Miracle-Whipped.

Have you seen these new Miracle Whip commercials? You must click on the hyperlink because it is ri.donk.u.lous. The premise is that Miracle Whip is the most badass condiment to hit the streets since freakin' Grey Poupon so WATCH OUT, MOFOS.

Are you kidding me? MIRACLE WHIP being posited as some kind of cutting edge flavor-enhancer? This has got to be some kind of meta-joke, right? Because as far as I'm aware, Miracle Whip is a discount mayonnaise knockoff.

And we don't even have to talk about how amazing mayo is. It is manna from heaven. No ifs, ands or buts. Show me a snack more delicious than mayo on a piece of white bread. You can't, because it doesn't exist. Mayo is the world's most perfect foodstuff, and this Miracle Whip nonsense is some kind of cruel joke. "Salad dressing"?! Are you for real? What does that even mean? Why do I need "salad dressing" on my sandwich? I don't, so get it out of my face.

The Gary Busey Story.

What's up with Gary Busey? Is he rockin' a glass eye, or what?

I know he got all messed up when he broke his ass falling off a motorcycle back in '88 after freewheelin' down the highway. He wiped out. Girlfriend didn't have a helmet on and dented his head. So maybe that explains the eye, but that still leaves the Mystery of Busey's Teeth. They're real, right? Because why would you get fake teeth that look like that? "Give me the Mr. Ed." It just doesn't happen, not even in Buseyland. Plus, his son seems to have inherited that mouth. Have you seen him? This poor guy...it's not pretty.

You'd think people would take one look at Gary today and start wearing helmets like, ALL THE TIME, just as a precautionary measure against becoming Gary Busey. It's not nice to make fun of the cognitively impaired, but really, he seems like kind of a jerk. Not sure if this is a direct result of the noggin floggin' or if he was a jerk to begin with, but, there you go.

Feelin' Blue.

There needs to be more blue foods. Even as a kid, you had to be aware that (maybe due to their scarcity) blue foods were always the best and most delicious: Booberry cereal, any cupcakes with blue icing, the blue sno-kone...

Back in my day, they didn't even have blue M&M's (they replaced the lame tan M&M back in 1995) or blue Jolly Ranchers. What is up with that? Like, no one realized that BLUE is way more fun to eat than freakin' TAN? Was there some poison in the blue dye that no one was talking about? Why did it take the food industry so long to wise up? And now that the coast seems to be clear, can we have more blue foods, please? I'll eat them. And don't talk to me about blueberries. I KNOW ABOUT BLUEBERRIES, OKAY?

Another thing: there should be more blue types of plant life, like flowers. How many blue flowers do you see around? Maybe the occasional cornflower. And don't talk to me about some weirdass flower that only grows in Australia. It's not doing me any good.

Then they try to pass off these flowers that are actually more purple as being blue. Let's get it straight: I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. Don't show me something that's black and tell me it's navy.

Chumps on a Plane.

Remember when airplane travel was fun? Instead of taking a car or boat like some sucker with unlimited vacation time, you boarded an iron eagle and swiftly were transported to your destination. Along the way, a crew of smiling air hosts and hostesses helped you find room for your bags and kept the free snacks and drinks coming. It was a magical journey to Happyland.

Now, not so much. You wait around in a hideous airport for the prescribed two hours, then have to wait around some more because the stupid plane is always late for some dumb reason.

By the time you actually get on the plane and wedge yourself in your cramped seat, your hatred for humanity has grown to gargantuan proportions. Come on, you disoriented yokel, TAKE A SEAT SO I CAN GET BY YOU. Lady, if you're too weak to lift your carry on bag, which will clearly never fit in the overhead anyway, THEN YOU'VE PACKED TOO MUCH. Check your stupid luggage.

Once you get going, it's no better. Hey, guy in business suit: the flight time is 27 minutes. Is it really necessary for you to order A FREAKIN' SCOTCH, make the flight attendant go find a bottle, then root around in vain to find change for the $50 bill you're shoving her way? Can you like, maybe NOT DRINK FOR 27 MINUTES? Also, person in front of me: would it be possible for you to not fully recline your seat during the meal service? This ain't ancient Rome: trying to digest while supine is not recommended. Finally, to the jerks in first class: we're not allowed to use your precious bathroom, so don't come parading out from behind that stupid mesh curtain to go use ours in coach. This is class warfare and you're not welcome on our plebeian turf.

I love to travel, but getting there is becoming none of the fun.

Wigging Out.

In the words of the immortal Nigel Tufnel, with certain things, sometimes it's "best [to] leave it...unsolved." Case in point: the mystery of Phil Spector's lid. The recently convicted murderer and music legend has treated us lo these past four years or so to an array of fantastic hairdos the likes of which have not been seen since a 1987 stroll through the Mall of America.

From the Bride of Frankenstein to the Carol Brady, his locks were seriously amazing, and I was happy to leave it at that. Maybe I fleetingly wondered how exactly the hairdos occurred: is there a warehouse in the wig district of some far-flung city filled with these exquisite follicular specimens? If so, can I visit it and is there a discount for buying in bulk?

Then, this happened:
...and suddenly, the party was over. We took a sharp left from what was simply an innocent visit to Crazytown and drove straight into the darkest corner of Beelzebub's basement. It's a look that is also seriously amazing, but in every wrong way possible. Hold me.

Put a Ring On It.

Sad news for all the single ladies (all the single ladies): Mr. Mike Tyson is off the market. He married the third in a continuing series of brides (Robin Givens, some other broad, and this woman) this week.

Really? A third person is willing to marry Mike Tyson? I don't know - perhaps he's a nice guy. A nice guy with a history of violence inside and outside of the ring and a rape conviction who has a penchant for threatening to eat other people's children. I mean, who hasn't been there, right? If I had a dime for all the kids I've threatened to consume... but that's another story for another day. I know there's this movie out, Tyson, that's supposed to make us feel bad for him for being some dumbass kid who was abused and manipulated, but you know - not so much.

On another note, now that they're doing the Saved by the Bell reunion, where is the one for Head of the Class? I miss Jawaharlal.

Organic Panic.

Few things suck the enjoyment out of a meal faster than being a couple of bites into a green salad, looking down, and realizing the whole thing is infested with aphids (Me: "Did you wash these greens?!" Husband: "They're organic!" Meaning, "No.").

I'm not going to go pro-pesticide, here, mainly because (among other bad things) I'm under the impression that prolonged exposure to them will make you end up looking like the Lady in the Radiator from Eraserhead. But maybe we need to do one of the things Andre was babbling about in My Dinner with Andre and enter into some sort of peace talks with the insect world whereby we set up designated insect infestation areas and they leave the rest of the crops alone. Or maybe we just need to wash the organic salad thoroughly from now on.

To do this weekend: rent Eraserhead, My Dinner with Andre and Mannequin Two. The last is just for good measure.

Literally Hilarious.

The annoying part about finding something you like on the internet? Five hours after searching for and watching similar items on the You's Tube, you realize you could have been doing something productive - like watching a "Golden Girls" marathon.