i just want to conquer people and their souls

Hola readers! Yes it's been a minute. Last time we spoke I was desperately trying to keep a lid on my hate jar, while the world around me succumbed to the cruel icy stylings of Old Man Winter. We all know my  feelings on winter  but yesterday was the first day over 85 degrees and my reptilian heart began to thaw.  * summersummersummersummer! Yesterday was like when you're waiting for a blind date and they're really late. You've ordered a drink but you can't drink it too fast or you'll look like a sad alcoholic and you wish you had a goddamned smartphone to play with. Finally, your blind date appears and is so smoking hot that you immediately forget that you were recently wishing that their progeny would be co njoined twins ( who were also giant ranga douches who can't spell). Yesterday was like that; so glorious that I would have forgiven it even if it had chosen to end with  a Devil's Whirl .  Anyway, what I'm getting at is that I am finally...

It's MLK day! Thanks to the good doctor for battling for civil rights and all that great stuff. Here's how I felt when I woke up and realized I didn't have work today:

Readers, is there anything better than karaoke? Exposing your id for all to see and trilling theatrically like a modern day Aoide for your adoring audience? I have never felt emotions of the intensity I did when performing an impromptu, yet sultry, rendition of Tonight, I Celebrate My Love For You with Fanny Ong, a Chinese DJ (and budding pyramid schemer) who had clearly been awed by my prior performances. I take my karaoke very seriously.  I am not a gifted singer but dammit if I don't give it my all. And really, that is the most crucial part of karaoke. As Mae West herself said, "An ounce of performance is worth a pound of promises" (I don't think she was talking about karaoke, but still). And so, dear readers, I wish to pass on to you my karaoke wisdom which has been accumulated through years of trial and error. I've experienced the highest highs where one feels like Gaia giving birth to the sky, and the lowest lows when you relate more to Gerri Halliwell whe...

I just thought I would alert you, readers, to my absolute new favorite thing. I have a Google Analytics account which lets  me monitor many interesting facts about ijustwanttoconquerpeopleandtheirsouls . I can tell, for example, that I have a reader in the Faroe Islands (awww yeah!), or exactly how many people navigate away hastily after realizing where they are (answer: a lot). But easily the most entertaining report is the one which lets me see what search items have led people here. What are people trying to find when they inadvertently end up at my virtual doorstep?  It is in this data, friends, that my own psychoticness is laid bare in front of me. For example, these are the top search items from this week: 1. "old man marley" cat poster 1.00 00:00:00 100.00% 100.00% 2. 13th century fighter images 1 3.00 00:00:51 100.00% 0.00% 3. businessman subway 1 1.00 00:00:00 100.00% 100.00% 4. conquer people and their souls 1 2.00 00:00:07 100.00% 0.00% 5. find a mis...

I've discussed my boo the Manimal and his "Chamber of Wonders"  before on this weblog. Those of you who are faithful readers will know that not just anything makes it into the wunderkammer. Oh no! To be included in his  creepy cornucopia the trinket in question must exist on a higher plane of amazingness. I think we can all agree that this real alpaca foot shot glass from Colombia  eclipses most contenders and earns its place next to the taxidermied cane toad drinking Johnny Walker Red. Welcome home, alpaca foot shot glass.

Hello my lovely readers! Long time, no rant. No, I haven't been killed by an insane Opus Dei Ranga hell bent on suppressing my knowledge of his evil doings. I also have not run off to join a wayward band of knife fighters. Far better friends, someone actually paid me money to do "research" in South East Asia! (shown below) *side note: Readers. I am so happy here that I have lost my edge. I have nothing to rant about - only raves, i tell you. I am sure approximately 33 nanoseconds in Brooklyn will fix all of that. What this means is that I decided to smear some greasepaint under the old peepers and "go rogue" for a few months. It also means that I have neglected to inflict my unique brand of psychotic venting on you for a while. I'm sure you managed without me somehow (although I'm sure it wasn't easy). Well, I'm not back yet; I still have a week or so of mayhem left. However, I thought I'd whet your appetites a little by mentioning t...

I nominate the kid at the far right of this glorious picture as our collective teenage id.  He/she embodies exactly how I felt whenever I was forced to interact with my family from the years 1992 - 1997. What are they? Cells? Leaves? And do I spy a gunt?   All of these photos come courtesy of my new favorite time suck . Here are just some of my favorites: Unlike the first photo, everyone here seems pretty stoked to be involved: You don't need real children to have an amazing family photo: This one's for the Manimal; this is his dream family. I hope one day he reaches the lofty style heights of Pops in the middle. I like everything about this photo: If I ever need to announce my impending motherhood, I think these two have the right idea: And finally, my absolute favorite. I think this will be our next Christmas card:

I like a beard on a man. I am also a big supporter of the burgeoning Menaissance movement, and its resulting "retrosexuals", because it tends to squick me out when men spend too much time on personal grooming. However, that being said, some beards are cause for concern. Like the "molester beard": Or the equally sketchy "Youth Minister Beard": And, of course the age-old adage "never trust a man with a soul patch" is one of my Montebellucci cardinal rules of thumb. Thank you to rapper "Pitbull" for modeling exactly what I speak of: But how is one to tell a good, friendly beard from a sinister one? Easy! I found this handy guide which outlines everything you need to know about beards, and the men who sport them. You're welcome. (click to make it bigger) Link

Readers, this Rave is very close to my heart. I speak of my ancestral homeland, a place of lochs, badass militia men and windswept moors. I speak, of course, of Scotland. While my name suggests that I am perhaps Italian, it is not so [that is a whole other side of the family]; my forebears hailed mostly from the most rocking country in the Northern Hemisphere. I mentioned a while ago that even my map-of-the-world shower curtain doesn't give Scotland any respect, let alone the rest of the world. I hope that this exhaustive discussion of fair Alba will persuade you that I am indeed sprung from the loins of greatness. So, without further ado, I present: Reasons why Scotland is Awesome. 1. I am from there. 2. If one is from Scotland, one gets their own tartan and motto That's right. On my fridge right now is a sweet magnet which contains my clan's tartan (a beguiling mix of green, grey, orange and brown -aww yeah!) and our motto which I will keep to myself for fear of...

This guy is my hero, or perhaps my id. As anyone who has seen my karaoke performance of "Alone" by Heart knows, lurking within me lies a performer waiting to be unleashed. I start soft, lulling you into a false sense of security, then open up full throttle culminating in an ungodly wail that brings me to my knees. Then, I bask in the adoring gasps of my new fans. In this video, keep your eyes on the "tiger" on the left hand side. He represents everything I never knew I wanted to do, in dance form. In fact, he reminds me of the time when I was 6 and my school put on its annual nativity play. It was the highlight of the season and I knew I had what it took to be Mary, Mother of Jesus. I felt I could bring a renewed sense of wonder to this integral member of the Bible. When the time came, it turned out some other stupid girl got the part and I was stuck being "Sheep #3" in the rousing musical number "Busy in Bethlehem". Had I seen this video...

Although some condom ads make you misty , and others make you scared, there are very few that make you want to get up and shake your junk. Sometimes, the only way to encourage the use of prophylactics is with a good old fashioned Bollywood song and dance routine. What do we get in the U!S!A!? A buch of wack-ass penguins telling us to stay in school. This PSA just makes me want to go and get my hands on some Bob Hope and drop out.

In my line of work, having a business card would be scoffed at; I'd be better served spending my money on a bunch of 'ludes. However, in the future, I would certainly like to have some of these bad boys. Although, I would not have such an aggressively quirky outfit on: If things really were to go my way and I become a boss, I'd definitely force everyone in my employ to get these Lego beauties:

Before I even get into the delicious center of this post, take a moment and check out the pants on the lead singer of Hot Chocolate. Holy infertility! Recently, I have been spending even more of my time being distracted by Jezebel . The reason, readers: March Madness, of course. For those of you scratching your head and saying to yourselves, " Wait, I thought the only sport Ronnie liked was hunting the most elusive prey of all: Man. And maybe Curling", you are still correct. Howevah, this is no lame basketball tournament. No! This is March Madness: Cake vs Pie. This contentious confectionary war is one which has echoed through the ages. The Manimal is staunchly on Team Pie. Normally a man who has no discernible sweet tooth, preferring, instead, to feast on the blood of his vanquished enemies, the Manimal cannot walk past a pie. Any pie. It could be poo pie and he would still morph into this guy: I, on the other hand, am less ardent. Maybe it is because Australia's pie cu...