Pfunksfoolosophy

Okay, so my pal Efunk got me sucked into watching “The Bachelor: London Calling”.

Apart from them ripping off a song title by The Clash, a band  I’m sure Sonny Jim is familiar with due to the age of his siblings (although he strikes me as a guy who probably likes The Smiths–I sorta dislike that about him), the bachelor this season is a pretty funny guy. (and I’m sure the title was not his doing) He has the sense of humor that in a perfect world, would turn this dismal, sad little show into a true laughapalooza.

First, here’s what the geniuses at ABC SHOULD have done:
Call in Pfunk and Efunk as “relationship experts”.

It would be delightful. We would be perfectly coiffed and attired women with sensitive insight and glaringly white teeth. We would offer our ‘expert’ take on the proceedings from the vantage point of the bar located inside the mansion. The first two episodes would go off without a hitch. We would be on our best behavior.
There would be a confessional where we would show our true colors. Yep, we would rank on each and every woman who walked through the door.

“Get a load of the head on THAT one! Has she seen the business end of a hairbrush?”

“Did she say she was a HOTDOG VENDOR? What the heck is that all about? She could have said waitress and it would have been respectable.”

“Oh, who is she kidding? She’s 37 if she’s  a minute!”

We would also get them riproaring drunk. It would be a requirement. We would most certainly NOT hold their hair when they horked. We would mock them along with the bachelor…we would call him “Mack”. It would be fun.

Next on the agenda, we would get rid of the rose deal. We would definitely have to substitute something. I say a pair of Totes slipper socks which the lucky contestant would wear on their one on one with our plucky single man.

We would call them on their ‘feelings’ for Matt (or whomever).
It’s ten minutes and you’re falling for him? Please make it stop.

I think if you had to vie for a pair of slipper socks you might  just want the guy.

After the first couple of episodes, the audience would watch Efunk and Pfunk devolve into sweatpants wearing, delivery pizza eating, margarita swilling harridans.

Oh yes, we would definitely start in on the girls. We would pull our best “Mommie Dearest” waking the kids up to chop down some shrubbery act. Possibly a wire hanger or two for good measure.

We would make them wear Clairol hot rollers and call on Matt. We would make them cry. Often.
There would be a lovely moment where I would walk by in the background cleaning my ear with a Q-tip. I would inspect it and show the bachelor. He would giggle because he’s just as immature as me. I would call his parents and tell them that there is no one here for their son. They would arrive within the next day. I would party with the parents.

Efunk and I would instantly become the cool older sisters he never wanted.

We would coerce the less intelligent of the crew to flash him just as his parents enter.

We would be incorrigible.
Every time one of the  girls called another one a bitch, we would make the offender do a shot. We would also do a shot with her. Yes, we would be drunk. We would make a shambles of it. It  would be superfantastic.

Eventually, the slut side would show up. We would bring in our cabana boys.

It would be a melee.

Make it so, ABC.

I think Efunk can get the time away from work.

Goodness knows I can.

In truth, I only knew one personally; I wrote to one of them and he was killed in action. I wrote about it earlier. This is a sobering number. ONE is a sobering number. War makes absolutely no sense to me. Perhaps that’s why we have so many reality shows to take our minds off of the lives lost every damned day. Yikes.

The other person was a friend of a friend and he enlisted because he had few options. He liked the Marines and he was a good soldier. He was also sweet, funny, messed up and talented. I’m not knocking the military–my dad was a drill sargeant in the Army. Fort Riley Kansas, the home of THE BIG RED ONE, baby! He served in Korea. We’ve had someone serve in just about every conflict since forever. But you know, I just don’t understand how killing someone makes your viewpoint correct.

We teach our children to resolve conflicts without using violence, yet we rush to make war on others. What are we solving? What are we RESOLVING? Nothing. I don’t want to see my brothers and sisters, sons and daughters perish because of a pissing match that got out of control. Understand that I am well aware that when you enlist in the armed forces, chances are you’re gonna see some combat. That’s not my issue. My issue is that this war, like all the rest, makes no friggin’ sense.

Stop it, already.
You wanna solve a problem? Get your best Parchesi, Yahtzee, Poker, Connect Four–you name it–players and pit ‘em against ours. Done and done.

My pals are in heaven nodding their heads, sayin’ “Pfunk, you are so  right. Put me back in the game.”
I wish I could.

Why did I watch the marathon? Why? Am I finally that mindless that I have to rehash something that didn’t interest me until I met a couple of the contestants and wanted to know  what the hubbub was?
Man, I’ve gotta tell ya, going out of doors is a good thing. I’ve seen every episode and still have no idea what makes a good photo. Nigel, the poor sod…while a goodlooking man, kills me. If personality were apples, well…we’d not have pies a-plenty. His wife is quite lovely and they should use her more often. Nigel just rubs me the wrong way. I think it’s the teeth. The teeth, mama. I’m no trip to Hawaii, but put ‘em away, man!

The chatter about the body positions, the open squint (can that be possible?), Miss J–a word about that one–I don’t care if you’re a gay man, you’re a man. I’m not gonna call ya ‘Miss’. Hate to break it to ya, J–until you’ve experienced your menses, I don’t wanna hear you call yourself ‘Miss’. Get over it. You don’t see a bunch of lesbians calling one another ‘Mister Sharon’. Stop it. It’s not cute.

Tyra’s not as annoying as Heidi Klum is on ‘Project Runway’, but if I hear ‘continue on’ one more freakin’ time, there is gonna be war. Just say continue. It’s okay. Love ya, but let’s move it along. My brain hurts.
Twiggy is probably the only one who just does her thing and gets over it.

Eh. I am sure that modeling is tough. Goodness knows I don’t have the stomach for it.  Nor the physique. Dude, they’re nuts.
Now on to my suggestions to spice it up:

1. Have a ‘house mother’ who is there to check the girls. This is required. She will make  them read literature. She will correct their grammar. She will require them to chew with their mouths closed. She will be a heavy drinker. She may wake them up on random evenings  in a drunken rage dressed as Joan Crawford. 

2. No calls to the boyfriends. It’s boring.

3. If there’s a cat fight, please don’t prolong it. Tell them all to shut up.

4. Help us understand why we should care about someone’s hands being stiff.

5. Prohibit Miss J from wearing that long tee shirt and heels. At the very least, make him wear hose.

6. Jay Manuel. Make him stop wearing lip gloss and bleaching his hair. I’d like to see him as a redhead. That’s just me.

7. Nigel. Seriously, get that stick outta your arse. Take a good hard look at those choppers of yours. Appreciate your wife a whole lot more. She’s gotta kiss that mouth.

(by the way, bring your Mom back–she rocks)

8. Tyra needs to stop saying ‘continue on’. Stop it. Bring your Mom along. She’s cool.

9. Make the models promise not to crab about their makeovers. Make them sign a waiver. The  show’s been on how long? Get over it. Quit yer bitchin’.

10. Guest judges from the real world. Matter of fact, have one of the past contestants come in.

Okay, that’s it.

There will be a 12 step program for me. I made the time to blog about this. There is an intervention in my future.

Well, first let me apologize for neglecting you. It wasn’t my intent to completely forget about you. I feel just like Loretta Lynn in “Coalminer’s Daughter” when she has her breakdown.  “Patsy’s always sayin’ ‘little girl, ya got to run your own life’….well, mah life’s been a-runnin’ me” Yep. I’ve let my life run away with me and I’ve not been an active participant and I’ve allowed my work drama get under my skin. Kids, it’s a friggin’ job; it’s not my life. Whoa, Nellie, right?
So, it’s back, back in the NY groove. Spoke with some friends, got it together and feel that my big ‘ole size elevens are rooted again in the soil of my life’s rhythm. Going to get back to writing because that’s important to me. I’ve got a ton of stories to tell and they’re worth telling.
Back to cooking again, which is a blast and the big news…drumroll please…

THE PRETZEL COOKBOOK IS ON AMAZON! So you can pre-order it and have a blast.

The title is: The Pretzel Cookbook: A New Twist on Everyone’s Favorite Snack.

Take a look; you’ll be glad that you did. OR, you’ll completely forget about it and it will go directly into the remainder bin.
Wow, way to have a positive outlook. Frankly, I think it’s a great book for what it is…pretzels. Pretzels are a favorite for many, many folks.
If you dig soft pretzels this is your book. If you’re too lazy to bother making pretzels, there are recipes using store bought pretzels.

If you are somewhere in the middle, there’s recipes using frozen bread dough.

You can run, but you can’t hide. Get the book. After you receive it, shoot me an email and I might just autograph it for ya.

Could be valuable some day. COULD BE…ya never know.

This week, let’s try to keep a positive outlook. When something or someone gets you down, remember that you’ve got at least one person pulling for you. That person is the Pfunk.

I believe in you. You can accomplish just about anything as long as you let your light shine. Let it shine, people! Rock it when you can, appreciate just where you are right now; you may know it can only get better. Better and better. Life is short, so play like you mean to win.

With that said, I bid you a kick ass week.

 Go get ‘em!

(or take a nice long nap.)

Recipes are coming…I’ve been remiss on that front as well.

Yet again, my life has taken over and my writing has suffered.

Well, let’s get down to it: American Idol. Wow. Is it wrong to have a crush on a kid of about 15 or so? That little fella from Utah is a sweetie. A little too earnest, but I dig him. Simon’s hair is what I stay for, though. That guy. Wow…yikes.

Lemme see…OH! I went to visit my best friend and her family a couple of weekends ago and Patrick coined a new phrase: “Yeeks!”  Please be sure to use it in place of “Yikes” whenever you can. It’s enjoyable.

Work, being sick, having my purse stolen…loads to tell but not now.
Love ya, keep on truckin’.