Welcome to Victimville

It's a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Well, not for very long anyway. Hallmark needs a card for it. Something like:

Roses are Red,
Have Pity on Me.
My life is a mess,
And none of it's my fault.

Alright, so it doesn't rhyme. It doesn't have to because nothing is truly good in Victimville. Words don't rhyme. Dogs bite. Tires go flat. Your blender doesn't blend. There's constant acid reflux. Your hair is always flat. Your clothes don't ever quite fit. And your in-laws are permanent live-ins...even if you're not married. So if life is this tough in Victimville, why are there so many residents?

Apparently, the long-term reason is something called peptides. While I thought peptides were for whitening teeth, apparently they are a chemical generated by the brain that works at the cellular level. They play a big part in all types of addiction. Victimization an addiction? Just as sure as your Uncle Ralph can't get his head out of the gin bottle and your Aunt Ruth can't stop feeling sorry for herself but doing nothing about it because it's easier to complain than act, the answer is yes. Victim mentality is as much of an addiction as Rosie O'Donnell to cheese blintzes and butch women.

I've created a test you can take to discover if you or a friend may have roots in Victimville:

Question 1. Your friend has been on a diet for 2 months. She shows you her new size 8 dress she's been trying to get into for a special occasion. Your response is that you've been telling people you're pregnant for the last 10 years and have even thrown yourself several faux baby showers to cover up the fact that while you are fatter than you ever imagined you would be, it's much easier to do nothing about it. You offer her a box of powdered donuts and a diet coke.

Question 2. You friend shows you her new engagement ring. You tell her about your five failed marriages, how none of them were your fault and how all marriages end in divorce or murder. You go on to explain how love is an illusion and it doesn't truly exist and that it's a disease like diphtheria or something. You wish her well and hope you don't get invited to the wedding because you can't afford a toaster.

Question 3. You friend lands a new job making a six-figure salary. You tell her the only six-figures you will ever see are part of your old crappy nativity set and you're not even Catholic anymore because you switched to Judaism for your last deadbeat husband who left for a younger woman that weighs 28 pounds and can't stop chewing gum like an obsessed cow. You ask her if she needs an assistant.

While trips to Victimville can be a nice break from reality, long-term residency should be avoided at all costs. Live there long enough and you'll actually begin to believe that your life is as big a mess as you've created in your fantasy world. And after all, if you're going to fantasize, isn't it much better to dream about being bright, beautiful, rich and loved by all?

How Much Reality Is Too Much?

Not too long ago while channel surfing, I came across something more frightening than my Aunt Darla that shaves off her eyebrows and then draws them back on every morning at 8 am with a palsy shake and a martini. More shocking than anything Paris Hilton will do over the next few years, I think. What could be worse you ask? How about this: a 15 year-old girl screaming at her cowering parents about her $250-thousand sweet 16 party where 50 cent will sing and she'll get 2 cars she can't even drive yet. The mother was busy buying her a dress more expensive than a year's worth of mortgages and in return this grateful young girl was screaming at her mother that if everything isn't perfect for this party she will hate her for life. Yup, that's entertainment folks.

Pity the man that marries this screwed up chick in a couple years. Now the first thing we normally do is blame the parents. Screwed up parents equal screwed up kids, right? I usually don't buy into that theory. But in this case, someone should take those two new cars and run them both over. In a world filled with more reality than any of us ever knew existed, how much reality is too much?

Is it any wonder why 3/4 of the world's peolpe hate us for our over indulgent, natural resource sucking, global warming causing, spoiled lame asses? When I watch shows like this, I hate us. Who decided this should ever be broadcast on television? Well in retaliation, I've come up with a few new reality shows I'd like to see. I'm not sure how they'll do in the ratings, but I'm definitely sure they'll make me feel better.

First, how about "Beating Celebrities with Sticks?" I mean who doesn't want to take a swing at Paris Hilton? Tom Cruise? Lindsay Lohan? What could feel better than wailing a branch at some spoiled, whiny, over paid, talentless know-it-all celebrity?

Or what about "I'm Anorexic and I'm Proud?" This is a great show for people starving for attention. You know all those people that feel skinny is their greatest accomplishment in life? If this is true, I have a whole country of accomplished Ethiopians we can feature. Look at me, I'm a size 2! Well look at me, I'm a size 22 and pass the donuts.

How about "Catch Me if You Can?" In this show, we get to strip away all the legal crap and let the people vote for who's guilty and who isn't. We can start with O.J. Simpson and Michael Jackson. In this show, circumstantial evidence counts, like we have a bloody glove, a footprint, dead bodies, a motive and he's running. Guilty? You betcha. Or when a grown man admits "I sleep with young boys" and a jury says well, that's okay we're quite sure it's purely platonic. In my show, there's a bonus round where we get to hunt down, sequester (tie-up) and beat jury members that let the guilty run free. I'm selling this one to FOX.

Another show for Fox, "Who Wants To Marry A Crack Whore?" To hell with millionaires, they're just too complicated. Marry a crack whore and you'll always know where you stand. Just imagine the fun we could have with the elimination rounds.

Finally, my own personal favorite, "Shock a Network Executive." In this show, we get to blast network executives with varying volts of electricity for bringing the most begnin, banal, garbage to the airwaves. Let's start with "The Simple Life", for simple-tons, "Celebrity Fit Club", otherwise known as let's take a gaggle of fat washed-up celebrities and try to kill them by making them run up mountains, and "America's Next Top Model," where none of the winners actually become top models and we get to watch tall beautiful women that have the world by the balls complain about the bump on their nose.

So in a world where the only true reality is the one we make for ourselves, just how much reality is too much?

Forever, again.

I recently had the opportunity to spend an extended period of time with my fairly new brother-in-law. After the initial greetings, he began to go on and on about finally meeting his soulmate and how he couldn't live without her. (Which by the way he had to do while she was finishing up her prison sentence. But that's for another blog.) He was expounding on the endless depth of his undying love for my sister. Apparently they complete each other, which is entirely possible since they are both half-wits. I watched as tears welled up in his eyes as he finished his praises to the woman of his dreams. He talked about his wedding vows and how "I do" meant forever (for the third time). When he finished, I didn't know whether to throw rose petals or throw up. Precisely three weeks later they had a minor argument and he moved out. Which made me wonder; just how many forevers do we get?

Have you ever had a friend or family member that suddenly and out of nowhere makes the grand and totally unexpected "I'm getting married announcement?" Not that marriage is unexpected for many people, but you know what I'm talking about. It's your friend that's marrying the alcoholic cross dresser. Or the one that's marrying the guy that slaps her around because he loves her. It's the girl that's so controlling she keeps her boyfriends testicles in her change purse and only allows him access to one at a time to procreate. Or it's that guy that goes out with the group and completely ignores his girlfriend all evening, gets drunk, vomits and then hits on her friends right in front of her while she's busy tongue kissing the bartender. Or maybe it's the two that bicker constantly on every point until all you want to do is dig your eardrums out with a spoon and feed them to your dog.

For a second, you stare in disbelief. All the blood rushes from your head. Then you quickly shake it off before she notices. The words "to who?" form on your lips, but you quickly turn it into a huge woof, woof while pumping your fist in the air. Then you jump up and down and tell her how excited you are for her. This gives you time to get the oxygen back to your brain. I remember once falling out of a tree backwards as a kid. I was up about 20 feet or so. It's the strangest feeling. You're completely helpless, wondering if you're going to survive and how much pain you're going to endure on the way down. Well, it's kind of like that. Because as a friend, there is going to be pain and lots of it. And tears. And yelling. And break-ups. And you are going to be that support system that tells her over and over again the same thing you did before they tied the knot and slipped it over each other's neck.

Now, I've been prone to precognition in my life. But you don't have to be on the Psychic Friends Network to figure out this coupling would be the worst idea since Liza Minelli and that scary gay guy she married and then beat around during alcoholic tirades. Though I do admit I wish reality TV would have got a hold of that one. I'd still be watching the reruns. In fact, I'd like to see Liza in a cage match. She looks like a pretty tough scrapper to me.

My question then becomes, as the innocent-bystanding, morbidly-curious and concerned audience, what do we do? Buy tickets, popcorn and watch the show? Try and help with kind advice that will usually end up with us getting axed from the wedding guest list? I've always felt that an open-handed slap to the mouth works best. If it was good enough for our parents, then by gosh it's good enough for us. But who's responsibility is it? I don't like being a bubble burster. But I do have an endless supply of pins.

Perhaps it's just an inevitable part of life. Because when it comes to stating the obvious, no one gets it when it has to do with them. So let's just sit back and endure forever...again.

The Real Cost of Inflation

I have an acquaintance that is crazy sexy cool. She's vivacious, outspoken, fun and thinks fast on her feet. She's a pretty girl with one disarming asset. Tremendous breasts. Purchased tremendous breasts. Breasts so tremendous in fact, that the slim fitted dresses she owned before the augmentation can no longer contain at least 70% of them at any given moment. I live in constant fear that any fast movement will result in a complete demoralization of the work place. I'm sure you get the picture. Lately, she's been talking about pumping up the volume. On her diminutive frame, any additional size would simply morph her into mammaries in pumps, which begs the question; what is the real cost of inflation?

In the office, here's a typical scenario. The women get annoyed because she's prancing around half-naked starving for attention. She believes they're all jealous, which I don't think is a valid argument since any girl with $4,000 and a medium-size pain tolerance can get their own pair of oversized chelobes. Most men expect a bimbo when they see her coming, which creates a preconceived notion that must be overcome in any business situation prior to be taken seriously. For the rest of the men and a few daring women, it's a daily jousting game of titillation. And I don't care what anyone says, if the melons are falling out of the crate, we're all going to look. It's like we see the banana peel, we see the heel about to hit the banana peel, we're waiting for the big finish.

For my friend herself, she appears to have made a complete and total monetary, physical and emotional investment in her breasts. She wonders why they can't solve all her problems. Why don't they bring her money? Fame and fortune? A rich husband? Friends? Happiness? World peace? A cure for cancer? Surely if she makes them bigger, she's headed for world domination.

The truth of the matter is, if you can't get your head out of your cleavage, you're never going to be happy. It's dark in there. It's hard to see. There's barely room to breathe. And besides, isn't it really someone else's job to have their head in there anyway?

I'm not one to judge anything anyone wants to do with their body. Well, within reason. If you make your breasts bigger than your head and wonder why men stare at them and don't take you seriously, then you might as well cut off your head, replace it with another big boob and become a triple threat, because you're never going to get it. Cher once said,"If I want to put my boobs on my back, I will. It's my business." And if the outcome is so many more people wanting to hug her, that's okay. As long as she doesn't sit there and wonder, "Why is everyone hugging me?"

So what's the real cost of inflation? I'm not really sure. But I do know this. If you're self-worth is contained in two sacks of silicone, you're only one millimeter in plastic away from leaking out all over the place. And that's a precarious place to be for anyone.