from happyrobot - updated 6/9/2026 4:12:30 AM https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp en-us https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=4836 Heyyyy voter voter voter! Suh-wiing voter!

86 years since the Sox won the election. It's insanely overdue.
I think Johnny Damon's mullet brings much to the Sox administration. Manny Ramirez has a batting average that American citizens can really believe in. And fellow North Carolinian Trot Nixon has my support just because if the south is ever going to rise again we have to pull together. And with a name like "Trot", how can he do anything but instill confidence and pride in us all? (maybe not as much as NASCAR driver Dick Trickle, but close)

So get out there and vote for the Sox! Does anyone know if Kerry or Bush won the world series? Not getting much coverage on the news.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=4035 Well this question was posed to me by some slow Yankee Boy recently. So for those of you who ain't from here (NC--The Tarheel State--USA--Yee Haw), here is the story as I have heard it.

Way back when--during the Civil War--a lot of dumb southern people just couldn't deal with the ideas that all them Damned Yankees had. So they decided that the southern states would no longer be part of the Union. Hey! The South had lots of pretty land and cotton and *cheap labor* and loads of ego! What else do you need?! Forget the fact that the North had these things called "Factories" where they could make things that would blow the South away. And forget the fact that people outside of the South were beginning to evolve and were realizing that slavery was retarded. The South was gonna be all tough and teach them Yankees a thing or two.

Well we all know how that worked out. But in the process, North Carolinians who engaged in battle were dubbed "Tarheels" because they were...

A) some kick-ass soldiers who stuck in battle "as if their heels were stuck in tar"

or

B) so poor that they couldn't afford shoes and, therefore, the bottoms of their feet were disgusting.

Either story explains why NC is The Tarheel State

For what it's worth, I am from NC and I have several pairs of shoes that I wear often, I never spit inside, and there is no history of inbreeding in my family. Thank you.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3888 I just spent three action packed days in Philadelphia. Went to a gay burlesque show--went to a fetish party and saw a friend of mine get several good spankings, saw people walk on Carpet Boy, saw lots of man ass hanging out of leather chaps--good stuff. A lot of cool shit happened, but a few key phrases developed and I must share.

One of the first places I passed is called the "Please Touch Museum." It's a joint where kids are welcome to go mess with any/everything in the place. Cool. But my first, very wrong reaction to the name of the place was, "Oh. That should be the Please Touch Me Museum."

Something is horribly wrong with me.

There is a lovely cooking show on my beloved Food Network called 'Nigella Bites'. Nigella is a British vixen who just radiates sex without even trying. I heard someone say that Nigella seems like she wants to take everything she cooks and "stick it up her twat!"

Is there a lovely pair of shoes your eyeing? Did you just buy your new favorite t-shirt? Did your favorite band just put out a great album? Well celebrate it and stick it up your twat! Or if you don't have a twat--well--I hate it for you.

There is a certain former Army guy a friend of mine knows. He was once in another country and horny as he could be. He was told the local ass was hugely disease ridden and hiring said ass was a very bad idea. So he found himself a nice, overly ripe melon and had his manly way with it. This made friends wonder about things like 'did he seed the melon before he re-seeded it?' and 'did he round off the edges of the hole he cut in the melon?'--all of this leading to the major question, "How do you fuck a melon?"

Any time an obstacle presents itself, ask yourself, "How am I going to fuck this melon?"

Speaking of which, it's early--I don't know why I'm awake and writing about twats and melon fucking--and I think I'm going to go brush my teeth--and ponder my day. Or more specifically put, "It's Monday. It's 7am. I don't have a job. I'm hungover. I need to go to the gym but I really don't want to. There's a whole german chocolate cake in the fridge. I know EXACTLY how I'm going to fuck this melon."

]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3866 It's a "me" kind-of night, here in NC. It's really cool out. There's a breeze. It's going to be some fine, cold sleeping weather. Weather that begs of me to sleep with my bedroom windows open. Under less life-threatening circumstances, that is.

Noooooo. There is a huge, hairy, pulsating, blood-thirsty spider who has decided to set up camp right outside my bedroom window. 'But Beth', you might ask, 'don't you have screens in your windows?' Well yes I do. But I had to break in to my own place some months back by going around to most of my windows, splitting the screen, and figuring out which one did NOT have the storm window down.

Obviosuly, I found one and I'm inside now. Thanks for your concern.

So now, most of my screens have a little slash (don't tell my landlord). Surely, that neanderthal spider that is skulking around outside my bedroom window would find that slash and come on in and feast on my flesh and laugh and laugh.

Stupid blood-lusting spider. I bet it's out there with a big cigar and some brandy, laughing and revelling in my huge, soul-crushing misery.

My spider is sooooo not named Charlotte. It's Damien. Or Cruella. Unquestionably it has some name that solidifies its legion with all that is wrong.

Damien Cruella George Dubya Spider.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3779 Monday, October 6, 2003--Atlanta, Georgia--Lakewood/HiFi Buys Amphitheatre--Radiohead

A perfect show. Perfect. Extreme talent. Tangible emotion. A beautiful thing.

It felt very much like being at a small show. Or a show my friends might have played at a small club. It was guys on stage, playing really good music, really well. They were on their knees, manipulating effects pedals with their hands. They said a few random things between songs. They clapped for us when we clapped for them. No pretensions. No rock star posing. It was just right. It defined why I go see shows.

I went with my pal Amy. We met her friends Audrey and J and went to the show. Audrey sent this email today...

"Here is a link to the set list and reviews by 16 year old stoners :) "

It was my first trip to Atlanta. Our hotel was actually in Decatur and our first night there (Sunday), we (Amy, Audrey, J, and I) went out for good Mexican food. Then we went to a place called Twain's (as in Mark) for pool and beer. It was a fun night with a good jukebox and even better company.

Monday, before the show, Amy and I set out for Little Five Points. An area full of hip little shops and lots of people to look at. After a little trip on the MARTA, we weren't 100% sure how to get to where we wanted to go and we ran into two girls heading in the same direction we were, but who had a better idea as to how to get there. They were very cool people to make the ten minute walk with.

Later that day, we met Audrey and J for lunch at The Vortex. Food and atmosphere with an evil twist. And more varieties of scotch available than most uppity bars could hope to offer.

Getting around from place to place was strangely easy. There was no hassle. The MARTA is a fine thing and got us everywhere we needed to be without any stress. On the way to the airport Tuesday morning, a lady walked up to me and Amy in a MARTA station and asked us if we had Jesus in our life. I smiled and told her we sure do. That was a total lie, but it seemed to make the lady happy and it prevented me and Amy from having to hear her try to convert us. Everybody won.

We stayed at a Super 8 motel. It was cheap, the room was really clean (and horribly decorated), and it was in a convenient location. The "continental breakfast" made available to us in the lobby consisted of coffee and grocery store doughnuts, both of which were greatly appreciated by me and Amy. The hotel owner was in the parking lot with a leaf blower at, like, 9am. I thought it was a little early for such, but I also thought it was kind of sweet. If you ever need to go to the greater Atlanta/Decatur area, I highly recommend the Decatur Super 8.

There is so much about the Radiohead show that I'm not saying. It affected me. The details are mine and I want them to stay that way. That's how great music should always make a person feel. Like they got something nobody else did.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3765 "Monday's Child is fair of face
Tuesday Child is full of grace
Wednesday's Child is full of woe
Thursday's Child has far to go
Friday's Child is loving and giving
Saturday's Child works hard for a living
But Sunday's Child is fair and wise, and good and gay"


I was born on a Sunday, but "good and gay" hardly describes me. Fair and wise, I agree with (hehheh), but I can't even facetiously say I'm good or gay.

My mother, obviously, hoped I'd turn out good and gay. She nicknamed me "Beth" because her favorite book was Little Women. Beth is the youngest daughter who is super sweet and kind, definitely good and gay. She also DIES YOUNG FROM SCARLET FEVER. Thanks mom. I think that little bit of foreshadowing has sort of manifested itself in the way in which I live my life. I should have died young, the way I've lived since I turned 18. I didn't even get any of the good, gay, sweet stuff my mom hoped for to sort of balance things out.

Oh man. I just now realized another Little Women/Me connection. The family in the book is The March Family and I was born in March. I can't believe I never made that connection before. 34 years, I coulda been pointing out that little ism to people. I am so not observant sometimes.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3752 There is a guy in town who makes his living cutting grass. He only has one arm. He uses his existing arm and his lower torso to steer the mower.

There is another guy in town who has to use a walker to get around and now he has one broken arm. He still gets around well.

The drummer for Def Leppard only has one arm.

I have a distant cousin who lost three fingers on one hand in a bizarre farming incident.

The middle finger on my right hand is missing about a quarter of an inch. It was cut off in a bicycle chain when I was a baby.

This site has photos that prove just how bizarre, resilient, fascinating, and disturbing incidents involving the human body can be.

Here are pictures of some of the intentional and permanent marks I've paid people to make on my body.

Once, on Real People, I saw a woman with no arms who could grocery shop, brush her teeth, cook, feed her kids, and I don't know whatall with her feet.

My brother accidentally stapled one of his fingers once. It was really gross.

One of my uncles has had most of his jaw removed because of cancer.

People live conjoined.

Someone had to be the first person to pull a tooth, cut open a body, dig up a potato and decide that it was something edible.

The human body is absolutely fascinating.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3599 You know when you were a kid, "monsters" were some scary business. They were MONSTERS! And ARGHH! But really, what were they going to do to you? Some might eat you. But most really seemed like they were going to do something far worse. They were gonna...

...GET YOU!

AHH! No! Don't GET ME! Noooooo! You're near me and you might accidentally touch me and your breath is terrible, you bad thing! You're scary and you want to GET ME!

Peace comes to you in a variety of ways as you get a little older. I'm 34 and I no longer fear some being GETTING ME! Now, I look at the whole idea of "I'm gonna get you!" in a very different way. Now, it means "I'm gonna understand you and not laugh in your face or look at you like I don't understand the words that are coming out of your mouth."

I don't know if my current interpretation of "I'm gonna get you" is better, worse, or just lateral in comparison to my 10-year-old view of the term. I'm just saying.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3540
Graffiti. Bucking the system. Rebellion. Standard activities of the kids, not just these days but pretty much since the dawn of time, I would think.

I saw some graffiti on the side of a dumpster today. It didn't say, "Fuck The Man" or "Down With Whitey" or "Fight Authority" or anything like that. It was far more productive and intelligent. I was impressed. It said, "Undermine Authority". Now THAT'S some constructive graffiti. Don't just argue, complain, fight---UNDERMINE! I think if I was "authority" I'd be far more pissed off at being undermined than being fought in a more obvious manner.

Then again, authority might not always realize it when undermining is taking place. Which says even more about the statement "Undermine Authority". Undermining can be a pretty stealth activity. Recognition does not always go with it. Just satisfaction. I like that.

So here's to you, oh writer of excellent graffiti, wherever you are. Cheers.

And on a totally unrelated note, I just found out that Billy Joel has his name registered as a trademark. I want to do that.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3529 Surely, it is a plot by the gay hairdressers of America, this American Idol madness. I mean, look at Clay Aiken's hair. No straight man could be involved in that. I think the gay hairdressers of America are planning some sort of fabulous coup and it's about time. I do believe that if I hear the name "Clay Aiken" one more time I'm going to projectile vomit, but considering this is the first coup the GHA have organized, you can't expect perfection. Their overkill in this go-round can be attributed to inexperience. I have complete faith that future GHA uprisings will be thought out a bit better and will be wonderfully successful.

I just want to know the purpose of the current coup. Is it to encourage people to have their hair professionally styled, like Clay does? Is it to encourage people to listen to more musicals, considering that that is precisely what Clay's voice is best suited for? Is it to promote the goodness of androgony, considering Clay has a bit of the masculine and the feminine about him? Or maybe they are trying to stop the reality TV juggernaut by making everyone so sick of hearing about it that they just stop watching!

Well, one can hope, can't one?
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3499 That Beth chick. What a rube. About 3 years ago, one of her lumbar disks and I decided to just mess with her some. So the disk decided to rupture and, therefore, pinch me, causing Beth's left leg to go numb and causing her excruciating pain. It was so funny!

She had a job with great benefits at the time, so she got surgery. Then Dick the Disk and I got bored. So 10 months ago, Dick and I decided to rupture again. We didn't take it quite as far this time (we're getting complacent in our old age), but we messed things up for Beth well enough. We made her stay home last New Year's Eve. We've made her miss lots of parties. We make her miss work often. And just last night, we took advantage of her drunk ass. We told her brain to make her trip over absolutely nothing and stumble. And that's all it takes for us to go nuts. She almost fainted! That's how much pain we shot her ass with. Ha! Big fun!

She was just able to grab an errant friend who carted her home. She didn't even get to say bye to the Happyrobots she was having fun with. Heh. Took her breath away, we did.

She wants this surgery, but unless she gets a sugar daddy, wins the lottery, gets a fat raise, or gets a job with benefits, that surgery ain't happening. None of these things are looming in the foreseeable future, so we anticipate having lots of pain-inducing fun with Beth for some time. Wheeeee!]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3466 From another lovely chat with LadyAdmin...

me: I'm into this stuff these days.

LadyAdmin: it's a very, ahem, erotic bottle of dishsoap!

me: check out this one then!

LadyAdmin: this isn't x-rated, is it?

me: ha--i didn't even think about that--you perv--

LadyAdmin: YIKES! b**tplug dishsoap!

me: ohmigod that's perfect!

LadyAdmin: that'll get you cleaned out

me: you are a source of inspiration, my dear

LadyAdmin: well that's a nice way of putting it :-P]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3457
congratulations. you are the kiss my ass happy
bunny. You don't care about anyone or anything.
You must be so proud

A terribly inconclusive test. I am disappointed. The Happy Bunny quiz seemed like it would be so much more scientific, accurate--something I could really base decisions on. I feel so lost now. *sigh*

But Happy Bunny is some funny shit, regardless.

which happy bunny are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

And for the record, my coffee plan works! I brewed coffee yesterday and made ice cubes with it. This morning, I added a little bit of fresh, hot coffee to the ice cubes and my regular milk and sugar and it's really, really good. Yes, I am the poor man's Martha Stewart.

I gave Lady Admin some housey tips yesterday and she was impressed. Need to thaw out your freezer? Take a hair dryer to it! Got stinky house smells? Sit out a bowl of vinegar! Got candle wax on your carpet? Put paper over it and iron it! The wax will melt and stick to the paper. Are you like me and do not own an iron, yet you have wax to deal with? Heat up a pot or skillet on the stove and use that in place of the iron!

I am quitting my day job and starting a TV show. Martha is on her way out anyway, thanks to being a naughty stock trader. So I'm in. I'll call the TV show "Ghetto House" and it will feature household tips, as well as entertainment ideas. My pal Pooty's Croquet and Wine Party will be included--bring wine in a paper bag and get people to "rate" it (is it Camus Conundrum? Is it ripple? Hmmm...) and then play a game of croquet where it is perfectly legal if a dog picks up your ball and runs away with it.

Then there's the 40 Party. The only alcoholic beverage allowed is malt liquor. Everyone sits outside, unbathed, shoeless, listening to music through speakers that have been placed in the windows, and gets stupid on 40s. In my experience, The Flaming Lips and Monster Magnet are perfect bands to listen to during a 40 Party.

Ghetto-rific.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3442 This morning, I stopped at a gas station for, well, gas and a delicious c-store breakfast. I don't have to dress up for work, so I don't. It's usually jeans and a t-shirt. Today, it's not even a terribly clean shirt, I noticed after I was already at work. But anyway.

Here I was, at 7:30am, buying gas, not looking at all sexy in my dirty t-shirt. I walked in to pick out a diet soda and a shwag-ass c-store sandwich (I love them so) and there was a guy standing near the door, not doing anything but standing there. I walked in and he stared directly at my boobs and said, "Hey, how you doing?"

I didn't answer. Obviously, because he was talking to my breasts, not to me.

He didn't even look at my face first and then scan quickly down to my boobs. His eyes went straight to the boobs. Anything female likely receives the same treatment from him on a regular basis. It reminded me of a time when I had to walk along a rather busy street when I lived in Raleigh to get home from work. Even during the winter when I had on a huge, kind of ugly, men's winter coat, guys would still drive by and honk and whistle and yell, "Hey bay-bee!". One guy even pulled into the condo complex where I was living to say something clever like, "Hey sexy. What's your name?" I asked him if that tactic normally worked for him. His expression went blank. I walked off. Hell, maybe it does normally work for him. But for me, a cat call from some guy driving by in a booger green malibu is just not going to get me going. Yes yes. Perhaps I'm being unreasonable.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/navel_lint.asp?id=3418 I have worked in a record store and a grocery store. I have been a babysitter, a dishwasher, a photographer. I have been a cook, a waitress, a hostess. I have been a receptionist, a secretary, an editor, a writer, a record label radio rep., a DJ, a music director. I have packaged soap, computer software, and canine pedigree information packs. I have made signs, baked cookies and bread, transcribed taped dictation, filed medical records, cleaned offices, and run radio controls allowing listeners everywhere to enjoy NASCAR

But for one day, I worked at a food service convention where, for $6.50 an hour, I was the Pillsbury Dough Boy, the Bryan Hot Dog Juicy Wiener, and an orange dragon with six arms. At intervals.

Dressing as the Bryan Hot Dog Juicy Wiener was very awkward and very funny. And very phallic. The costume is, obviously, a 7-foot hot dog and the wiener in question sort of curves out in front of you and makes walking new all over again since about 2 feel of it just hangs there between your legs (a porn flick in the making). It’s like a big balloon and it’s really heavy. It was a riot. Nobody walked up to say hi or shake my hand, most likely because they were embarrassed to have a big penis walking around the room in the first place and were certainly not going to go touch it in front of their coworkers.

The orange dragon with six arms was like a shag-carpet with three arms on each side that was easy to move around in and not altogether uncomfortable. I never figured out what it had to do with food service.

The Pillsbury Dough Boy costume earned me a good place in the next life. It was a huge balloon thing and I had to wear a fan strapped to my back to a) keep it blown up and b) keep myself from suffocating. It was fun for about 15 minutes. It was heavy and obviously meant for someone much taller than myself so I had to prop it up at the shoulders with my hands as I walked around and just let the little doughy costume hands flop around on their own. If I put my hands where they were supposed to go, the whole costume sagged down on my shoulders and made for a sad and dejected looking dough boy (as if he might be contemplating the fact that the Bryan Hot Dog Juicy Wiener was much cooler).

Picking up my feet to walk was pointless because the feet things were just big ballooney spaces, a good 12” long and 6” wide. My feet aren’t that big. So I shuffled along, costume held up at the shoulders, fan humming quietly, sweating and panting and hoping nobody would come up with their kid and want me to do something like hug or dance, because I’d fall over. And of course these three junior high kids walk up and decide to poke “me” in the belly—the belly of this costume being actually a foot or so away from my actual belly. But I felt some “I’m Getting Paid To Do This” obligation to do the appropriate thing, so I giggled and they did it again and I giggled again. Then I noticed one of them reaching for “my” right hand as if to shake it, so I quickly slipped my hand in place, thinking it might be disappointing to shake a handless balloon (?). The worthless shit squeezed my hand as hard as he could with both of his and I thought he was going to break a bone.

I jerked away, nearly fell over, cussed quietly as is befitting a dough boy, decided that I wanted to cuss a little louder so I called the kid a fucker, and walked off as the three junior high kids laughed at me. I wanted to yell something that would show these kids how cool and tough I was.
Then I remembered that I was wearing a Pillsbury Dough Boy costume and wasn’t going to be taken seriously by anyone. So I skulked away and returned the to the comfort of the orange dragon with six arms.

I have pictures.]]>