These are the most ridiculous things I've ever seen.


In the pokey

I never get tired of helping people find their incarcerated kin. Never. I also never get tired of the link asking me to explore careers in corrections. For a while I dreamed of being a prison librarian until Brian pointed out that no one in Big Mac was as hot as Ryan O'Reily. I tend to think he's right.
I cho-cho-chose to change the channel

I used to think Margaret Cho was pretty hot shit but now I think she's just not so funny. Perhaps I'm biased because she totally didn't pay attention while my Dude was interviewing her. OR, perhaps I'm biased because all she does is impersonate her mother and talk about her judy. I'm beginnign to think she's officially a prop comic.


Called as seen

I sure would love it if I had a killer new story to tell, like I've been playing Sun City or I just got back from the Golden Globes and as it turns out Merry is the hottest hobbit, or I've been SO busy with Habitat for Humanity that I couldn't possibly make time for anything selfish. None of those are true. Ok, it looks like Merry is the hottest hobbit, but anyone with access to E!Online could've told you that. No, as it turns out I've been stoned on the couch for two and one half days. Now, I'm not sure how this happened, just as I'm not sure how three MST3K box sets ended up in my living room. I'm not a big tempter of fate so I'm not gonna explore one minute longer. Oh, and if anyone sees DeKinder tell him I found his phone under the cat and that I was wrong about Christina Ricci's date.


Hack Band Eats Ass of Local Woman

Once, Dame Judy and I were shopping at Hot Topic. Needless to say we guiltily coveted much of the merchandise and felt like wrinkly old ladies next to all the smooth skinned young toughs. We still found it within ourselves to flirt with the help though. Anyway, due to the nature of Hot Topic there was an influx of Good Charlotte memorabilia. Upon seeing it Judy calmly pointed out that Good Charlotte ate her ass. That's why Judy and I are friends.

Seeing as how Good Charlotte is currently eating ass, it's time to find the next big thing. I know nothing about music, but I do know that special something when I see it. Recently I found the following list buried in a library book, bad spelling and all. God only knows what this list was to begin with. Honestly, it might very well be evidence for all I know. Right now I like to think of it as a list of potential superstars. If you have a band that needs a name, feel free to help yourself. The only hitch is that you have to name your first album The Librarian Rocks my Face.

*Anerexic Ethiopian
*Mutated Geraffe
*Dirty Mexican Drug Lord
*Peekaboo Killer
*Princess Catherina
*The Fluffermink Frootloop
*Legal Decendent of Satan
*Hitler as a high school student on crak
*Dosent Know How to Shut Up
*Blearghh! Brurg (vomit)
*What you find on the bottom of your shoe


As seen on TV

My favorite part of the miracle product commercials is the first ten seconds. Inevitably they're in black and white and they demonstrate just what a nightmare your life is without the Rotato, or whatever. In these snippets the people, usually women because we're such morons and stuff, always have tousled hair and broken fingernails. I'm assuming it's because they've gotten their regular brush helplessly tangled in their dry, damaged, over processed hair and they've grated their nails into the carrot-raisin salad using their grandma's grater. Either that, or they've been systematically abused for serving their husbands sticky spaghetti or imperfectly flipped omelets. The men can't be late for their nut waxing session at Manscaping.


Filled with the spirit

I think it would be fun to go undercover in a penticostal holiness church. Since I am lacking the proper tresses, thus not considered a lady, I'll go disguised as a pudgy preteen boy. It shouldn't be hard to find some unflattering trousers and cheap sneakers. I've got the appropriate acne, I should be set. It won't be long be long before I'm betrothed to some plain girl wearing a california raisins t-shirt with her long denim skirt. This is very exciting, as her husband she has to listen to me. I'm pretty sure that she can still be stoned by the elders if she disobeys. In the mean time I'll just be stoned. Therefore I can plant all sort of seditious thoughts into her fragile mind. United we can become an unstoppable killing machine, all in the name of our gracious, heavenly Father, Jesus Christ our Lord.


Oh, I've got something comin' alright

Work has been something of a nightmare lately, with the kid who snarled at me during story time and the other kid who was not only grossly obese, but he smelled of dirty fat kid and had dangling boogies to boot. And stuff has been really busy as well.

On the other hand, I've been sulking less, working out more (again. Ok, some) and cooking at home. My likes at the moment are America's Next Top Model, Skye O'Malley, and Aquacize. My dislilkes are dirty fat kids, snarling children, unless of course they're actually feral, and the zit on my chin I've dubbed El Scorcho.

Both of my grandpa's are in failing health and I don't even think I can deal, ergo, I'm not. See my happy face? It's a 15 kilowatt smile I'm sporting.


Just so's you know

If anyone has any helpful tips on putting together a story time workshop for child care providers, I'm totally all ears. While I'm busy doing that, you all should go read about this guy. I think I might be asking his web site if it wants to hang out some time.


Tonight's episode

It really is the most infuriating thing in the world when you find yourself living psychobabble. It’s just dumb and smacks of Dr. Phil (who eats dick, by the way) But the truth is, damn it, that much of the psychobabble is true. My shrinker tells me to “allow myself to feel” and “not to push things down inside”. I’ve been following her advice, but fuck, it hurts real bad.

It’s been over two months since I lost the baby and thinking about it still gives me a bubble of lava right behind my heart. There are times when I tell myself that I should be done with this by now. Chin up, worse things could happen. But then there are times like last night when I bust into tears while driving along the Broken Arrow Expressway. Then I get home and get shitty drunk and watch The O.C., which manages to quell the pain long enough for me to go to sleep/pass out clutching my tiny kitten in my arms.

Brian tells me he’s frightened for me. I can understand why. The depth of anguish frightens me as well. I’m afraid that one of these days the lava will burst and I’ll melt all over the place. If I sit still for too long, if I sit sober for too long, I catch myself thinking too much. I catch myself in the 618.2’s reading the pregnancy books. I touch my body constantly; my breasts, my belly, wondering how it could’ve betrayed me like this. Why it rejected what was sown. Wondering what was in me and what it could’ve become.


Don't stop believin'

Sometimes the blue funk comes when you least expect it. I spent some quality email time with my beloved Sarah B. today. She promised that she'd believe in me if I believed in her. For we both realize that things can't be shitty forever. At this point it sure feels like things have already been shitty forever.

I have my health and a wonderful husband. I love my kitties and my Princess Angel doll. I'm very lucky to have a good job and a truly bizarre family. It's just that there are times when things start pushing down and it's quite difficult to get out from under that pressure.

Here's to keeping our fingers crossed.


Tatonka? Maybe not.

Hot indian braves are pretty popular romance topics. Looking at these books here at the library, all these braves are (a) just dying to have a white squaw and (b) have names like Shadow Hawk, Raven Wolf, or Cuts Like a Knife. Just my luck, I'd stumble into a ghost town (they're all over Oklahoma) and get zapped back in time, only to find that the ripped indian brave of my choice is named Pees Sitting Down. Which is really ok because I think Hung Like A Bear is actually retarded.

These holidays have been harsh. Folks came into town a week before Christmas and, well, there was celebrating to be done. Next thing you know I’ve been drunk for three weeks. It gets a body down. Ergo, this weekend time off was taken. Which is how I ended up sitting on the couch all day Sunday, pulling pinch hits with Dame Judy and watching MTV.

Now, I’ve mentioned before that I’m a musical retard, especially when it comes to pop, pop music. So I thought I’d do a little research and see what the kids are listening too these days. I was greatly saddened to learn that the death of Aaliyah did not put an end to her tragic/shitty brand of R&B. Hell, I saw videos from her, Tupac, and Biggie Smalls. Where is this coming from? Doesn’t’ matter, this stuff sucks, hard. It sucks when it’s Ashanti, whose cameo on Buffy was just dumb, and it sucks when it’s anyone else. (I’m looking at you B2K) When I asked Judy how anyone could stomach an entire album of this shit, she wisely pointed out that no one should have to, and why they would choose to is beyond my dreaming.

What doesn’t suck is the song Holidae In by Chingy, Snoop, and Ludacris. God knows I love Snoop. Ever since the Chronic album, he’s had my heart. Anyone who devotes himself as fully to the life as Mr. Broadus deserves full accolades, so here goes:

Snoop, you know that if you’re ever in Tulsa, and I know you’ve been here ‘cause I saw the signs for the Puff, Puff, Pass Tour, you are always free to hang with the Slammers and me at our HQ. Yes, it’s true I was a total puss and did not consider attending your concert for one hot second, due to the crowded-ness and the very real possibility of me getting dirty looks from all the banji girls in the audience. But I’d still like to kick it with you. I make mean no-bake cookies and my Dude can play Patience on the acoustic guitar. We can show you a helluva time. There is a no rottweilers allowed rule, but I’m pretty sure they’ll be safe if you leave them in the Navigator. Shoot me a text message and let me know.

Your friend,
Erin Lady Byrne

p.s. If anyone out there in internet land wants to make me a c.d. just gimme a shout out in the comments box and we'll set something up.


Ok! FINE!!

I’ll do a yearly wrap-up thing. CRAP!

Ok. As you might’ve guessed, the high point of 2003 was The O.C., which, by the way, better get back from holiday hiatus pretty fucking soon because the picture of Seth Cohen I cut from my Entertainment Weekly is becoming ragged and damp from my scorching desire. Plus my Dude is freaking out because I keep pawing a sad little piece of magazine.

Trucky the Miscarriage Cat has managed to banish much of the darkness inside my gut. His efforts are heroic and sometimes when I see him, I feel as though I need to run onto the porch and scream as loud as I can just to let everyone know how much I love him. Seriously, if Trucky came in bulk I would totally invest.

I’m sure I read a lot of good books. I can’t really remember the names of them or anything, but I’m sure they were good because I don’t read books that suck. Ok, I take that back, I read plenty of shit-lit, but every bit of it is delightful.

So, yeah. I lost a baby this year. Did you hear about that one? It’s true. Remember people, if you see me on the street and ask me what I’ve been up to, that’s what you’re going to hear. Than you might say something like “Are you Ok?” and I’m going to say “Um, no.” Then you’ll smile weakly and ask me if there’s anything you can do, you know, like if I just need to talk and then you’ll pat me on the back. And deep down inside I’ll feel good because I made you feel uncomfortable. No offense.

I am, however, pleased to report that my quasi-ironic creepy miscarriage doll, Princess Angel, turned out far creepier than I ever imagined. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t have a mouth or that she has crow/angel wings embroidered on her back or the fact that her head flops around like her neck is broken. It could be the Hello Kitty fabric I chose to make her darling li’l jumper. Whatever it is, I love her. She provided great solace on New Year’s Eve after I drunkenly cried in the arms of a pregnant woman I barely know.

So thanks, chickens, for kickin’ it with me.

Slammers take state in 2004!!

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