Ladyboner | Random Misanthrope

…and The Replacements.

I love politics. I love music. This is not a secret.

Imagine my splodey-hearted-and-headed joy when I read that Tim Kaine loves The Replacements. Imagine my bliss when he quotes “Bastards of The Young.” Imagine my being unable to function for the rest of the day as I sit at my laptop and draw hearts in the air with one of my eight legs while dreaming of the potential Vice President and Paul Westerberg. Together. With Tim playing in the background. All of the Tims. All of the time.

There has been nothing redeemable about this shitshow of an election cycle. My child cannot watch the debates, let alone the news, with me. I have been called a Skype and an Oven Dodger. We have heard “Grab ’em by the pussy” for the first time and it’s not Mrs. Slocombe doing the talking. For someone who finds political theatrics intoxicating, this election has been the equivalent of drinking too much grain punch from a frat house garbage can and puking down the front of your shirt in front of the really adorable guy you had been trying to get with the entire time you were in school; a messy, public humiliation that everyone is talking about.

Until now. Until Tim Kaine saved the day and restored hope to this bleak hellscape by speaking of the underrated brilliance of The ‘Mats.

Once I’m done coloring in my hearts, I’ll cross my eight legs and hope for a Hillary/Tim victory. Not just to restore sanity to this frothy cauldron of doom, stupidity and hatred this country has become. No. But for an inaugural ball befitting a modern era and featuring The Replacements as they should be – loud and drunk.

…everyone’s favorite parlor game.

No one is immune to the grandeur that is Taylor Swift. NO ONE. I tried avoiding her for years because:

I’m a grown-up
I’m a grown-up
I’m a grown-up
I don’t particularly care for that sort of watered down country pop (if I must listen to country music, it had better be OG country music)
The last time I had a crush on a boy was, like (twirls hair and snaps bubble gum), 198x, k.?.

Now, I find myself all giggly and screamy whenever I see Taylor for she is positively fabbo. I mean, the woman carries around her fucking Scottish Folds (note: I’m hipster crazy cat lady and knew the breed before any of you!) and those cats actually don’t freak out in public. She’s either the cat whisperer, a witch or heavily sedates them with kitty ludes. Oh, and her wardrobe: uh…ah-may-zing. I would sacrifice all my future trips to Starbucks for one just one of her purses or a day shopping with her. And don’t even get me started on her fan-lovin’: total heart of gold. Clearly the woman has descended from the heavens above. She must be the Messiah or Second Coming of Christ (or Christina, if you prefer).

How did I get into the bliss that is Tay-Tay? Easy. I have a kid and when you have kids of a certain age, you need to be exceptionally cautious about song lyrics (teachers of your kids, otoh…). With my lexicon, it should be pretty apparent that I give zero fucks if/when Milky starts rifling off profanities. I’d much rather him not do it at school or in front of other kids because other parents can be less than appreciative of playmates who use the word “cunt” as often as the word “please.” Wait. My kid has to be reminded to say “please.” Let’s use “now” instead.

Back to the topic at hand – deciphering her song lyrics. It’s my understanding that many a fangurl will sit down with their secret decoder rings and ponder for days over which ex-suitor Ms. Swift is singing about. I’m considerably out of touch but the shit the kids read these days have these articles which take a deeper dive (oh fuck you, corporate speak! Get the fuck out of my private time!) explore this in great detail. Well, I wanna play that game now, too! It’s a little known secret that adults like to have fun now and then, just like teachers have sex and drink booze (source: every teacher everywhere).

Shake it Off was released right around the time The Sprog started kindergarten. He changed schools and it was a bumpy road in the beginning so I started playing this song for him each day, encouraging him to physically (totes adorable, double-oh-em-geeeeeee) and emotionally shake off the troubles of the day. I’m not going to say that I don’t understand the lyrics because my IQ is considerably high (for realsies, stepfather was working on one of his eighty billion continuing ed degrees and I took like a trillion IQ tests and I’m supposed to be like this super genius or something) but the whole “And to the fella over there with the hella good hair…” did pique my curiosity. Isn’t “hella good hair” subjective? Great googly moogly, Chris Rock did a whole documentary on good hair (Good Hair and I totes recommend). This shit is deep, yo.

Then, this morning, as I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed (before the two cups of coffee it takes for my brain to begin functioning), I spy, with a blurry eye, a video featuring The Try Guys which was posted by the lovely Kitten. Oh? The Try Guys are going to get nice and naked and I get to see this before 08.00? Okidokiloki! Then, I saw it. Like the proverbial beacon in the night, I saw it: the fella over there with the hella good (hipster) hair. Eugene. The mind boggled. If I had any artistic abilities what-so-ever, I would doodle a picture of my head with springs flying out of it, eyeballs dangling and tongue hanging from the corner of my mouth. Alas, I don’t so you’ll just have to imagine that bit yourself.

I’m on coffee number two so I’m still a bit drowsy but not so drowsy that Eugene did not pop my cork, pet my monkey, float my boat or trip my trigger. Ha! I’m awake NOW. I’m awake and thinking of Eugene, pizza and inappropriate things to do with Eugene and pizza. If all y’all thought the teacher was shaking in his normcore sneakers, adorable Eugene should be in full panic mode for I am wildly inappropriate when good hair and pizza are in the mix.

Monday is starting off as a quadruple win:

I finally get to play “What’s Taylor Really Saying?”
I played “What’s Taylor Really Saying” and won! ZOMGWTFBBQROFLCOPTERZ!!!111!
Kitten introduced me to the glory of Eugene, whom I shall cover in glorious pizza whenever he asks provided I get to muss his hair with my tentacles of doom.
Partial nudity.

This only means one thing: it can only go downhill from here.