Minor rant. Settling down last night to my usual 7.00p TV fare of JAG. Had the Cheetos and hard lemonade ready, switched on the tube and, lo and behold, NO JAG.
No fantasies of me and Catherine Bell doin’ the wild thing in an AV-8 Harrier jet. No unrealistic, but entertaining stories of Navy lawyers going on commando raids with SEALs.
Instead of JAG tonight— A Martha Stewart Christmas. Sweet Jesus On A Pogo Stick, Rick’s Hard Lemonade and a fresh bag of Cheetos definitely do not go with a freakin’ Martha Stewart Christmas Special. Clawing my eyeballs out with a rusty railroad spike is a more appropriate activity.
Anyhoo…Ms Stewart, may you be locked in Santa’s Workshop with a posse of elves and reindeer all jacked up on generous doses of Viagra, Ecstasy and Jose Cuervo Gold. It would thrill me to no end watching you desperately handcraft a decorative Xmas escape rope out of reindeer pubes and spare gift-wrapping ribbon as you try to elude a sex-crazed Rudolph hell-bent on sodomizing you until your ears bleed.
Made by hot-gluing glass beads onto two swatches of reindeer hide. Then, by stitching them together, back-to-back, like a pillow. Leave an opening in which you’ll stuff a lock of hair and a button from the one to be cursed, then stitch closed with the sinew of a one-eyed cat.
Tie a bow 'round the sachet with a ribbon made from the hem of the cursed person’s sleeping gown.
Now adorn each corner with a drop of your own blood. Then place the the “curse sachet” over your front doorway, during a night with no moon.
Well, since her daughter and ex-husband won’t speak to her, and she had to move because the “neighbors were unfriendly”… well, let’s just say she’s made her bed (with a glue gun, perhaps?)
Excellent rant. Not as vitriolic as we would like to see, but we understand that it’s difficult to work up a good head of Anglo-Saxon steam when one’s mind is totally boggled.
7.5.
P.S. Here is someone who will be happy to help you put her on an island, as soon as you’ve got the boat ready.
That woman has made my life a living hell. Every damned holiday there is another outbreak of Martha inspired gee-gaws and sillyness. I want a curse put on her, and on the network that projects her into my home. I want a curse that involves itching and body parts falling off. Itching caused by hot glue would be nice.
I just gotta say that you and my husband would probably get along just fine, though he’d probably want Dr. Pepper instead of hard lemonade. I am SO glad that I have my own dayroom, where I can retreat when there’s JAG or MASH or whatever marathons.
Except my fantasies are about David James Elliot. I had my VCR all set up to tape the show, and was watching it as well when her ugly face came up on the screen! :sigh: I HATE Martha Stewart, she can take her glue gun and shove it up her ass.
There was an email going around about a “Martha Stewart Christmas Checklist” a few years ago - way over the top, and hilarious. “Dec. 24 - give birth to Christ child. Swaddle.” etc. I wish I still had that one.
I’ve modified it now. We’re flying towards Martha’s Christmas Hideaway at about 550 kts. Just as Catherine climaxes noisily all over the Heads Up Indicator, she then straddles the joystick and activates the trigger using those fine, Marine-trained…ahemmm…“lower muscles”.
The Hellfire missile flies straight into an assorted reunion of Martha Stewart friends, family, and other assorted hellspawn.
We do a victory roll over the demolished tableau and proceed to routinely strafe any survivors attempting to rehang or fix any decorations or centerpieces.
It’s these kinds of Christmas thoughts that really bring home the meaning of the holiday season for me.
Yes! That’s the one! So, we’re at Dec. 6 today:
“Dec. 6 - Fax family Christmas newsletter to Pulitzer committee for consideration.”
Yup, that sounds about right. Thanks ever so, Fillet (if I may be so bold, of what are you a fillet?)
Ex-Air Force guy nitpick. It’s a Heads Up Display, unless they’ve changed names in the last 6 years.
As for Martha Stewart, the woman scares me. I’d love to have her over to my house though, just to watch her head explode when she sees my living conditions.
Martha - “You don’t own a vaccuum cleaner? How do you clean the rug? What do you mean you don’t own coasters? Is that a piece of popcorn in the corner?! What is that smell? And where’s the doilies? I don’t see any doilies?!” BOOOM
Maybe after that I’d finally get around to buying a vaccuum cleaner. Or at least renting a wet-vac.
