The Uncommon Blog*

*Title has no bearing on the following idiocy. The publisher is not responsible for content and/or legal action taken against author. The following viewpoints, conclusions, and beliefs are solely the author's and do not necessarily reflect the ideology of Blogger.com (all rights reserved).

People have been telling me that my posts make absolutely no sense. On one hand I'm surprised and mortified that anyone reads them at all. On the other (and more professional) hand I apologize and will attempt to pursue a more comprehensive and medicated approach. 

That said, (that was one of my better segways if I do say so myself) the Rescuers would have been one of the top ten Disney movies of all time were it not for the Bob Newhart-esque music playing throughout. If anyone reads this blog (that hasn't been scared away by previous posts) and hasn't seen it within the last ten days GO WATCH IT. NOW. please. pretty please? with a cherry on top? Then you can come back and read. Unless by that time you're completely disgusted with me. 

Medusa is the greatest Disney villain (or is it villainess?) of all time. Hands. Down. Crazier than Cruella. Badder than Scar. Way eviler than that whole cacophony of evil queen chicks from cinderella, sleeping beauty, and snow white. The only one that comes close is the priest dude from the Hunchback. But just because he has great songs.

What makes her so great? 

For one thing the driving plot of this movie is the fact that she kidnaps a little kid and (after stealing her teddy bear in one of the most epic "swoops" of all time) stuffs her down a hole to find a diamond. Telling her she'll never see daylight again if she doesn't get the diamond. Of course, the kid only worries about the bear, but still, pretty decent threat for a Disney movie. However, upon finding the diamond, Medusa stuffs it into the back of the bear's head ("auntie Medusa [I love it when villianesses refer to themselves as "auntie"] has grown quite attached to him). 

But the kidnapping and child endangerment only scratch the surface of Medusa's onionlike character (oh yes, Medusas are like onions. Just like ogres. And just as endearing. I say that with my heart). Besides all this, she has two pet alligators, which she repeatedly embraces, a nuclear powered swampmobile, and totes around what appears to be a 1918 Ribeyrolle 8mm semi-automatic assault rifle. 

If she didn't have the fake eyelashes and no eyebrows and a total of seven teeth she would be perfect. However, kudos to Disney for crafting such a delicate creature. 

As I write this I am wearing a Spongebob shirt I found at Walmart. Seven bucks. I know, I know, where'd you get the money to throw away on something like that? For one thing, it's Spongebob. Period. Extra. Period. One of those really annoying and stupid head jiggles ("Uh huh. That's what I just said. Uh huh. Yeah. What you got to say now? Yeah? Uh huh. Yeah. I Thought that's what you got to say. Uh huh.") For another thing, the Salvation Army has no business to be collecting this early anyway. And she was off on a break drinking eggnog or whatever they do. I payed off the kid who kept looking at me funny (kept raising an eyebrow, "Did I just see...? Yes I did. Mommy gonna hear 'bout this, unless I get half. Yessir." Then he did the Jack Black eyebrow roll just to show he meant business.) Left me just enough to get a Sam's cola. But the stupid machine was broken. Stole my hard earned cash right out from under me. 

I did make it out with the Spongebob shirt though.

Forgive me for misspellings and grammer issues. Proofreading is not one of my finer points. Actually it's more like one of those bouncy balls with the handle things. But if you were like me you never had one until who had the money to buy it, which meant that you were about two sizes to large for pony ride, let alone a bouncy ball. Then you're left lying on your face holding a paper with a polite little note tagged onto the bottom: "You're lucky I gave you a 'D'. If I wasn't required to pass a certain percentage of students, you, buddy, would surely be *unprintable*. It was legible. That's your strongest point. Thank you for learning how to type." 

Dear Diary. (Pardon misspellings and grammar issues. I refuse to read this ever again.)

I read a few days ago that "blogs used to be called diaries and were written by twelve year old white girls." That was discouraging. Not that I blog much - actually I hardly ever do - It was just a confusing experience for me since I always had thought that on the inside I was a eight year old black kid and now I find that I'm a twelve year old white girl. Go ahead and shake my world why don't you. Revelation.

Anyway, that acts as a brilliantly smooth segway into the real guts of this post, namely, I've just realized how cynical I've gotten (can I get a collective nod and sigh). I've gone through a lot of viewpoint swings, well, really only jumping back and forth between two - hating everyone and everything and planning to change my major to Antarctican Hermitization Survival and loving everyone and changing my major to Social Work. But I'm really not talking about that. I've gotten to the point where I can see the mood swing coming and just get an intensive sugar high and watch Spongebob until the worst passes (see book for details: "How to Conquer Menopause - a Marine's perspective." My book. I'm not a marine, but it lends it a certain amount of flare in my opinion. In stores now).

Cynicism. We all fight it. I recently saw an article which assessed America's happiness index as being the lowest in the world. The highest? China. They do it right over there, "BE HAPPY OR YOU DIE!!!" It works. (see book for details: "Secret to a Happy Family - or - My Sweet Betsy - My Grandaddy Hunted Squirrels with You." My book. Just a 22. Recommended highly. In stores now). Of course, the survey was done by North Korea. But they were number two. A country that happy wouldn't lie. Would they?

I'm becoming a cynic. cynical. cynici. cyniciptus. I used to think that the majority of people would act at least civilly, then I went to Walmart the day after Thanksgiving. Ruptured my spleen. Had to call 911 myself. Had to drive myself to the hospital after the medics abandoned me to fight over a 73" 3D LCD. All the doctors were out so I had to perform the surgery myself. The worst of it? I still owe the hospital over a hundred grand. Insurance doesn't cover anything on the day after Thanksgiving. It's in the fine print.

That was the first of many instances. Frightening times really. Tore me apart (see book for details: "My Broken Heart - or - In Stitches - My Dance of Death - or - Rehab - A Decade With Dr. Drew."My book. Multiple titles sell better and prevents banning. In stores now).

I look back at my former, happy go lucky, self and wonder, "(reverb up) how could I have been so foolish?" But it's ok. I learned a lot when I was weak, about periodic functions and landscaping. But now I know. I know that twelve year old white girls are cynical creatures.