The apocalypse has been postponed due to technical difficulties

So, anyone else notice the world didn't end? I figured you probably did, but remember, as Queen of the Universe, I told you it wouldn't end. I did not authorize an apocalypse, so no worries, we're all good. And, no one asked me about rescheduling it for October, so if you want a plasma TV, I might suggest you continue contributions toward your Christmas Club.

This all being said, and this is far more serious than I normally am in this blog, but, as Queen of the Universe, let's face it, at times I'm going to have to get serious. This is one of those times.

Something is happening. The horrific number of deadly storms tearing through this country is absolutely frightening. In a blink, people have lost their lives, and those lucky enough to survive, have lost everything else. Images on our television screens show devastation most of us cannot even imagine. Still, we whine about the most mundane things, and most wouldn't even think to lift a hand to help another.

Seriously?

Let me tell you, as Queen of the Universe, I am no longer going to let you get away with that shit. If someone needs your help, help them. Don't even ask questions. Just do it.

Everywhere I look I see people who have nothing, and I see people who have way too much. And, I'm not promoting communism here, but I'm just saying, if you have the money to go out to dinner every other night, and buy a new car anytime the mood strikes you, think about giving a couple of bucks to someone who really needs it. Besides, let me tell you, in the new and improved Universe, the kind of car you drive isn't going to matter anymore.

Remember, an asshole with a BMW is still an asshole.

In fact, this might by my Queen of the Universe slogan.

Moving on........

Recently, I saw a news clip about a show called "What Would You Do?"

I have to overuse this word and say it again....

SERIOUSLY?

We need to have this show? What happened to just doing the right thing, without the camera, without it being televised, without the need to throw our help in someone's face years later, and WITHOUT expecting anything in return?

People, WHERE HAS OUR HUMANITY GONE?

We see strangers helping others in the tornado-ravaged south, and while my heart breaks (Queen or not) for these people, we need to see this everyday.

Everyday I want to see someone helping someone else. Tomorrow, when you get up, wipe the sleep from your eyes, and drag yourself to the commode, I want you to ask yourself:

Who can I help today?

And, if you don't.......

ZAP!

Preparing to become queen

I have decided that becoming Queen of the Universe is a desirable position. I have to admit, I was on the fence for a couple of days, but I've decided, I am good with this.

I redid my pedicure, and spent a little time with the Ped Egg. Ever see one of these things? It's frightening. It's a bunch of little razors on a plastic base with a flimsy plastic handle. I'm pretty sure you've got to have a license to carry this thing concealed, but I found it on the couch, in plain view, so I decided not to turn my mother in. Hey, I'm the Queen of the Universe, folks. I saw this as my first unofficial "pardon." I'll be granting more, I'm sure, because I am big on second chances. I'll list a PO Box to where you can send your pardon requests. I'll accept most to the PO Box, unless you're Michael Vick. Mike, you have to ask in person, so I can kick you in the gonads right before I say, "NO!" Seriously, man, you're a piece of crap, and now that I'm the Queen of the Universe, if you see me in WalMart, you better be ducking behind the Little Debbie rack. As Queen, I can carry concealed, and a good whack upside the head with this vicious Ped Egg thing will seriously alter your perspective.

Moving on......

Anyhow, back to the pedicure. Let's face it, gals, the Queen of the Universe cannot be out in public with scraggly winter feet. You know what they look like. Heels you could sand furniture with, long nails, and a smidgen of last summer's pedicure remaining, but only on the big toes. This is gross. Take care of your feet. You have to stand on them, unless you're Queen of the Universe, and then you're sitting on a throne most of the time, but when I'm wearing the royal flip flops, I want to look amazing.

Now, as Queen of the Universe, I am pretty rattled about things. First of all, the apocalypse. Did you check with me before you decided the world would end tomorrow, because I do NOT remember seeing that in my Inbox. Well, did you?

The world is NOT ending tomorrow, folks. All chocolate you eat today will end up on your ass by June, and June will come, so snack with caution.

Besides, I have plans. I am attending karaoke with my Knights of the Round Table, a great group of folks with whom I'd like to spend my last hours, if the world were ending during tomorrow evening's outing, which it is not. I did not approve this apocalypse, therefore it isn't happening. You can continue to plaster it all over Facebook because you have the right to free speech, and I am not planning to mess with your rights, unless you're that idiot who was screaming at me for no reason in the WalMart parking lot in March. You are having your mouth duct taped, because nothing good comes out of it.

Moving on....

Soon, I will posting my own rules for those of you who want to live in my Universe. For those of you who want to live elsewhere, I have no idea what to say to you. If you believe you have this option, excellent.

For now, I must deal with something that makes me most disturbed. Although I am Queen of the Universe, and I have royal status, my economic status does not change, because (perhaps I failed to mention this,) with the state of economic affairs world wide, the Queen of the Universe position is a volunteer position, at least for now. It pays by sweat equity, which is excellent for me, since I am having hot flashes by the hundreds. If I'm building "sweat equity" I should be rich as hell in no time.

That aside, I must focus on the present, and with that, comes a most immediate issue to be dealt with. This Egyptian debt that has been forgiven. I have a problem with this. No one asked me if this was okay, and frankly, it's not. Now, I have to say, Egypt, your worship of felines is spectacular, and I'm not as up on modern Egyptian stuff as I should be, so maybe you're not about this feline worship anymore, but if you are...., outstanding! We treat our animals like shit in America, so keep up the good work!

Incidentally, I will be blogging about the new punishments for cruelty to animals under my Queen of the Universe rules soon. If you want to beat a puppy, or drown a kitten, think twice. I am everywhere. I see your indiscretions by remote viewing, and I know what you've done.

I digress.

Back to the topic of this debt.

Feline worship aside, I still have an issue with this. And, given that I am an unpaid servant of the Universe at present, I'd like to know if my 1999 karaoke rendition of "Walk Like an Egyptian" qualifies me to have my debt forgiven. Well, does it? I have a monster mortgage on a pyramid I cannot currently occupy, and I'd love to have it written off.

All right, my Inbox is filling up with pardon requests, although this Bernie Madoff one is going in the shredder. Seriously, Bern?

Back soon.......

The Queen of the Universe

Well, as life would have it, my fifty-day plan has become fraught with unexpected obstacles, heartbreak and hurdles. Having been stripped of all material possessions by a random act of fate, and a not-so-random act of sheer negligence, and having been left with nothing to offer but the gifts with which I was born, I am finding myself completely unappreciated, as what “little I have left,” seems to be no longer wanted.

If being victimized by the Universe – the fates, God, Jerry Garcia, the original Star Trek cast, or whomever we worship and bow to – was an Olympic event, I'd be standing on the podium, neck heavy with the albatross of a much-deserved gold medal, while The Battle Hymn of the Martyrs is played with elementary precision by prepubescent pipers, flautists and buglers, suggesting that the members of the Boston Philharmonic, are, at least as a whole, “smarter than a fifth grader.”

“Suffering builds character,” is often lovingly spoken by my ninety-one-year-old grandmother. Granted, this is the same woman who thinks Google is Gurgle, Oprah is Offrah, and “Intendo” is still the hottest video game console on the market. But Grandma knows a thing or two, as is expected when someone has observed the unkindness and beauty of this thing called life for greater than nine decades.

According to Grandma's score-keeping methods, I've built enough character to become the leader of the free world. You never know. It could happen. You wake up one day and I'm the leader of the world, and the funny thing is, you don't remember me campaigning, or announcing my decision to run on Celebrity Apprentice. You just wake up, and there I am, on the news, announcing that the world has gone vegetarian, pink is the new pink, as evidenced by my fabulous tiara, and murder is actually okay, as long as you've killed someone who killed someone else, might kill someone else, hurts puppies or children, or is the hacker sending that shit about my uncle in Nigeria.

You might find things substantially improve when I am the Queen of the Universe. I know, I know, I've gone from a world leader to Queen of the Universe in less than one paragraph, but with no concrete proof of life on other planets, and with Area 51 still mainly mystery, if I'm top dog, or Cat, if you will, I am, for all intents and purposes, Queen of the Universe, but don't get too damned excited. Those of you who know me, know that a future royal wedding is unlikely.

Moving on.......

While under my careful guidance, be prepared to recycle. We will all be recycling. We will be kind to ourselves, and others, and I plan to wrap the world with an invisible fence of sorts. When you're unkind........ ZAP! Believe me, that shit happens once or twice, and you'll all quickly change your perspective on life, and only turn right on red when it means someone hasn't just nearly shit his/her pants because you almost ended their life with your lack of patience.

Here it comes........

ZAP!

Wait your turn! Where do you have to go that is so damned important you can't wait your turn?? I'm the Queen of the Universe, for heaven's sake. If I can let someone out into traffic, surely you can.

And, if you don't......

ZAP!

To wrap up this blatant insanity, I can only say, if becoming Queen of the Universe is another unexpected twist in my fifty-day-plan, I'd better get to planning. I've only got fourteen days to figure out how to save the planet, and what to wear for my inauguration.

Back soon................

Behind the comic's mask

Today I am thinking about the Wizard of Oz, about the moment when it was revealed that the "great and powerful Oz" was nothing more than a mortal, hiding behind a curtain, fighting with the mid-20th century version of Window's Vista.

I wonder what people would think if they saw the real diva behind the comic's mask, if anyone knew where my mind goes when it is allowed to wander without its ankle-bracelet monitoring system. What if we all had a chance to say what we really thought, to open the levee on our own flooded emotional system, and let it all out. I'm pretty sure you'd be coming to visit me in a nice facility, where I'd live out the rest of my life surrounded by like-minded rejects, who've gone emotionally bat shit, who make necklaces out of elbow macaroni and laugh at farts.

Is that what my future holds? I don't think so, but I'll accept whatever happens, and go with the flow. That's pretty much all we can ever do. Fighting it creates more bat-shit tendencies, so just relax and watch everything go to shit. You can clean it all up with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, and vodka will ease the emotional pain.

We all think of the future, no matter how much we are seeded in the present. Where will we be in five years?

Someone recently asked me that. I was inclined to say "in the bat shit ward," but I was pretty sure I wouldn't get the job with that response, and I really want that job. Still hoping they call, in fact, and really hoping they don't see this blog. Actually, it's fine if they do. I can't pretend I'm normal. If I do, nobody will read this. Besides, I figure in five years we'll probably all be bat shit, and if the Mayan's are right, we won't exist at all, unless we're chosen to go with Nicholas Cage into that big, glowing ball.

Um, wait.....

Nic didn't go, his kid did. But, they did take bunnies, and I was pretty happy about that, because frankly, I don't want to live in a world without bunnies.

Actually, I'd prefer to go up in the big, glowing ball with the neighbor kitty, because I am about to make that little shit famous with the Neighbor Kitty Rap YouTube video, which I am pretty sure will go viral. So, Neighbor Kitty and I will get to our new planet, and he'll be a celebrity, and we'll get a reality show. Wow, I am really getting ahead of myself.

Where was I?

Right....

I was bat shit.

Rewind.

I digress....

As I was saying, who isn't a little bat shit? Everyone, that's who is. And, those least likely to end up in the Macaroni/Fart Unit are probably those who step up and admit, "I am bat shit."

I am.

You know me, and I know you're all thinking, "does that crazy B think she's revealing some kind of secret?"

Nope.

Just practicing for my 12 Step Bat Shit meetings.

In fact, I should jet. It's my turn to bring the elbow macaroni.......

Ranting for the hell of it

Now I realize I still owe a debt of some nine-hundred thousand - and some change - reasons why an adult child should never move in with an aging parent, but I'll have to come back to that.  For now, I have returned to my trusted friend, the blog, where I will unload all the baggage none of my human friends want to hear.

So, if you've been following the saga, you know I have a home, which is sitting empty, at a temp of about fifty degrees, with busted pipes, and an odor reminiscent of a room full of mechanics on discount oil change day.

Needless to say, folks, I am hanging on by a string, and not a shoe string from an athletic shoe, more like one from a baby bootie.  I have to mentally fill myself with positive energy just to get out of bed, and if you knew what I faced in the morning, you'd understand why I put vodka on my cheerios.  Actually Kahlua sounds a lot better, and the cheerios would be like little inner tubes, floating along in a drunken breakfast regatta. 

Moving on....

Okay, I'll admit, I don't put booze on my cornflakes.  If you call me at 10:00 AM, you won't hear the ice clinking around in my breakfast.  I am pretty much running on hope now, which isn't a bad deal, since who can afford gasoline?

The downside of being unable to fuel up your motorboat, and relying solely on the wind, is that just as you get your sails set for a good-ass day, someone comes along and sucks the wind right out of them.  I am not sure what to make of these people, but we all know them.  They are often referred to as "the haters," those whose cups are "half full,"  and the age-old description, the "party poopers."  Some of them don't even have a cup, but they're happy to piss in yours, and there are those folks who make the "party poopers," look as happy as a bunch of potheads at a Grateful Dead concert.

Yup, there are folks out there who just like to bring us down, and there isn't any good way of avoiding them.  We can't put those dollar-store plastic things on the hood of our cars which help us avoid hitting deer, which is probably okay.  If one of these folks are in the road, it might best serve us all if you just run them over.  You can always say the sun was in your eyes, unless you live in Broome County and then no one is gonna believe that for a moment.  You'd be better off saying you were distracted by the image of Jesus on the side of the Kmart plaza. 

Ranting must be good for the soul, because I gotta tell you, I feel better already.  It might be because of the chocolate brownie that will show up on my butt in June, but in May, it's kept me from becoming a homicidal maniac, and I am really living in the present these days.  I think one should go to whatever extreme necessary to avoid homicide, and if the FBI thought chocolate brownies would do it, they'd all be in the kitchen with their Kevlar aprons, cooking up more shit than Betty Crocker. 

And speaking of the present, I've got about a hundred pounds of rain-soaked dog logs to pick up before I attempt to eff up my mother's new lawnmower tomorrow, so I need to think about wrapping up this blog, and wrapping my paws in Freihofer's bags to go fishing around in the tall grass for the candy wrapper my dog ate on Tuesday.

And so, I'm off.  More soon.  As always, I aim to please.........