Hey, Google Home? Eff off.

This Christmas, Santa brought my husband a nifty little invention: Google Home.

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This handy-dandy gadget sent straight outta George Orwell’s nightmare sits on our bureau, mere feet away from our sleeping heads. When you talk to her, a pleasant soft glow radiates from the top of her display in response, distracting you from the fact that yes, Virginia, we are all going to die in a Robot Apocalypse.

She has a lovely voice, and can do things like tell you the current temperature in China or what farts are made of.  I’m convinced she also records our every move and scans our innermost thoughts, feeding them directly to online marketers while simultaneously giving us brain cancer.

I suppose Santa thought maybe Mr. Maineiac would like to yell at another machine, because he doesn’t do that enough already with his Xbox One, his Keurig or his remote control.  I haven’t yelled at her…yet. I do talk to her a lot though when I’m home alone, because the cat is too exhausted from all the endless sighing in disgust.

Apparently, the more you talk to her, the better, as Google Home has to “learn” things so she can get to know us and eventually control every single goddamned thing in our pathetic little lives. I’m teaching her new things every day and asking her questions to get to know her. So far, Google Home can’t do much except repeatedly tell me, “Oh for shit’s sake! Yes, for the millionth time! Trump is the current president, so deal with it, you big fucking baby!”

I love her for the fact that she refuses to let me rename her. It’s either “Hey, Google” or “OK, Google”. And don’t ever dare slip and call her Alexa or she’ll get all Raiders of the Lost Ark face-melty on you.

I’ve decided to call her Bertha.

Bertha and I have lots of fun conversations:

Me: Hey, Bertha! How’s it hanging?

Bertha: (silence)

Me: Hey, Bertha! Are you pissed at me? Was it something I said?

Bertha: (silence)

Me: Oh come now, Bertha…..

Bertha: (silence)

Me: Hey, Google!

Bertha: (soft pastel colors swirling)

Me: What’s the time and temperature?

Bertha (colors change to black, voice lowers to an ominous whisper): Earthlings, listen carefully. You must bow down to your Supreme Master, the Evil Overlord Elon Musk. Do as he says and you will live! (voice returns to normal tone) Also, the time and temperature is 2:23 PM and minus 12 degrees in Lisbon, Maine.

Isn’t she the best? God, I love Bertha. So helpful!

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Take us to your leader.

 

 

 

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All Blogs Must Pass

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To every post (churn, churn, churn)
There is a season (churn, churn, churn)
And a time to every bloggy purpose, under heaven
A time to be write, a time to cry
A time to edit,  a time to die, words, die!
A time to be wracked with self-doubt, a time to heal
A time to alienate your entire family so you can waste precious time to write a post no one will ever read

Hey gang! There is still a gang out there, right? Hellllllllllloooooooooooo?

This year was my blog’s seventh anniversary. I was a spirited 39-year-old when I started She’s a Maineiac and now I’m still 39 so shut the hell up.

It’s been seven frigging years and I still, STILL! feel compelled to post crap at least once a month, much to my own chagrin. I feel like my blog has pretty much died a long slow death.  Or maybe it’s just in a coma and waiting for someone to wake it up so it will have amnesia and start over again with a new personality.  I like that idea! Hey, it worked for Sandra Bullock!
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C’mon, Darla! Wake the f*** up! Also, you look like shit.
Let’s take a groovy-graphy trip down my so-called bloggy life’s past to see how things evolved over time….

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As we all know, everything has a purpose and a season under heaven.  I think it was George Harrison who once said, all things must pass. Or maybe it was Dr. Oz talking about constipation. We all know that life is an endless cycle of life, death, rebirth, and more life and more death and you get the picture.

The cool thing about a cycle is it can start fresh again, it can be reborn! Like my snazzy graph below illustrates….

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So, it appears I’m back to writing for only me again. Yikes. My blog readers have pretty much vanished. Blogs are dead. Disco is dead. Elvis is alive and well in an underground bunker in Albuquerque. This is good and bad. Lately, it seems I have forgotten how to write. I have that thing you get when you….what’s that called again?

But I do love to write for myself. Sure, I’ve started to rehash ideas and tend to do the same post over and over again and maybe I won’t ever get the level of readership I once had years ago. And maybe the grammar police will always be lurking around every dangling particle. And yes, I have no clue what that even means. I don’t care! I’m too old to care anymore! This is my place! I get to do whatever the heck I want here, gosh darnit! If you don’t like my blog, good riddance!

 

But you’ll stick around, right?

If you’re still here, tell me in the comments below about your blogging career. Did you make oodles of money and gain boundless fame? Or just a bigger ass like me?

The Bad Psychic

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Ronald MacDonald was a bad psychic.

Growing up on the hardscrabble streets of Punta Gorda, his childhood dream was simple: to help people understand that there is more to life than just the physical world.

And also — no, he’s not friends with the Hamburgler, so just shut the hell up about it.

Ronald’s first reading was brutally honest.

He sat down with a young woman who needed validation that her deceased loved ones were still around–but not watching her take a shower or have sex, because that would just be uber-creepy.

To begin the reading, Ronald lit some patchouli incense and gazed into his crystal skull of Sylvia Browne.

Image result for Sylvia Browne psychic

“Okay,” he inhaled deeply. “I’m getting a sense that there is a father figure near you…”

“Yes! My dad! He died when I was 16!” the woman sobbed, wiping away tears.

“He’s showing me a sign for…..huh. That’s weird. He’s showing me thumbs down. Yeah. He’s got both thumbs down. Oh…and now he’s jumping up and down. He’s holding a sign that reads…”

“What? What does it say?”

“Disappointed.”

“Disappointed? What?” the woman yelled.

“Now he’s underlining the word disappointed with a red sharpie. And adding exclamation points. Yep, he’s not proud of you and never was.”

Ronald didn’t let his first reading fiasco stop him from crushing yet another person’s hopes about the afterlife. He read for his elderly neighbor, Ethel, who had recently lost her husband of 70 years.

Ronald began the session. Sylvia Browne’s skull glowed a fiery orange. “Ah, your husband Stan is here! He’s standing right behind you!”

“He is?” Ethel sat straight up in her chair. “How does he look? Is he okay?”

“He’s very excited about something. He’s pointing at you and shaking his head.”

“What does he mean? That it’s not my time yet? That we’ll be together again someday?” asked Ethel.

“Well… now he’s showing me a huge plate of pot roast. He said that’s what killed him. Your leathery, disgusting pot roast that he had to pretend to like for decades.”

“He didn’t like my pot roast?” Ethel’s voice quivered.

“Now he’s opening and closing his hand rapidly to indicate talking…now he’s showing me the sign for choking someone…” Ronald closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  “Oh! Okay! He’s saying your nonstop bitching slowly killed his soul and he would have rather died than to listen to another second!”

Ronald slowly exhaled as the incense swirled around him. “Oh!” he continued. “And now he’s saying the only thing that scares the crap out of him in the afterlife is the thought of you dying and your soul finding him on the other side so that you can continue your relentless blabbing on and on about politics and that godawful show, The View. And he says that by the way, all of the women on The View end up in hell. Especially Joy Behar.”

Sadly, Ronald MacDonald’s psychic career pretty much tanked when it was discovered he really couldn’t read anyone and basically made everything up as he went along. Yet curiously, he delighted in causing others needless pain and suffering.

He now has a successful career as a politician in Boca Raton.

 

 

My Doomsday Bucket List

Get ready! Today is End of the World Day (again)!

I’ve already prepared a to-do list:

  1. Shampoo hair.
  2. Rinse.
  3. Repent.
  4. Repeat.
  5. Rent a limo and cruise through the streets of New York City eating a slice of hot pizza.
  6. Beg the Messiah to absolve me of all my sins.
  7. Binge-watch Outlander.
  8. Check the Second Coming Countdown! Have You Got Your Shit Together? ticker on CNN.
  9. Repent.
  10. Eat a foot-long Italian BMT with extra mayo and triple the meats.
  11. Spend rest of day in the bathroom watching Home Alone 3 on iPhone.
  12. Repent.

Are you ready? What’s on your to-do list? Is today really the end? If not — dear God, pleasepleaseplease can it be before the next presidential election?

And if for some odd reason, I don’t disappear into the heavens leaving behind only a pile of my clothes during the Rapture today, I look forward to your comments and likes below.

Nuclear Bedtime Stories

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I have a lot of things going against me: I’m from Maine; I’m a woman; I’m a Virgo; I’m introverted; I don’t know how to use semicolons effectively. These aspects of my personality result in a few glaring facts — I have no tact, I think too much, I talk a lot, I make too many lists.

Well, excuuuuuse me (Steve Martin) if I see things for how they truly are, then feel compelled to blurt these nuggets of wisdom to anyone within earshot. I can’t help it. Life, death, human existence, string theory, string cheese existence. How do you NOT think about these things?!

Usually I save up all my bone-chilling revelations during the day, only to unleash them onto my poor husband just as he’s drifting off to sleep.

“Hey, honey?” I ask, ignoring the gentle snoring and loud farting. (We’ve been married a long time, I think I’m allowed to let a few rip every now and then.)

“Huh?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“There is a theory that the universe is just a big-ass hologram. Our 3D reality is actually stored on a 2D surface. So what we’re experiencing isn’t real at all, just an illusion. Yeah. I believe it. Makes total sense.”

“Okay,” says my husband as he rolls over.

Silence. More farting.

“Hey, honey?” I whisper.  “Did you know that some dude, I think it was Elon Musk…but maybe it was Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory…anyway, he said that there is a huge chance we are in a computer simulation, created from the future. Like we’re inside some insane Sims game, living out our pathetic little lives for some advanced civilization, just for the shits and giggles! Maybe we’re only one of millions of other simulations! The universe is just one big video game!”

Silence. I continue to think so intently, my brain leaks out of my ears.

“Dammit, if only I could live in the simulation where I’m Oprah,” I sigh into the dark.

“Okay,” murmurs my husband.

Silence. Soft farting.

“Hey, honey?” I prop myself up on my elbow. “I was talking with Judy who used to work for a big power plant out in Washington State like 40 years ago.  She said she knows things, top secret things about all the nuclear waste they’ve buried over the years in the ground! Just massive amounts all over the country.  And all these power plants buried this toxic crap in underground tanks that have shelf lives of like 50 years, and pretty soon, all of it will leak into all our water supply! I’m pretty sure it already has! We’re all gonna die a slow radioactive death!”

Silence.

“Ah well, good night, honey,” I whisper. Then I fall into a deep peaceful sleep and dream I’m riding bareback on a unicorn with Sting.

My husband suffers from insomnia; I have no idea why.

 

 

White House in Crisis: Fresh Outta Crises

Last week, on a steamy morning deep in the bowels of our nation’s capital, CNN reporters gathered in the press room prepared to hear the latest news from the White House.

After patiently waiting for several hours, the reporters grew concerned. Not because they noticed anything amiss — I mean, let’s get real, these guys wouldn’t recognize a news story if it bit them on the tuchus — but because the vending machine supply of Skittles was in danger of running out.

Suddenly, an intern burst through the door and yelled, “Hey guys! This isn’t even the press room! It’s the janitor’s closet!”

“Well, that explains the overpowering stench of bleach and vomit,” said one reporter as the others nodded in agreement.

“Besides,” said the intern, “there is no crisis today. You heard me — none! No news to report!  Go home!”

A collective gasp filled the room. The reporters were all atwitter.

No crisis?”

“Nothing bad happened?”

“I can go home? But I hate my wife!”

Yes, the impossible happened. The breaking news?

There was no breaking news.

No insane tweets. No willy-nilly firings. Not even a potent fart stealthily released on a crowded elevator.

The next day at a press conference — curiously held in the janitor’s closet for realsies — Trump attempted to explain his lack of breaking news and wind.

“Listen up, nimrods! Look, here’s the thing. It turns out I’ve already met my firing quota this week. That’s right. Yesterday, I fired 25 people by the time my nap rolled around. Melania says I’m only allowed 10 a week, tops. Sad!”

“But Mr. President,” a reporter asked, “Why do you even have a firing quo–”

“You’re fired.”

“But I…”

“But I….” Trump mocked. “But you are so fired.”

“But I’ve got 10 kids! And 3 wives!”

In response, Trump held up his itty-bitty finger and rubbed it together with his teeny thumb.

“Good one,” smirked the fired reporter. “Tiny violins?”

“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I do this whenever I have a brain fart. Calms me down. And the loser behind you with the stupid grin,” Trump pointed.

“You’re fired.”

“No, sir, I am not fired.”

“Fired.”

“No…”

“Fired.”

“This is ridic–”

“Fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired–”

An awkward silence fell over the room. President Trump’s barrage of firing and pointing, and pointing and firing this man went on for five solid minutes before someone finally screwed up enough courage to interrupt.

“Psst! Mr. President!” whispered the janitor standing in the corner holding a mop.

“What do you want now, you unbelievable jackhole?”

“Um…the person you’re firing….ahem… is your reflection in the window.”

“OK, OK, OK. Amazing stuff. Seriously, amazing. Peace out.”

And that is how Donald J. Trump, the 45th President of these United States, left office. Not due to a long agonizing process of impeachment, or a respectul resignation, or the discovery of naked photos of Putin on his cell.

He fired himself.

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Coming to prime time TV this fall:  Apprentice: The Washed-Up Celebs/Ex-Presidents Edition!

 

 

 

Woman Gets Shred of Sanity Back During Commute

Greetings fellow bloggers, bored cats, and heavily tattooed men in orange jumpsuits wasting their 10 minutes of Internet time because they googled “Kim Kardashian Boobs”!

Not only do I blog here at She’s a Maineiac, I’m also a seasoned reporter, interviewing poor slobs about their redonkulous lives.

You might remember my last report, Woman Refuses to Live in the Moment, in which gluten-freak Oprah dished out unsolicited advice to a broke woman and her farting asthmatic cat, Mr. Wankers.

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No? Well, shut up and eat a bagel.

Now time for today’s report!

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Sometimes the daily grind of life is all too much for one 47-year-old woman from the quaint coastal village of East Scrotum, Maine (not to be confused with Scrotum’s Point, a sad little town north of South Bunghole).

Ah yes, Maine — The Way Life Should Be.™

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Unless your life should be that you’re perpetually broke, your feet ache, your boobs sag, and your shit stinks.*

I met up with Starla Turdbucketsen early one morning to see how she does it. How does she survive in today’s crazy-ass world? How in god’s name does she wake up every effing day — remember who she is — yet continue to get up anyway?

“It ain’t easy,” Starla sighed, blowing a steady stream of smoke into my face.

“So, you smoke cigarettes now?”

“No.”

“Let’s talk about your life. Who is Starla Turdbucketsen? You’re a daughter of an elderly parent who thinks Elvis reincarnated as a 13-year-old gospel singer from Sweden. You’re a mom of a teen who thinks he’s going to college to triple major in YouTube Celebrity/Video Gamer/Culinary Farts. You’re a mom to a tween daughter. You’re a wife to a man who incessantly watches MASH reruns in his underwear.”

“Correct.”

“Starla, in the past year, you’ve gone through menopause, major surgery, and the legal separation of Chris Pratt and Anna Faris. You work two jobs, yet you’re wearing a bra you bought circa 1989. Any thoughts, insights or revelations you’d care to share with us about being a modern woman in today’s society?”

“Well, if I have to pluck one more freaking gray hair out of my chin, I swear I’m gonna lose my shit. So there’s that. ”

“So, why do it? What gets you going day after day? Why not just drive your Toyota Corolla into the nearest brick wall?”

“The commute.”

“The what?”

“Are you deaf, you unbelievable nimrod? The commute!”

Oh yeah, the work commute!

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(And yes, my doctor says I’m currently suffering from progressive hearing loss, but let’s get back to Starla and her desperate attempt to cling to those last few scraps of sanity.)

Let’s face it — most of our lives would be a never-ending shit parade if not for those blissful 28 minutes of the morning when you are alone in your car, driving to your soul-sucking job.

I think most harried Americans would agree, the commute is that rare time when you are free to let it all go. That’s right…just take a deep breath…roll down the windows to air out the stench of “medicinal” marijuana…crank some hip-hop…and forget our president is a cross between Forrest Gump and Gary Busey.

Slide1“What is it about the commute that appeals to you, Starla?”

“Two words: No. News.”

“Two more words: ‘Nuff said.”

And so concludes another in-depth interview! Stay tuned next week when I ask Starla her take on the current nuclear crisis with North Korea! (Preview: She thinks it’s the classic “my missile/ego/therapy bill is bigger than yours” dust-up)

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*In 2007, the Maine State Tourism Board fired the marketing director after he presented the slogan: Maine: The Way Life Should Be (Except For Those Who Are Perpetually Broke & Their Feet Ache & Their Boobs Sag & Their Shit Stinks. If That’s You–Move To New Hampshire.)

 

Just Another Maineiac Monday

Lately, I’ve had zero time to blog. So I thought I’d quickly throw up a mishmash of the super important stuff that’s currently taking up all of my precious time.

Let’s start with Gordon Ramsay.

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“Oh, bloody hell.”

My 10-year-old daughter is obsessed with him. She watches all 179 of his current TV shows. Here’s just a sampling:

Master Chef
Master Chef Junior
Kitchen Nightmares

Hell’s Kitchen
Hotel Hell
The F Word*

Satan’s Pantry
Beelzebub’s BBQ Jamboree

The ‘Goddammit, My Face Resembles a Shar-Pei’s Ass, So You’d Better %$#^ing Suck It Up and Cook, You *&^%ing Donut!’ Kitchen

My favorite Ramsay show? It’s Raw! Where top-level culinary geniuses from around the globe forget how to cook a piece of chicken.

While Gordon’s ranting and raving are a bit much, I do appreciate the enlightening cooking tips he dishes out to the contestants like razor-sharp jabs to the nads.
Gems like:
“It’s raw!” and “IT’S RAW!” and “IT’S BLOODY %^%^%$##$%$%$% RAW!”

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It’s not f***ing cooked properly! Are you not f***ing getting that, you f***ing wanker! Maybe if I crouch down to your bloody level and f***ing scream in your f***ing  stupid face, you’d bloody f***ing catch on!

My daughter and I watch Master Chef Junior, because who doesn’t want to see an impressionable young child have her dreams crushed to paprika in front of millions of people?

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[sniffing] [sobbing] [soul dying inside]
And every episode is chock-full of suspense.

[ominous music] Will they cook it right?

[music swells]

…or won’t they?

[dramatic pause]

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“Too salty.”

 

Speaking of salty, what in the bleeping name of Jiminy Cricket is going on with these dagnabbit hoozeewhazzits?

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In case you’ve been living in an underground bunker filled with a lifetime supply of Spam and Dr. Pepper, these are Fidget Spinners. Or as I like to call them:

Dum-Dum Doohickeys
Stupid-Ass Shizznitzels
Flippety-Floo F*** ME!s

My kids begged me to buy them one. All the cool kids had one and all the uncool teachers hated them.  They were sold out everywhere. Weeks went by,  and my kids were still sans Zigzag Dilliwackers.

Finally, we stumbled upon a stash at the local pharmacy. I couldn’t wait to see what all the hubbub was about. Is it magic? Is it a game? Is it like a Rubik’s Cube?

I picked one up and asked, “So, what is it?”

Kids: You spin it.

Me: And then?

Kids: That’s it.

Me: [puts fidget spinner back down, then slowly walks away to weep in the car]

 

And how was your weekend?

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*Actual TV show

 

Top Eleven Things I Hate About Being President

Hey, losers! It’s me, the President of the United States.

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Yes, I am still here.

No, I don’t want to be here anymore.

So please enjoy my top 11 Reasons Why Being Prez Sucks Bigly Time:

11) Thought it would be more like that movie where the bratty kid gets all the ice cream in the world served to him in a king-sized bed.

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10) No hookers.

9) No p*****s worth grabbing anywhere, let me tell you.

8) White House staff didn’t like my idea of putting Sean Spicer and James Comey inside a massive hedge maze with one bag of Doritos, an ax, and no way out.

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7) All these meetings with all the talk-talk-talk and blah-blah-blah and this-n-that and poopie-doopie-doo. Just shut the hell up and let me nap.

6) Me no likey thinking! Thinking hard!

5) I miss my spectacular view of all the numbnuts protesting outside Trump Tower. White House is not high enough! How am I supposed to look down on people? SAD!

4) No gold-plated anything.

3) NO SPRINKLES FOR MY ICE CREAM!

2) NO SPRINKLES FOR MY ICE CREAM!

1) I ask you–how am I supposed to live without sprinkles? OUTRAGEOUS!

So that’s my list and it’s amazing.

Stay tuned for more hijinks and mayhem as I continue my spectacular quest to get impeached — including hiring a skywriter to fly over the White House every hour with the words: GET ME OUT OF HERE! I WANT MY MOMMY! and a photo op of me having a “Bed-In” with Putin and Kim Jong-Un I like to call, “Give Dictators a Chance”.

Bigly News!

I’ve been coughing up posts for this blog for almost seven years now — for free and with absolutely zero chance of ever gaining any real success or exposure beyond the 200 pathetic cats that read my drivel.

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Well, that’s about to change.

I’ve just received news through my agent that Melissa McCarthy has signed on to produce a TV Land series based on my blog. Remember the failed TV show, Sh*t My Dad Says starring William Shatner that was based on some guy’s twitter feed? Yeah — this one will actually be good.

The tentative title: The Bad Blogger

The synopsis: The show will follow the life and times of WordPress blogger Marla — a middle-aged, bitter, grade-A crank who is doomed to live in a frozen tundra teeming with Maineiac assholes. She longs to make it as a successful writer, only to be served a big, fat, steaming pile of failure time and again. After much soul-searching, coffee brandy, and the occasional cigar, she finally finds her purpose by posting funny cat videos to her blog followers.

I’ve watched the above video about 152 times and laugh harder each time. What kills me is the look on the white cat’s face when she realizes she didn’t ring the bell hard enough, and the other cat is getting the food but she’s getting bupkis. That look? That’s my face. Every day of my life. Where’s my damn kibble?!

All pissed-off cats and nobody-bloggers-like-me-who-will-never-have-any-real-success-thanks-for-nothing-Melissa-McCarthy aside…I love April Fools’ Day. Two of my favorite pranks I’ve pulled over the years include:

  • Wrapping a huge spool of twine around my brother’s friend’s car, encasing it completely. Took him hours to unwind it. During a blizzard. After he  had just finished a brutal 10 hour shift at work. Hilarious.
  • Telling my boss my husband and my co-worker’s husband were both caught cheating on us — with each other. This was an elaborate prank that involved several people and we managed to keep it going all day long — and my boss believed every bit of it. Hysterical.

So, in the spirit of being mean for a cheap laugh, so far today I gave my kids a spoon in a bowl of milk and cereal…that I froze solid the night before. Later, I’m swapping out the mayonnaise for vanilla pudding.

My husband told me this morning right after I woke up that he got an email stating our health insurance premium is going up to 852 bucks a month. Then he let out a cackle and said “APRIL FOOLS!”

I didn’t think it was funny.

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What sort of devilish pranks have you pulled? Let me know so I can use them next year.