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Saturday, January 25, 2003

Whoever let the Dixie Chicks perform Stevie Nicks' old song "Landslide" should be sued. They have violated the ultimate music code: Never, ever, redo a Stevie Nicks song. This goes double if you're a country band.
And with that thought, I present you with Melly's Big, Bad, Ferret-Kicking List of People in the Music Industry to Sue:
-Madonna, for her awful cover of the original "American Pie" song. A three minute poppy techno song does the original 7 minute long acoustic version no justice.
-Kelly Clarkson, for continuing to sing the mass-produced crap she does.
-Avril Lavigne and Good Charlotte, for gross misuse of the word "punk". You're all pop, sweeties!
-Britney Spears, for writhing her anorexic butt in the nation's face.
-Michael Jackson, for confusing me on racial issues when I was a young child. Can you blame me for not seeing the relationship between him and Janet until I was 11?
-Garth Brookes, for causing my father to make bad "Darth/Garth" puns
-Raffi, for not producing any more mind-altering songs for the 1-6 year old demographic like "Baby Beluga". I miss him. I really do.
-The Osbournes, for allowing Kelly to produce songs like "Shut Up"
-Bono, for his constant spitting while he performs. And for the whole "Yes-I-Do-Love-America-and-Care-About-Issues-But-I'm-Still-Irish-Lookit-Me!" attitude.
-The White Stripes, The Vines, The Stokes, and The Hives, for all sounding exactly alike
I could continue on and berate such people as Paul McCartney, Jennifer Lopez, Missy Elliot, and Sting, but I won't. I found my old "Baby Beluga" recording.
Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea,
Swim so wild and you swim so free.
Heaven above, and the sea below,
And a little white whale on the go.

Way down yonder where the dolphins play,
Where they dive and splash all day,
The waves roll in and the waves roll out,
See the water squirting out of your spout.

Baby beluga, baby Beluga, sing your little song,
Sing for all your friends, we like to hear you.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:13 PM

Alicia called last night. "Can you bring me to practice tomorrow?"
I think I can, but my parents aren't home. I'll have to ask.
Dad blows a gasket. "YOU ARE WALKING, YOUNG LADY. I AM NOT DRIVING ANYWHERE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
Yes, Dad. I was just asking. Alicia needed a ride.
"SHE CAN WALK TOO."
She lives 3 miles away, Dad. It's January.
"SHE CAN COME OVER TOMORROW AND THEN I'LL BRING HER TO PRACTICE LATER, THEN. DON'T TEST ME."
Practice is at 9:30 AM, Dad. Forget it. I'll tell her we can't drive her.
"9:30? Ok. 9:30. 9:30 AM"
Right, Dad. I'll call her now.
"DON'T USE THAT TONE OF VOICE WITH ME"
So I call Alicia, apologize, channel-surf, then go to bed.
My father wakes me up at 9. "Time to get up, Sweetie! Practice at 10, right?"
This time I have a fit.
My father drove me to practice.
Sheesh.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 1:53 PM

Friday, January 24, 2003

My dentist is a freak. Then again, I've never met the guy. Just the blonde, overweight assistants.
But seriously, what kind of person subjects his patients to have putty stuck in their mouths for over 15 minutes while staring at autographed U2 bomber jackets? What kind of person hangs posters of "The Incredible Flyman!" on his wall? (The Incredible Flyman, by the way, looked like a cross between Batman and The Loch Ness Monster.) WHAT KIND OF PERSON HAS EVERY SINGLE "PRECIOUS MOMENT" FIGURINE EVER MADE?
Oh. Right. Dr. Bowman does.
All of the hygenists, secretaries, and whoever else works at a dentist's office are female, blonde, and overweight at Dr. Bowman's. I wonder if that's in the job criteria. Though I'm sure that's not exactly complying with equal-opportunity standards.
Then again, I'm not sure a lot of people would be desperatly seeking a job in place decorated with Barbie doll heads.
Just the heads.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:47 PM

It's sad when you have memorized the color order of those little changing-color-lamp thingies. The particular lamp of interest is one I received for Christmas from Aunt Di. I didn't really want a lamp, and I'm sure she'd prefer not to share her name with a dead royal, but she gave the "Magic Dream Ball (TM)" and I recieved it just the same.
The directions for the "Magic Dream Ball (TM)" are as follows:

1) Plug into wall outlet.

This is printed in four languages, with illustrations for the illiterate/greatly confused.
The color order is as such- gold, aqua, fuschia, and violet. (Ordinary colors such as yellow, blue, pink, or purple need not apply. This here's a MAGIC dream ball, Sparky!) I know this because i watched it last night on my ceiling before drifting off to sleep in musical goodness. (Yes, I use all available electricity in the house to get to sleep).
My "Magic Dream Ball (TM)" did provide me with a dream, though not a magic one.(The product description is obviously lacking). I was babysitting this girl and we had pizza and then she ran down to my room and threw pink feather boas everywhere. All of a sudden, everybody from my writing and gym classes (dressed in prep-school clothes and gym shorts, accordingly) was standing in my room, picking up the feather boas and rubbing them in my face, which made me sneeze.
When I woke up this morning, the lightbulb was burned out.
Oops. No more magic dreams for me.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 6:11 PM

Thursday, January 23, 2003

I love you, too.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:17 PM

You have to mean something to do it.
That line annoys me. Of course you don't have to mean anything. I could give you a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and hate you down to your twitching retinas. I could corner the market of Mr. Heater MH500T Firestick Weed Burners when all I really want is to go to bed.
The trick is you could mean something, as they obviously did in the movie that that line was uttered. The song "Killing Me Softly" MEANT something to her.
I'm really not sure where I'm going with this.
Then again, I'm really not sure if I mean this either.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:40 PM

I waved goodbye to the square root of two today. I wonder where numbers go when you cancel them out. They can't just disapear- no matter can be created nor destroyed, dangit!
Maybe they go to the circus.
I'd like to go to the circus, too.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:25 PM

Wednesday, January 22, 2003

i wanted to say it.
it was a joke, i know. i wanted to say it. but i didn't. the joke was true.
it shouldn't be, i know. there's no reason for it to be. and there has to be a reason. maybe they just aren't apparent.
or maybe i just don't want to admit them.
why? because i know how you'll react. at least i think i do.
that's my problem, you see. i think i know everything, and use this as an excuse to not admit.
well, i'm admitting.
i wanted to say it, because it was true.
i love you

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:57 PM

My Onion Horoscope:
Gemini: (May 21—June 21)
All those people who think a person can't be both creative and productive now have you as proof.
I am so, so let down. I was getting ready for the weekly happy-a-thon, and they give me THIS? I'm crying. The stars aren't feeling humorous this week, apparently. I mean, Scorpio's is SO much better:
Scorpio: (Oct. 24—Nov. 21)
You will soon be in demand among domestically oriented women when it turns out you're made of Corian, a desirable countertop material.
Anyone that wishes to compensate for the Onion's obvious letdown is welcome to. Sock it to me.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:48 PM

I amazed with the logic of some of my classmates.
"Oh, crud, the page in my French workbook with my homework in it must've fallen out", says Ted.
"Dude, did you just realize that now, or didja realize that last night?" inquires Ryan
"Uh, just now, man." says Ted
"Dude, tell her you found out last night so that it sounds like you intended to actually do it." says Ryan, brilliantly.
It seems to me that some people spend more brain cells on making up exuses than what it would actually take to do what they're excusing themselves for. (Obviously, I didn't spend enough brain cells on that sentence because it still doesn't make sense. Excusez-moi.)

Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:40 PM

Tuesday, January 21, 2003

I really, really do not like dogs. Or any animals, for that matter. Even cows.
List of animal-like faults: they smell, they drool, they defecate on the lawn/carpet/roof, they shed, they bite, they slobber, they whine, they don't perform yoga.
Oh wait. I don't do yoga either (Or at least, when I attempt to, people say I look like a fruitcup and I try to figure out why because I don't see no cherries and then I start giggling and I'm no longer on the road to self-introspection). But then again, I don't defecate on the lawn/carpet/roof. I'm a good girl. Really.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:44 PM

Monday, January 20, 2003

I braved the mall today at 8'oclock in utter sleepiness to find a pair of gym shorts.
Gym shorts. Not too hard. Piece of material, with leg holes. Preferably not made out of spandex. Right?
No. People, for some reason, are set on the idea of making shorts with "Princess" on the butt.
I, sadly, am not a princess. Something about my line of birth.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 10:05 PM

I spent the night at a friend's.
Elyn is the most bizzare person I know. She makes her own jewelry. We have serious discussions of Mick Jagger together. She loves Cream of Wheat. There's a "Beer- helping white guys dance since 1842" poster in her garage.
There is a poster of smiling, falling babies with sunflowers on their heads in her bedroom.
As we were watching this strange, strange movie about witches that conjure rodents out of the plumbing, my gaze was transfixed on the smiling sunflower children.
So very, very strange.
"About a Boy" is a great movie, btw. It garners extra points for Hugh Grant playing "Killing Me Softly" on the guitar.
Well, and the whole bit about killing a duck with a loaf of bread.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:40 PM

Sunday, January 19, 2003

End of the semester was Friday. Whoopee.
Because the administration of our school is completely brainless, everyone has gym for one semester. Every day, one semester. And then the next semester, they can take basketweaving 101 or whatever.
This succeeds in two ways: the unathletic kids just sit on their butts for that one semester, and then go through hell when they actually have to run some stair laps. The athletic kids, however, are bored as heck during the time they don't have gym and generally cause mayhem around the school. Le sigh.
I have gym this next semester, and I'm looking forward to it. It's getting me out of that godawful home ec class, where I was forced to fry ground beef on a regular basis.
Except that I realized I have no gym shorts.
I have spandex, of course. Tons of the stuff, from volleyball. But I am NOT going to wear that to a coed gym class.
And nobody sells gym shorts in January.
In the words of the other melly, I don't think you're ready for this jelly.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 11:26 AM