putting the FUN in FUNeral

Oh my. Kevin called last week to plan a mockery dinner party. For Michael Jackson's funeral. Now Statler and Waldorf weren't planning on mocking his death (per se) but the certain spectacle that would surround it.

Not only would this be Statler and Waldorf material, it was ripe for another Night of Wrong.

I set the DVR to record and started planning a menu. Thematic dishes eluded me, and I was feeling a bit fancy (need to up my cooking game for Kevin these days) and I banged out an amazing shrimp and grits dish (with green onions, red peppers, chicken and apricot sausage, and peach puree). I thought the Chocolate Angel Food Cake (also with peach puree) was thematic enough, but Kevin topped me with homemade black and white cupcakes (and homemade cream cheese frosting— tasty!)

Word got out and others wanted to participate. Statler and Waldorf do have a reputation. By afternoon I had to send out an e-mail confirmation and buy more ingredients.

"Thriller at the Staples Center."

Please join Statler and Waldorf for a viewing of the spectacle that will be the funeral for Michael Jackson.

I thought about preparing only thematic foods for dinner, but lunchables, happy meals, and white brownies didn't sound all that appetizing. I also considered making "Michael Jackson's Noses" sugar cookies and letting you pick your own nose.

There will be a southern supper and lots and lots of cocktails. If you need something stronger, bring it in a cookie. No smoking inside.

The funeral was at 11:00 a.m. pacific time, but I'm recording it and we'll gathering over at my palce at 7:00 for a viewing and commentary (Will Liz wear white diamonds? Will Liza bring a date? Will Bubbles fling his poo? Will Lisa Marie ever be able to articulate what the hell she was thinking?).

I'm sure will we all find the event touching. MJ touched so many.

So to speak.

Kevin, who has spent the past several years in the research of cocktails (actual research, as opposed to my airquote "research"), was also tasked with bringing a signature cocktail for the event. His tasty concoction selection (from the late 1800s 1920s) was appropriately the Forget Me Not Weep no More.

Kevin even traveled with his own case of martini glasses. Which was a good thing, as his cocktails so rocked they broke two.


Oh yeah, you should know by now, when Kevin signs up for a theme event, he freaking BRINGS it.


You see how he has ruined me for all other men.

Kevin also brought a sweatshirt and event program from Michael Jackson's Off the Wall tour.

Witness the awe of the Shilpa:


RoMo, also an excellent theme guest, brought it too—in the form of gift-wrapped packages for all of the guests: homage gloves.


FLove the RoMo!

(even GLove the RoMO.)

PeeDee, who had watched the event live earlier in the day, insisted on turning on the closed captioning if we were going to make commentary and talk over the ceremony (WTF with the casket gold package? Does that thing have spinners? Favorite new term: "grief beret."). I am grateful for the captions, or we would have missed the other highlight/favorite new term from the night. According to the captioner, Michael Jackson was a great "Hoom. Hoom Annatarian." OMFG, even the captions were in ebonics.

Yes it was a night of wrong, and a ridiculous amount of fun for a funeral. We did express our respect at times, and appreciated that Brooke and daughter Paris seemed to be the only ones who gave Michael a really human face.

Uh oh. Insert joke here.



Update: Kevin has corrected me on the proper name of the event cocktail (see comments), and how could I forget that I found "Bubbles the Chimp" party napkins at Safeway! Party animal that one.

two wrongs don't make a right

but oddly, three rights do make a left.

Last night: cheap catch up dinner with the close peeps.

Now known as The Night of Wrong.

Dinner quickly devolved into a game/challenge of trying to say the most offensive things while sounding sincere or deadpan.

For freakishly liberal San Franciscans, bigotry can be funny. And we were all minorities of one sort or another at the table, so we can get away with it.

But I hope no one else at the restaurant heard us, because we were just wrong. Then again, we were peeling with laughter and spitting out food and drink so I think subtlety was long lost.

But still, The Night of Wrong, wow, that'll go down in memory.

better than a thousand words

I don't know where this originated, but it just speaks volumes. It's like an entire tragic novel in one snapshot. Say it with me now: WTF?


Via Why That's Delightful, who adds: Cracked ran a caption competition and the winner made me laugh out loud: “A threesome’s a threesome.”

To me, it looks like what Kevin describes as a typical family gathering before his grandmother passed.

For all I know Kevin took this photo. Kev?

Final thought: I love how granny is cooling her head with a beer can as she vomits into the trash can-- in the middle of room no less. (And I am guessing this is a motel room.)

I swallow on your grave

ARSP: (quickly and excitedly) OOOh!
Me: What?!
ARSP: I just got a quick chill.
Me: Someone just walked over your grave.
ARSP: I hate that expression!
Me: You'd rather them dance? Or perhaps spit. Or in your case, swallow.

you should see it under black light

You've seen the ads for "natural male enhancement."

Now there's a shirt for boys who want to strut their other's "stuff."

(Ew. That's not right.)

woulda coulda shoulda

This news item was NOT sent in by Alert Reader Barney May.

But it damn well should have been.

NZ man sentenced after claiming to have been raped by a wombat

A New Zealand man who claimed to have been left speaking Australian after being raped by a wombat has been sentenced to 75 hours community service.

Arthur Ross Cradock, a 48-year-old orchard worker, admitted in the Nelson District Court yesterday to the charge of using a phone for a fictitious purpose, after calling police with the message, "I've been raped by a wombat".

down for the Count

So not right, and yet there is nothing actually bad.



Via Alert Reader Jeff Javits.

Fish on Friday

This is a totally inappropriate post and nasty and should not be posted at all but it's gonna be because I know that even though there are lots of readers out there who will be appalled by this, there are many other who will think this shit's hilarious.

So if you are remotely offended by anything, especially mentions of lesbians or girlie private parts, stop reading right now. I absolve myself of any responsibility as you've now been warned.

(And yes, I know I am writing this in the style of a fifth grader.)

So I was walking down the street with Shilpa the other day, and we were talking about lesbians at work. And then we were talking about one in particular she had seen on the work Web site "Out List." Shilpa was all "I knew it!" and I was all "she's pretty hot." And Shilpa was all "ew!" And I said "she's a totally hot sexy power lesbian." and Shilpa disagreed, saying "She has those big ol' knobby hands." and I said "that might be a good thing...holy crap that fish smell is nasty!"

At which we both laughed while I had to quickly interject "Unrelated!" because at that moment we were walking past by a seafood delivery truck that REEKED and it was just bad timing that the instant we were implying lesbian petula fingering, there was a slap in the face of rank fish smell.

I'm just sayin'.

And I'm just sayin' that considering all of that, it is nothing compared to this.

OMFG!

It's just words, but probably still not safe for work.

It's a Q&A with hood advice columnist Ask Tionna: "Your Vagina Is Your Center. Always Remember That."

what's in a name?

There are so many things wrong with this story.

First, the town sounds like a good name for a queen at Trannyshack: SheBoygan. Although I think any true Trannyshack queen would change it to SheBoyGonads or some such.

The convicted sex offender in this story (proven to be innocent in this particular case by the way) is named Pheuk Kue.

You can't make this shit up.


Via Dave Barry

Just wrong

I'm going to have to add a new tag for the blog: just wrong.

Like that time when Shilpa set herself up for a disparaging punchline and I said, "You walked into that one like a battered wife into a door."

Overheard last night:

"I like my battered women with ketchup."

Just wrong

I don't know why, but this just seems kinda IKEA meets creepy.

Sort of reminds me of the I Love Ewe inflatable sheep "toy".

Just wrong.