W.A.G. #5: Biebermania

Hello there! I realize that I had a WAG post very recently, but something came up at the gym today that was just a-begging to be written about. I was working out and watching MSNBC, eschewing my normal "4 miles + ANTM marathon on Bravo" routine to try and make myself into a knowledgable skinny gym bitch, rather than a regular s.g.b. And boy oh boy, did I learn a bunch. I learned that some football player I've never heard of was arrested, that some conservative newspaper in LI juxtaposed a picture of the Obamas with this one from Sanford and Son, and that some people are standing outside the White House reading the entire bible, in unison and without breaks. Scintillating news. But then, the anchor tells me that coming up next is a story about a viral video of a Justin Bieber interview that went badly wrong!!!!! Excitement.

(Side note: the image they showed with this little teaser was actually a picture of David Boreanaz. Good reporting, peeps.)

For those of you who don't know, Justin Bieber is the tween pop sensation who can't even have an actual concert because his fans keep rioting just to get close to him. His tweets (which seem to be of enough general interest that the NYT writes stories about them) now tend to deal with chastising these crazypants. Example: 

"The airport was crazy. NOT HAPPY that someone stole my hat and knocked down my mama. Come on people."

In my day, tween girls just screamed in high pitch voices and waved signs, maybe jumped up and down a bit. Knocking down his mama? That is not cool, ladies. Not cool at all. Now I don't know very much about JBiebs beyond what I learned from YouTube, most specifically this video (which is so awesome that I just HAD to share). I mean, I think when I was three I was reading "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" and listening to the Classical Kids collection, not having my mind corrupted by some Justin-Timberlake-in-the-making. Good job, mom and dad - I don't say this often, but well parented. 

Ok, so we're back to the present. It turns out that this interview had nothing to do with David Boreanaz, sadly, but lots to do with German and the sad state of education in America today. (For the last viral video dealing with this important topic, see this fiasco.) Watch and enjoy:

Clearly JBiebs needs to read this blog, because then he would learn that not only do we use the word "German" in America, it's one of the best words ever. I do hate to break it to you, Bieberama, but no matter how much you like basketball, that's not what Bieber means in "German."  Basketball is called "basketball." Shocker. And Bieber roughly translates to "go back to school, you weird little chipmunk boy." 

So learning about languages is important, folks! And school yo' chilluns, so they can grow up to be real live peepull like yous and mes.

CBSH Part Two

Hello again ladies and gents! It's time for installment #2 of "Commie Bastard Story Hour." This segment is entitled:

Sunlight and Healthy Eating Are Now Illegal

I left this story off on the very first day of my first visit to Russia. While that was my only experience of physical violence in the Motherland, the trip did not improve from there. It was snowy and people were mean and growly. Biiiiig surprise, right? Let me show you an excerpt from my emails to friends during this time (lack of capitals due not just to general laziness but to Russia gradually sapping my will to live - when you're contemplating suicide, suddenly capital letters lose their importance):

it is snowing and dirty here. i mean really dirty. people smoke cigarettes constantly and then just throw them on the ground. and the cars let off black exhaust. and people drink beer at 11 am and throw the beer bottles on the ground or in the river. we walk a lot every day because the metro stations are really far apart and the bus system seems to have neither rhyme nor reason (or a map, which would definitely help). the worst is that everything is in cyrillic and the only word in english russians seem to know is "no." it took us three days just to find this internet cafe (internet at the hotel costs about 10 dollars for half an hour, and you can only use it in the lobby which is filled with smoking men who look like mobsters and seem to have nothing to do but drink and stare at you).

Oh man, I had forgotten about that hotel lobby. Those men were so so so stereotypically Russian. They all had leather jackets and beer/vodka bellies and they all had tall skinny blond mistresses who wore miniskirts and knee-high leather boots despite below-freezing temperatures and 6-inch deep snow/puddles. I would hate them too, except somehow they all seem to eventually morph into short fat middle-aged ladies with fur coats and 18 shopping bags, so I figure it's even. The rest of the emails I sent were in a similar vein, mostly complaining about how I hadn't seen the sun in two weeks and I could feel my heart hardening from all the fatty and deep-fried foods they seem to guzzle over there.

This prompted one of my most hilarious friends (codename: TwigOnTreeTrunks aka TOTT) to email back with this gem:

Russia sounds gritty and raw, like a modern day Wild West, where the only justice is street justice.

While I feel that this statement completely over-romanticizes my Russia experience, I had to include it because TOTT is one of my favorite people in the world, and it taught me that apparently even when I'm describing my complete misery, it can come across like a Clint Eastwood movie. So if that's the impression you're getting from the CBSH, correct yo'self fools! That is not the way it went down.

So cut to week two of Hatter's Russia tour. I hadn't seen a vegetable during that entire time (other than beets and cabbage, which I do NOT count as worthy of the name vegetable. I mean, you don't see either of them cropping up in the multitudinous cast of Veggie Tales, do you?). I was craving something fresh, not boiled or fried or baked. So, I trekked through the snowy streets of Moscow to find a supermarket, and I found a bin with the most beautiful delicious looking apples I have ever seen. In hindsight I realize that these apples may have looked more like this, but I was so starved for the crisp juicy taste of a piece of fruit that I probably just didn't care. At any rate, I selected the plumpest prettiest one of these and brought it to the checkout. And guess what? That apple cost 450 rubles. Now I happen to be relatively quick when it comes to converting between currencies, but I was for a second unable to believe my own calculations.

Here's how it works. There are 30 rubles to the dollar. If an apple costs 450 rubles, the apple is 15 dollars American. FOR ONE APPLE. I was so desperate I would have paid quite a lot of money, but I draw the line when some cheating scheming Russian supermarket a**hole tries to pay for his next carton of cigarettes with my hard-earned apple money.

Now I ...totally... understand, what with the 8 bajillion acres of Russian farmland available, it must be hard to grow apples or broccoli or cucumbers when you have to keep your entire population fully stocked with french fries and vodka. I mean, that's a lot of potatoes. But if you're going to force me to be fat and drunk, could you at least let me be a happy drunk with a 1 dollar apple every now and then? Of course it should come as no surprise that the answer to this question is a resounding NYET.

And that's reason #2 why I will hate Russia until my dying day. All I got out of that trip was indigestion, a vitamin D deficiency, a muffin top, frostbite, and deep depression. What a country.

W.A.G. #4

Guten Tag, lovely readers of SUWA. Yes, it is that time again: WAG time! This week's word was inspired by my recent flirtations with Alzheimer's. I'm going to take you on a little trip down Mad Hatter's Memory/Nostalgia Lane. Cut to 13-year old Hattie on a trip to Austria. Momma and Baby Hattie are touring the streets of Salzburg, getting their first taste of German, when what should they stumble upon but something called "Mozarts Geburtshaus." And it should come as no surprise to any of you that this is the WAG of the week: Geburtshaus.

So what in the world is a Geburtshaus? Well, it is both literally and in reality a "born-house:" it is the house of one's birth. Or I guess the house where you grew up if you weren't physically shoved out of your mother's vajayjay there. The reasons I like this word are manifold:

1) Y'all know how I feel about the German passive tense. It's just so Gott verdammt funny.

2) You also know how much I looooove portmanteauing. The Germans do it better than anyone in the world, and for their dedication and willingness to mash pretty much any combination of words into one, I salute them.

3) How in the name of holy heck is a Geburtshaus a concept that anyone felt needed a special name? I can just imagine the conversation between the people putting up those fancy golden letters.

"Hold your Pferde, Johann, this is getting kinda crazy. Couldn't we just call it a Haus?"

"Nein, Werner, we must be as descriptive as possible with our words! Just calling it ein Haus is so boring! We shall have Geburtshäuser and Sterbehäuser (I am not making this Scheiße up) and maybe even Erstkussenhäuser (first kiss houses? I may have made that one up, but I also wouldn't be surprised if that turns out to be real)."

"You're so right, Johann! This system is so much besser! Jawohl!"

Oh Germany, how I love you. Danke, my friends. Danke.