A Documentary on Dana Scully, or, How to be Knocked Out in Three Easy Steps

Lately, Daniel has been on an X Files kick. So we’ve been watching all of the episodes. If you don’t know what The X Files is, let me sum it up for you: Two FBI agents look for aliens after lots of strange things happen to or around them. It’s weird.

However, the weirdness is nothing compared to the stupidity perpetuated by one specific character: Dana Scully, one of the FBI agents on the show. 

“I was supposed to look sexy but I got distracted.”

It is incredibly hard to watch her on the show and remain silent. She is dumber than a sock and dresses like Hilary Clinton – that is, when she’s conscious, which seems to be rare. What’s that, you say? You want a list proving this? Okey dokey. 

1) The pantsuits. Oh, sweet cheese and crackers, the pantsuits. This woman wears pantsuits like it’s… 1993. Okay. Fine. But still – who looks good in shoulder pads? WHO, I ask you? No one. Especially not in the ones that make you look like a football player. Maybe she’s trying to go for a more masculine look so the other FBI agents will take her seriously. What she doesn’t know is that the suits are only just masculine enough to make her look like a transvestite. 

Look at those things. They take up half the shot.

2) The complete and utter lack of belief in all things paranormal, in spite of the fact that THOSE ARE THE CASES SHE WORKS. ON PURPOSE. She is a medical doctor who became an FBI agent – the assumption we’re supposed to make is that she’s smart. Unfortunately, she is not smart. Quite the opposite, in fact. Because no matter how many times she sees an alien abduct a kid or an invisible elephant trample a dude or find a bunch of dead people with Alien-esque plants sticking out of them, she insists that it’s all a big scientific misunderstanding. “No, no, I know his head was turned into a jelly bean in front of my very eyes. I have seen this before – it’s JellyBellyItis. Very tragic.” Moron. Conveniently she is never around to see any of the alien activity for many episodes, thus attempting to solidify her status as a scientific genius. All it really does is make you wonder why she is never there for the important things. Which brings me to my next item…

3) Scully is without a doubt the worst FBI agent I have ever seen. She is always at a loss for a weapon when trouble comes her way – too bad that standard FBI-issue gun isn’t nearby since you dropped it in the shower earlier like a champion. And when she does miraculously hang on to her gun, she holds it like a limp noodle and kind of just waves it toward the attackers, as if she is hoping it will start firing on its own. 

She also gets knocked unconscious about three times per episode. Once by a little girl. I get it; she’s the girl on the team and it’s the 90s and life is always more exciting when someone’s unconscious.But they are the F. B.  I. I would hate to have to explain to a child’s parents that I didn’t rescue their son from a kidnapper because I tripped and fell over my own gun after I dropped it because loud noises scare me. 

“What’s that? You want me to hold on to your gum? OH, gun. Uh-huh. Then what? Okay, which part is the trigger? And then I impress him?? OH, arrest him. Okay. Do I tell him I work for the FBI or is that a secret?”

So if you decide to watch, prepare yourself. It isn’t pretty. Her suits certainly aren’t.

A Modest Proposal

Daniel and I went to Kroger last Friday night. We had decided to buy groceries and to stop eating out so much. No, seriously. So we were making our way down the cereal aisle when a lady walked up and asked if she could give me her card. Since I am the world’s biggest chicken a person of culture and acceptance, I said yes. She then handed me this:

Yes. That happened. 

I said thank you, and she moved on. Little did she know that I could never EVER move on from this. 

Aside from the initial question of whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat, I did have a few more key questions:

1) Why Kroger? Is her business nearby? Do statistics show that grocery shoppers are more willing to accept business cards from strangers? Maybe it has to do with the cereal aisle specifically. Or was it a random hand-out, like she knew she would feel ridiculous if she didn’t hand out ANY cards at Kroger when she had set herself a goal to hand out at least five. Which leads me to my next question…

2) Why me? Did I give off some kind of air that I was interested in her services? Was it my Dr. Pepper t-shirt or Target jeans that sealed the deal? Is the cereal aisle the new sexy aisle? Or was it my hair – did she think I could  use a weave? So many questions. So few answers.

3) What. the. heck. Is this a viable business? Is business so good that she can hand out her cards in Kroger and walk away like a boss? Or did she just start the business last week and is trying to drum up some sales? Is she writing her own blog somewhere about the moron in Kroger who actually took a card like this from a total stranger? WILL ANY OF THESE QUESTIONS EVER BE ANSWERED?

All in all, I guess I will have to live with the mysteries. If any of you are interested in her services, I still have the card. And you can probably find her at the Russell-Ridge Kroger – I hear she works the cereal aisle on Friday nights.

Now, have another picture so I don’t have to use the sexy card as the picture for Facebook when I post this:

My brother-in-law, Reverandy. Sorry, Andy.

A Few Thoughts on Etiquette

As you have all likely noticed by now, I am the epitome of grace and dignity. And as a public service to you, I have decided to highlight a few less-than-classy things that just really bug the crap out of me. Imagine I said that last sentence in a British accent and it will seem much classier.

1) When people say “You know , right?”
No, I don’t know. If I knew, would you have just had to tell me? Probably not. Plus there is no way to say that without looking like a complete tool. And it takes 5x as long as just TELLING me to begin with. Quit it. Quit it. 

2) When people say “Ew, what you’re eating looks gross.” That might be true. But I still have to eat it. And now I am sad. And hungry. I’m sadgry : ( If you are going to say that you automatically have to buy me lunch. I’m pretty sure it’s a law.

3) Aol.com email addresses. It’s 2012.

4) When someone constantly looks at something else on your person while they are talking to you. Do I have something in my teeth? Is my bra strap showing? Am I bleeding from my eyes? TELL ME YOUR SECRETS.

5) Orange Skittles.

6) When someone announces that you are in the bathroom during a company meeting. Everyone poops. But my CEO doesn’t need to know about it.

6a) When I misspell the word “etiquette” so that even after I fix it the url still has it spelled wrong. Fail.

7) When lists end abruptly.

I like to keep everything fair and legal, so in the interest of full disclosure, I did not take this picture.

Sticks and stone can break my bones, but words can hurt the most

Today someone very casually asked me if “everyone in the South is a retard.” Classy, huh?

For starters, even if you’re not from here, you live here, in the South, now. So don’t be too terribly surprised when we all turn on you, no shoes and all.

Second of all – really? People still say that? A few months ago my sister-in-law wrote a post about the “R” word, and I was surprised to hear how often she heard it. But then I thought about how she has two little kids, and surely she must have heard it from one of their classmates. I could not picture an adult using the word “retarded” as a synonym for stupid.

And then a grown person walked into my office today and uttered those words. I was floored. I was speechless. And for anyone who knows me (or has spoken to me for five minutes), I am never, ever speechless.

So is this really acceptable? Is it really okay for someone to speak of something like this so casually, as if their words don’t matter? I hope not. I really do. Because if that is the case now, where do we go from here? How much worse does it have to get before someone finally takes offense?

I have a six-year-old niece with Down Syndrome. Her name is Adalie.

Adalie is a good kid. She’s sweet, loves others more than herself, and is always willing to give you a hug whenever you need one. And she will never get to do the same things in the same way as you, because she is retarded. But she isn’t retarded in the way that person meant it today. She isn’t stupid. She isn’t slow. She isn’t weird and she certainly has more to offer this world than some of the “normal” people I’ve come into contact with. She is just a little different.

Don’t let it go any further. You don’t have to have a kid or a niece or a cousin or a friend who learns or talks or acts differently to know that this is wrong. Here’s a good test: If you can replace the word “retarded” in a sentence with “stupid,” pick a different word. Pick a different word for your own sake, but mostly for the sake of all the kids like Adalie out there who will never be considered good enough by ignorant people.

And, for the love of Nancy, DON’T USE IT AT WORK. COME ON. Jerk.

Rant = over.

Go Bay-ack

There is a ride at Six Flags called the Monster Plantation. Most of you have probably ridden it, and if you haven’t, what are you waiting for?? Run, be free. I’ll wait. And whatever anyone tells you, I am not scared of that ride. And if I was it would be a perfectly reasonable fear of the dark and weird, jerky puppets that sing to you without moving their mouths.

Aaaaaanyway, on that ride, you’re supposed to be on a nice, happy tour of the plantation when suddenly you see the “sheriff” of the town waving his arms at you, telling you to go to the right, not to the left! “Go bay-ack,” he says (he is supposed to be Southern, hence the two syllables for the word “back”), but since you have no control over the ride, you have no choice but to wave at him sadly and turn into the scary monster forest.

My dad loves the “go bay-ack” so much that it has become a staple in our household. Walk up and say that to any member of my family and they will know what you are talking about immediately. And my dad loves to say it when he thinks we’re about to do something dumb/have already done something dumb and are telling him about it/when he wants to go to Six Flags, so it always pops into my head when I make less than sound decisions. So, as I regale you with this tale of my bad decision-making skills, try to picture a big, furry monster puppet with a sheriff’s hat on and waving his arms at you to get the full effect, okay?

We recently bought a car back in May. Many of you have heard my adventures with the previous car, the Integra, and if you haven’t just picture me screaming for a long time and then something breaking off a car, and you’re basically caught up. But now I get to drive the new car! The new car and I get along very well, and the only major difference was that the gas light in the Integra (its one good quality being its infinite gas mileage), was more of a suggestion than a warning. And so far in the new Caliber, the few times the gas light had come on, I had gotten gas the same day and it wasn’t an issue.

This brings us to Thursday morning, a morning where I had a choice to make: stop and get gas, or stop and get Starbucks. I only had time for one. I chose Starbucks (cue the first Go Bay-ack), thinking I could just get gas on my lunch break. So I get my S’bucks, drive to work, and almost make it to the light when I notice the car is slowing down. Hmm. That probably isn’t normal. Now it’s slowing down a lot. Now the steering wheel isn’t so much with the turning. I manage to wrestle the car into the Zaxby’s parking lot next to my work, but I don’t make it into a parking space before the car shuts down completely. Oops.

Okay, no big deal – someone at Zaxby’s can probably help. I ran to the door and pulled on it – locked. They don’t open until 10:30. Go Bay-ack. Well, that’s okay. I can… um… I got nothin’. It’s also important to know this about me: I can do CPR, face blood and guts, and clean up vomit like a champion. But in situations that don’t allow me to use pre-arranged steps, I don’t think so good. So I run into work and see my boss in the hallway. Since I have sprinted there, I tell him in between breaths about the situation and that I planned on just walking to the nearby gas station, and I’m pretty sure I mentioned that I was a fast runner. Smooth. He pointed out that asking someone if they had a gas can might be a better first step. I asked a couple of people – no luck with the gas can. Go Bay-ack.

My friend LeeAnn kindly offered to drive me to the gas station, so off we went, me babbling the entire time about how this has never happened to me and I thought I had more gas and blah blee bloo blah. We get the gas can, fill it, and then come back to my car, still in the middle of the Zaxby’s parking lot. I noticed my hazard lights were no longer flashing, but I didn’t really care. Go Bay-ack. After a long time spent on trial and error, LeeAnn figures out how the little gas can works and I start to pour it into my car. Then I feel a little liquid on my leg and shoes. Either I’ve just added incontinence to my list of problems, or I’ve spilled gas on myself. It was the gas. Go Bay-ack. Erghhhhh. Fine. That’s fine. It’s all fine.

The gas finished… gassing, or whatever it does, so I get into the car to start it. I turn the key and am greeted with click click click click. The battery had died. In the five minutes it took me to run inside, get to the gas station, and fill up the car, the freaking battery had DIED. Go Bay-ack. I make the trek back to my work again. It actually wasn’t that far of a walk but it sounds more dramatic if I say “trek” instead of “quick jaunt.” My friend Gino offered to jump my battery, so off we go. The battery is jumped, the car is on, and the villagers were saved. As Gino is driving off, I looked at my dash just in time to see the little gas can light up, accompanied by the cheerful little Ding! that lets me know when I’m screwed. Of course. So I got more gas, and finally wandered into work sometime around 10 – just an hour late. Sheesh. The first thing several helpful people said to me was “Uh – you smell like gas.” I had forgotten that I’d spilled gas all over myself. Go Bay-ack.

I’m sure my coworkers were all very enthused about the prospect of spending an entire day trying to stay conscious, but unfortunately for them, I got sick, had to go home, and wasn’t able to come into work the next day, either. Nothing like an illness to really round off a crappy day, all before lunch time.

So, in conclusion: Don’t ignore the gas light, kids. And always Go Bay-ack.