yard line 2nd row Behind the Longhorns (…eat your heart out, boys & see you in Austin in a couple of weeks)
Have you ever thought about what your Facebook photo says about you? I think, in general, we are safe to make the massive generalization that we choose photos we believe represent us. We can expand this to include: how we wish others to know us.
This is my current FaceBook photo. Notice the subtle messages this photo conveys to my friends (and now you, 6 precious readers): (1) I eat snakes; (2) I am ALIVE; (3) I am a WEIRD GEEK; (4) I have a fantastic leather jacket (feels like butter, tastes like chicken): and, (5) I have creepy red-eyes.
My photos fence-straddle Extremely Happy Dork or Smasher Of The Stupid (fence-straddle: here, I had originally accidentally used the word ‘facilitate’, intending to use the word ‘vacillate’, only to Thesaurus.com the little b*tch and come up with the gem ‘fence-straddle’. Feel free to call me James Joyce…just make certain you call me…ruhahaw…).
These are the two Maha’s (apostrophe or no?) I am most aware of / happy with / see as my true self, and so the ones I wish to share with my friends and general fanbase of 6 readers.
(Look: It’s not like I am only jolly when stumbling around smashing random people; it is, though, that I don’t let people fuck around with me. I call people on their shit immediately, and without hesitation, even if it makes them uncomfortable because they’re wanking cry-babies. The alternative? I absorb their shit behavior and give myself an ulcer in an effort to make certain I don’t rock the boat and instead placate the asshat. No thanks.)
Right. Hold on, let me scroll up and read what my point was. Ok. So it appears I don’t really have a point and shall instead end the above thought here, but not before I tell you that a little while back, I was seated next to a man who must have been an archaeologist because his finger was digging very far up his nose.
Further to this entry about duck lips unsexy, I decided to do a little investigative reporting in order to answer my hypothesis that: So Many Girls Suck.
My investigative reporting took me to Myspace sites and the photos of my friends on FaceBook. Pointing and clicking is exhausting; my hat’s off to Amanpour.
Although there are many in my judgey view respectable young girls, I did note there to be an unprecedented display of asshattery in most girls < 30something. This asshattery usually consists of in my judgey view trash photos of young women sexing the camera, or sexing one another, or sexing nothing in an attempt to look ‘sexy’ and clearly show the audience that they are capable of sexing anything you throw at them, including but not limited to scissors, water bottles, and small furry animals.
It is, like duck lips, a hyper-sexualization of their women’s nether regions showing on their faces (I could really use the help of a romance novelist’s thesaurus here). And as we all know, sexy = “I’d like to get fkd by you, or her, or them, or that camera, or that homeless guy in the corner, or I’ll even take on The Republicans because I hear they’re pros at fkng people“.
The art of subtlety is lost on the next generation, the duck lips popular because it is in your face sexing, screaming: I AM SEXING EVERYTHING I CAN GET MY HANDS ON SO SUCK ON THAT (BUT NOT BEFORE I SUCK IT!).
They are pornified, but in the most false and plastic of ways because they clearly have not been told the two simplest secrets between men and women: (1) there is nothing sexier than what happens behind closed doors; and, (2) a man will always be more intrigued by the woman who leaves a question in the air rather than the scent of her former lay. As equally important is that sexy can never be feigned or put on – as both Jessica Biel & Scarlett Johanson so clearly illustrate with her shit acting and hilarious ‘sexy’. You either are, or you are not. You are either born with it, or you are clown-like in your attempt to reproduce it, it is really that simple and that clear. (Really. Ask your mum – unless she’s a slut, of course.)
(And – is it any wonder that so many of the girls you meet have such shit self esteem, when one considers much of their identity is premised on their own objectification of themselves as sexual objects? Imagine the kind of useless sex-sac one must see in the mirror when their largest claim to identity is: pornification (even if they don’t see it as such – it is in fact this exact thing in my judgey opinion), rather than intelligence or creativity or hilarity or any one of a million other possibilites when seeing who and what we represent.)
It is almost as though the females have been buried in the basement and shackled to goats, newly released and carnivorous for peni. Like their entire identity centers on their sexing track record and capacity. Almost as though, notwithstanding that we have much to thank of the North American feminist movement, it has failed its girls.
It has failed because there is nothing more facile than getting laid. And if this is what our young women are becoming, then we are in serious stinky diarrhetic shit – both our girls who are behaving in this way, and the boys who see nothing more than a few holes when they ogle a girl.
To recap. Hypothesis: So many girls suck. Deduction no 1: Yes. Yes they do. But not all is lost, just yet. Deduction no 2: Fk and pornify yourself all you want; just don’t kid yourself about the reality of the world that we live in. Also, don’t tell me it is ‘empowerment’ to get laid, you stupid git – at least not in this part of the world. Maybe Afghanistan, yes, but they have bigger problems at the moment and so getting off with whomever will have to wait.
From you, I have never once hid the fact that I am a cheating slut, nor that I would dump your exceptionally and perfectly curved bum, in an instant, were Coach Eric Taylor interested in cheating on Tammy (even though I pretend that I would not hurt the sisterhood in this fashion, I would stab Tammy for a chance to fumble Coach Eric Taylor’s football). But that’s neither here nor there. What is both here and there is that to the list of descriptives you use when you are bored and sad and miss and talk about me to your friends, you may now add ‘fickle’, because I am back.
I am back and ask that you forgive me my indiscretions with Jared Padalecki. As much as I love his physique ability to speak to theology and politics, his hairstyle is setting alight dormant aspirations to hair dressing that I know will disappoint my mum (“some of my best friends are hair dressers…”). Also, Rigglett, unlike you when you are busily sexing your females, he doesn’t appear to make use of his tongue very often. Since we are all very aware of the Fact that tongues are the sisterhood’s BFF, this reality poses grave and disconcerting news for all, most especially I who – having waited 34 years – isn’t interested in a non-tonguer. (Thank you for your time Jared ‘non-tonguer’ Padalecki, and good bye.)
This morning, a reader sent me this fantastic video of you being dumb (and I mean, like, in the smartest most intelligent way) and cute and very British Columbian Canadian when you declare: “What? Are you? kidding me? This was. I can. Can I swear? Holy shit. Man. That’s the first time. He uh. He put the flies down. somethingsomethingmumbleTaylorhassomethinginhismouthanditsnotmesoIdontcare This is like. Do you know when you’re on tv? and the fuckers had the fish on the line and like? they just said action. This is insane man. somethingsomethingmumblemumble“.
Being an Ontario native, I have a very hard time fighting off the seductive prowess of West Coast hippies such as yourself. Will you take me back? If you’d like, I will send you a photo of myself in a bikini while wearing thigh-high rubber boots, with a FlyFishPole in one hand…if there is such a thing…and a potted plant in the other, and standing in a pool because rivers and ponds and lakes give me the heebie jeebies.
I look forward to our reunion, Maha P.S. I reserve the right to cheat on you again, with whomever pleases me.
Dear Readers,
Taylor Kitsch enjoys working with sick children. Anyone have a non-contagious one I can borrow?
Really, very grateful, Maha
Dear Dan Cone, FlyFishingFriend of Taylor Kitsch,
I really appreciate your use of the word “channelizes”; a word I did not even know existed until watching the above linked-to video. It is my word of the day: I am a girl who channelizes all of her energy into her make-believe cartoon life.
I’ve cut out the name and photo of the woman who wrote the above sentence. In a nutshell, she was hating on the opinions expressed in the piece. This isn’t a problem – obviously, when one posits an opinion, you expect a counter.
But there are rules of engagement to the counter, no? And the rules dictate that you don’t respond to an argument about the validity of red vs blue as a favourite colour by saying “Well. Your mum’s black, so you’re wrong”. Or do you? Was there a news bulletin sent out indicating Exceptionally Racist Asshattery = Gold Star?
This particular woman? rather than engaging the opinions, instead attacks Islam. Loosely translated, the not-too-bright female ends her rant (not counter) about her distaste for the opinions expressed here by saying “She’s a Muslim…that says everything.”(1)
Amazing, no? Amazing the complete and total asshattery of this individual. Amazing that she is too stupid to focus on the arguments and counter them one by one, and instead chooses to turn around and focus her hate at me and my faith.
But. I am neither asshat, nor racist. I am, though, laughing at the collective stupidity which she represents. (Note: I was also sent one woman’s response who called her out on her racist asshattery – saying that [me as] a Muslimah, was allowed to have an opinion. Thank you intelligent not-asshat.)
The end.
********** (1) I dare you to tell me that by me labelling her personal (ergo rendering it a personal attack on her…person) racism as an expression of complete ignorance, I am therefore as guilty as she of the claim I make against her above. (Go ahead. I’d love it. And I really need more dumbtastic emails – I get way too much love as is.)
Hi Rigglett. How are you? I am very well – more so than usual, because Ramadan is over and I may now have my morning venti americano with a lot of milk.
Also, I have been cheating on you ever since Jared Padalecki took off his shirt. I thought you should know.
Thanks for the memories, Maha P.S. I hope you don’t think of me as a slut for cheating on you, unless, of course, you like cheating sluts, in which case, I remain yours forever.
Also, thank you for being the descendant of People With Fantastic Genes. Really, seriously. Unlike yours, my Tribe is not fitted up by People With Fantastic Genes, but rather People With Alright Genes And Every Once In A While, You Know…Not Too Shabby And We Can Really Surprise You.
Also, please undress more often. Er…! I hope you like the font color I have chosen in honor of you.
I love your body, Maha P.S. I am having great difficulty not calling you DEAN as I loved you very much on Gilmore Girls. Much more so than dirty Jess and definitely more so than the blonde man-child who Rori dated for much too long.
P.S. no 2 Please cut your hair, my love. Or grow it to one length. Anything but bangs..’cus bangs are for pixies. And, because your eyes are lovely and tiny, you should really watch out about water retention – it’ll show very quickly most around your eyes. (You’re welcome.)
Dear Connie Britton & Kyle Chandler,
HI! HOW ARE YOU? O! So happy that we’re talking again! I miss the both of you equally. I understand you will be away until the slut Executives at whichever stupid place you work for have decided it’s time for you to return because they are completely out of touch with reality the stupid wanks that they are.
I thought I would let you know that your absence is noted and you are missed by both myself and every single one of my 9 friends who I have introduced to Friday Night Lights.
That is all (insert sad emoticon here, please), Maha P.S. This shade of font is called “lavender blush”. I don’t get it, either. P.S. Coach Eric Taylor? I would trade both above mentioned children Taylor Kitsch and Jared Padalecki for you in your angry man shorts. xo
Only because I have been seeing one too many photos of women of all ages with this facial expression. (NSFW)
That facial expression (best articulated by offspring of pimp parents), is ridiculous not sexy, Daisy Duck not Angelina, laughable not lubricious.
I have yet to meet a man interested in sexing it up with a woman who looks like her lips are caught within one of these:
And in case I wasn’t clear: You look stuipd. (And I can’t fkn spell.)
You’re welcome.
********** By the way – the photo is of Queen of the Ridiculous Daisy Duck Laughables, M**** Cyr*s. I must bleep her name out as I don’t wish to have her equally stupid fans descend upon this interWeb home, taking their q from those crickets or whichever insect that attack a town in the version of the Bible I can not remember…maybe 7.3?. (I am really much too lazy to Google – that’s how much I give a shit about her brand of Jesus Lovin’ (as she grinds her ass against a stripper pole in front of an audience).)
Also, I am not spell checking this post. Take that, M#$@%.
Years back, I followed La Coquette’s lead and posted an image of my handbag and listed all of its contents. I can’t find the link to that post because I am nearing the 800 entries mark on this blog and I am relatively shit at on-line searches.
This year, I decided to try something different and so have instead listed the relatively boring contents of all that sits on my desk. Click on the following photo and you will be taken to the page where all 27 notes list the contents of the items you see before you. I understand this to be extremely exciting (I too may pee), please contain yourselves.
Feel free to do the same (note – in order to comment on flickr, you must actually have an account).
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