Archive for June, 2008

I didn’t realize that Hanson Part II existed until about a week ago…my bad.  I never was good at keeping up with the Jonases.   So sue me for not being abreast to the history-makers that are changing the fabric of our society.  I guess the trio has caused millions of teenage girls everywhere to suffer nearly suicidal bouts of depression and hormonal mood swings, so I thought to myself, “well, I better investigate this, they sound like a big deal.”


So I pulled up a sound clip on YouTube to see what I’ve been missing. 

Fifteen seconds later, I realized, that something has gone terribly awry.  “is anyone else in the world able to hear what I’m hearing?”  The ONLY feasible conclusion I could come to is that there is a pandemic spreading like wildfire accross this nation,  affecting the eardrums of girls everywhere – and I’m the only one who hasn’t caught it yet.  Considering I’m the only one left among the fruited plains with any sense, I feel it my duty to send an official warning to the children.

Dear Jonas Brothers,

In about three years, after you hit puberty, your voices will change (thank God for that) and you will no longer be able to sing any of your songs.  Unfortunately, three years is 1,095 days too many.  About a decade ago, another brotherly singing trio paved the way for you; and much like yourselves, they sucked.  Their name was HANSON – after their own last name, which strikes an eery resemblance to your band, JONAS BROTHERS.  Hanson’s greatest hit was a song that didn’t even have words as its title.  To this day, no one even knows what “mmmbop”  means or even is.  Well, you know what happened to them don’t you?  Once they grew male voices and unsightly body hair, they realized that all they had left was some pinups of themselves from TigerBeat and and an 8th grade education to finish.

This is your final warning.  Please stop whatever it is your trying to do.  Your mommy misses you.

Yours Truly,

The daily elephant

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I realize that its been more than a couple days since my fingers have graced the pearly plastics, and i have nothing to say except that i wish this thing had spell check because i am burning some serious midnight oil right now.  Anyways, I have so many stories to tell that i feel like i’m an old, accomplished writer who is piecing together her memoir -and yet,  i’m just starting out.

I was thinking that we would touch the subject of commitments and fears and all sorts of deep rooted feelings that surface on a late saturday night; however, i think i’ll just say that i’m ecstatic that my mom just called me and said “its going to rain tomorrow, so we’re not going to have the Father’s Day  pool party after all.” ( i come from a long line of procrastinators, so yes, we’re just getting around to the whole Father’s Day thing)

Anyway, I have serious problems with committment;  but, this is old news, and nothing that interests you.  However, a recent conversation between my mother and father just very well might:

so my mom and dad are watching tv in the kitchen.  i sneak into the fridge, snatch a bowl that has a single piece of leftover pie in it, and maneuver my way back to the living room, but before i make it there, i’m stopped with:

MOM: “what are you eating, my pie?”

ME: “YOUR pie? Well there’s only this one piece, what happened to the rest of it?”

DAD YELLS FROM THE CORNER: “there was a pie?! i never knew there was a pie.”

MOM: “it wasn’t a very big one, it was like, individual size.”

DAD: “I’ve never seen an individual pie.”

…..[mom glances at tv, trying to change the subject…]

MOM: “is that alice cooper? He looks like satan these days.”


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I despise birthdays. So it’s no surpise that I hate today.


At the turn of my _ _ th year, I had a wee bit of time to reflect upon all the other things that I hate in life, mainly: Neil Diamond, mayonnaise, sci-fi, socialism, the word “sausage,” people who fail to be funny, Crocs, athletic activity, Frasier, punks, Kmart, malt flavoring, spandex, insects, and seafood.  After reviewing this list, I came to the staggering conclusion that it has been missing one very important addition all these years.




I say that this is staggering because although I have hated them secretly for years, I feel that is just somehow not enough.


Normally, this is where I would insert some kind of comment that would buffer any potentially offended vegetarian readers. This comment would say something to the effect of, “if you do this because it makes you physically ill to think about butchering an animal, then you’re okay in my book.” But since it’s my birthday and I’ll blog what I want to, I make no apologies for this post.


Here’s a revised snippet of what once was a masterpiece of vegetarian criticism at its finest.


The following is a public safety announcement:

Some of you may be contemplating buying/eating plant products in the future and I urge you NOT to do so. Imagine for just a moment, an innocent, defenseless plant.  Its leaves are flourishing in all their beautiful, green glory, its fruit ripening in the sun, and its branches blowing in the breeze.  Then, along comes a guy with a machete and God’s creation is brutally attacked, mangled, and shipped far from its homeland only to be eventually consumed by an unappreciative, spoiled, overweight five year old who will leave most of it on his plate to rot because he filled up on too many Little Debbie moon pies. Plants are eaten for the mere fact that no one can hear them crying for help and begging for their lives to be spared. It is like beating up a mime, or strangling a blind midget.  It’s not right. 


Take the chicken, for example. Chickens deserve to die.  Leaving their immoral multiple sexual-partner habits aside, have you observed how they break into the homes of peacefully sleeping worms, like savages, and drag them out of their cribs only to dangle them over the hungry mouths of baby birds to be eventually consumed?  how would you like that done to you, huh punk?

Some of you may ask, “But what about killing and eating a cow?”  Cows may appear innocent and sweet, but this is garbage! The cow is an evil ABOMINABLE MONSTER. Not only do they carelessly chomp away at plants ALL day long, they regurgitate the victims and chew them AGAIN as if to relish in the joy of cold blooded murder.


Meatatarians are simply serving justice…we would never eat something that didn’t do any wrong.   I have a deep respect for majestic animals such as lions and tigers that choose never to eat innocent plants, thus carrying out justice. Do not let people fool you into thinking that eating plants is environmentally safe. DON’T BELIEVE THE IRRATIONALITY!  When you kill a plant…you’re damaging the foundation of the food chain. Plants produce OXYGEN. Animals produce harmful, deadly carbon dioxide;  thus, they are slowly placing us in a toxic gas chamber.   *Need I remind you, if Eve had eaten the snake instead of the apple, we would all be living in paradise.*



Act NOW.  Save your life and the lives of others.  Eat animals.

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so i’m waiting for the elevator to pick me up.

holding my cell phone and a tupperware of soup. 

I decided that although I only have a mere half hour lunch, it’s better to spend it outside than in my cubicle.  that way, at least when people say “wow, have you ever seen such a beautiful day?!”  i won’t have to respond with “i have no clue what you’re talking about, for all i know, we just had another monsoon out there.” 

Finally, the door opens. 

much to my surprise, there is a middle-aged man facing me in the kind-of-scary, very 70’s elevator.  I walk in, glance at the buttons, and turn to face the door.  while i’m standing there, i look at the ceiling and spot the far too outdated inspection permit. 

now, i’m not an expert on identifying what accents correspond with what ethnicities, etc.  so i’ll just tell you that i have no idea where this guy was from, and i was very confused. 


elevator guy: (glances at my soup) “lunch huh?”

me: (glances at soup) “yup.”

total and utter silence

silence so severe that for the first time, i wished there were elevator music to listen to.

silence so silent that i could hear children being born in the Czech Republic.

elevator guy: “well, ya gotta have it.”

me: (not sure how to respond to the most obvious statement of all time) “yup.”

elevator guy:  “its one of those things.”

me: “wow, look at that. this elevator hasn’t been inspected since 1988.”

[end elevator ride]

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months of planning.  thousands of dollars.  perfectly arranged flowers and candles.  finger foods.  a heartfelt speech or two.  an overpriced cash bar.  hundreds of random people.  a way too drunk groomsman.  and one completely clueless DJ

After coming home to recooperate from the thirteenth wedding i’ve now been in / coordinated,  i dust the rice off my tux, attempt to brush through what once was my hair before teased and laquered in hairspray and glitter, and apply assorted bandaids to the various blisters that cover every square inch of my feet.

No sooner that I’d gotten home,  i passed out onto my bed.   Immediately, I  jump up when i realize that I have orange bronzer coating my entire body and so much mascara on that I can barely close my eyes, which will create an even bigger mess if left til morning.  So i go against every current desire in my body, and shower.

Showering leaves so much room for reflection, you know?  Just you, the boiling lava hot – or arctic tundra cold water, and your thoughts.  Generally, shower thoughts consist of something like, “I could actually do my hair for work today…  nah.  Why would I? I hate my job, i hate the people, and nobody important sees me.  Ponytail  McSlob it is.”  or “i really HAVE to pick up some milk today, i  CANNOT keep eating TV dinners for breakfast.”  or “I feel good. today is the day.  Today i’m gonna start working out.  yea.”  But shower thoughts after weddings always take a different turn. 

the celebrating, the smell of love in the air, the sentimental video journey….It really makes you think about your life and where you’re at.   And with all the reflecting and warm, fuzzy introspection -this is what i discovered:

I’m not allowed to have a wedding of my own.   i have no more room in my closet.


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[[[reaching deep down into the Bag ‘O Issues…]]]

slip of paper #1: “If Global Warming is true, why did we just have the most frigid winter in decades?”    no.

slip of paper #2: If Keira Knightly doesn’t have an eating disorder how come I can see her liver?”   naw.  not today.

slip of paper #3: “the ever-present and ever-growing spandex crisis.” 

and we have a winner!

Buckle up kids, this one is going to be a long, elastic ride… With warmer weather right around the corner (I’m starting to wonder just how many more corners we can turn here in IL …)  it brings one thing to mind.  Well, two things.  hooking up and working out.   We’ll address the hooking up part later, because that’s just way too big of a topic to throw in here casually.  Speaking of working out,  a topic of which I know nothing, it got me to thinking about gyms, which led to jogging, which led to sweating, which of course, had no where else to go but spandex, the elastic peep show.

i mean. 

come on.

Perhaps you are someone who frequently loves to stretch out in some spandex, or maybe you just keep it around for special occasions- i won’t press you for answers.  but there has to be an underlying reason behind the spandex – a deep rooted cause for your despicable actions.  and thats what i’m here for.  so get comfortable, get vulnerable, and get ready to get down to the heart of the matter. 

Do any of these describe you?

1. I get alot of dirty looks. i come across as borderline snobbish-most likely, because I am.  I jog along neighborhood sidewalks, often in subzero temperatures, probably wearing some kind of designer vest, with my IPOD strapped to my forearm, and a bottle of Crystal Light in my pocket.  When I return home, I like to sautee some Tofu and perhaps make an appointment to get my hair re-highlighted. oh, and i’m a bit of an attention whore.

DIAGNOSIS: trophy wife / celebrity

PSYCHOANALYSIS:  the spandex appears to be an avenue for you to showcase how proud you are that child-bearing has not yet had a negative affect on your thighs.   [or that you’ve had some mighty good work done]



muscle-guy2. I got rejected a few times for the prom – I remember uttering to myself, “someday I’ll show them.”  Now I live at the gym.  I have muscles in places they were never meant to be, nor did anyone ever imagine they could be.  No matter what, I always try to find a way to wear  a sleeveless shirt of some sort – just in case the muscles weren’t visible enough through the skin tight shirt.  If  I happen to be wearing sleeves, I can always just rip them off, as that looks more care-free and tough anyway.  I spend a pretty penny on fake tanning.

DIAGNOSIS: douchebag. 

PSYCHOANALYSIS:   you feel like you have something to prove to the world, thus,  you slather yourself in vanity and women.  the spandex is an outlet for the repression of feelings you had in high school. 


 3. I really like the word “zen.”  I try to use it when describing my plants, my house, and everything else that i can reasonably insert an adjective in front of.  I admire Madonna and her very zen-seeking/yoga doing lifestyle.  I’m also Vegan, because vegetarian isn’t committed enough.

DIAGNOSIS: exhippie

PSYCHOANALYSIS: You definately smoked your fair share of weed in the 70’s. you might have even tie-dyed your own shirt in the washer.  Now you’re middle-aged and trying to fix the damage you’ve done.  The problem is, you aren’t conscious of the damage that you are doing to the rest of us by the clothing choices your are making.



4.  I just have no business wearing this stuff.  period.  i don’t know who i think i am.

DIAGNOSIS:  none needed.

PSYCHOANALYSIS:  out yo mind.


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9 Reasons to Despise Neil Diamond – if you don’t already


1.  bigest, bushiest, salt -and -peppery sideburns of all time.  that goes without saying.

2.  he contaminates 4th of July (which is almost my favorite holiday.  almost).

 I cannot celebrate this day without someone cranking their boom box with “Comin to America” during the sky show. (in which case, i take bigger issue with whomever coordinates the sky show to begin with.)


3. as a young lad, he sang in the choir with the female version of himself,  barbara striesand


4. he’s a pervert.  Not only did he sign with Bang Records, but he made a song that contains the words, “girl, you’ll be a woman soon… and soon i’ll be your man.”   well gee neil, lets try and  wait for the poor girl to stop running from the boys because they have “cooties” before attempting anything that could get you 3-5.




5. gravely voice. beaty eyes.


 6. songs like “cracklin’ rosie,”  really?  cracklin oat-bran?  cracklin fire? … or perhaps you meant to say cracklin whip?   cus you’re a pervert?



7.  as you can see, his breeds abnormal fans







8. clearly, he has an anger management problem – possibly suffers from permanent insanity or syphilis


 9.  he is a constant embarrassment to society, and a mockery is to be made of him. only then, might he stop.


“I’m a Believer” in that!

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