Tony Danza’s and My Shared Sensuality: We Explore Astrology

With all the fun we had last week dismantling your psychic abilities, I’ve decided to poke fun at astrology today, so if you’re into astrology, it was nice knowing you.  Don’t let the Capricorn kick you in the ass on the way out!

< soft sobbing >

This is what I do.  I push people away because I’m scared they won’t accept me if I gave them the chance to get to know the “real me”.  I’m afraid.  Please love me.

Actually, it’s just because I think astrology is general hokum and balderdash – but you’re free to be into it.  As I remind people all the time, I’m not the police of anything, even when you’ve run into me and I’m wearing a full SWAT team uniform and holding a riot shield.  It was for a sex thing!

I spun my Debunking Wheel this morning and it was either debunk astrology or debunk the Richard Gere gerbil myth, and I don’t feel like getting that edgy today.  I had a lot to drink (vitamins) before I went to bed late last night (9:30pm), so I’m not up for medical/sexual rodent arguments today (I am always up for those arguments).

I am a Taurus.  If you’re into astrology you’re smirking right now and saying, “No shit, Sherlock.”  If you’re not into astrology, you’re welcome to join my anti-astrology club called “Science”.

I found this thing about Tauruseseses on the internet today while I was searching for “general hokum and balderdash”.  It was on an astrology site, and it’s a little mnemonic for how to spell the word Taurus in the most complicated way or something.

Here it is:

T for trailblazing
A for ambitious
U for unwavering
R for reliable
U for understanding
S for stable

There was this crazy long description of the attributes and flaws of the Taurus right before it that was – Oh Mylanta – so freaking long.  I only made it part of the way through before I saw the word “sensual” and just stopped reading.

Know who else is a Taurus according to the article?  Saddam Hussein.  Know who else?  Hitler.  Know who else?  Tony Danza.  If “sensual” applies to me because I’m a Taurus, that means it would apply to all of them, too.

Thank god for that Tony Danza, at least.  His sensuality brings up the average for everyone else.

Honestly, though, I’m still trying to figure out, in 2019, just who exactly the boss was on “Who’s The Boss?”  It’s a real conundrum.  I mean, is the “boss” the woman who hired a male housekeeper employee, or is the “boss” the male housekeeper employee who was hired by the woman?

THERE’S NO WAY TO KNOW.  IT IS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE THAT THE WOMAN IS NOT THE BOSS OF THE MALE EMPLOYEE DESPITE THE FACT THAT SHE IS HIS EMPLOYER.  FOR REASONS HAVING TO DO WITH HOO-HAHS AND DING-DONGS SEXUAL POLITICS.

Hey, I don’t have a degree in Human Resources, mostly because I spend a lot of time trying to avoid all humans, so I’ll have to leave that one up to the court of public opinion.

What that means, basically, is that we’re all going to die having never gotten to the bottom of this debate.  This debate that could have easily been avoided altogether had they kept the original title of “A Bozz Can’t Have A Da Titz, Capisce!”

Please note in this promo photo for the show:   The only person who is, in fact, the actual boss also happens to be the only person who’s not wearing a sweatshirt that says, “I’m The Boss”.

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Uhhhhhh…

It is also clear to me that, where the figurative rubber meets the figurative road, Mona is the boss, because Tony and Angela couldn’t even figure out they had boners for each other until like a million seasons into that show.  Mona tried to get it on with Tony from the very first season because Mona knows exactly who Mona is, which makes her a BOSS.

So let’s take this Taurus mnemonic on one letter at a time to prove how wrong it is.  Like you’re doing literally anything else right now.

T for trailblazing:  This is true.  I invented the laziest grilled cheese where you spray two pieces of bread with cooking spray, put them into the toaster, then when they’re done you take them out and put a slice of cheese on them and stick them in the microwave on a paper towel for 10 seconds to melt the cheese.  No pan required.  No dishes to clean afterwards.  As we have previously discussed, you are required to put yellow mustard on all American grilled cheeses, and don’t give me any shit about it.

A for ambitious:  Please see above.  I’m going to make the mustard thing happen nationwide.  Yellow mustard adds a much needed zip!

U for unwavering:  Once I have decided that I don’t like you, it’s forever.  You should probably move away, or else find some way to live with the fact that every time you walk by me I’ll be fantasizing about you losing big on one of those Japanese game shows where they make you wear a diaper full of squid tentacles to recite the alphabet backwards and if you mess up they chop off your pinky finger.  Do you think you can handle that?  I have a fairly vivid imagination, too, so I’ll have an image of that burned in HD in my brain when I think about it.

R for reliable:  You can always count on me to not ask before taking the last mozzarella stick out of the shared basket – and yes that’s every time, Miss Manners.  I was raised with prison rules when it came to food (and pretty much everything else if we’re being honest here).  If you didn’t snatch food off a platter like a jackal tearing the leg off a zebra carcass, you were out of luck.  You’re lucky I only took the last mozzarella stick and didn’t just grab all of them out of the basket when first they arrived, lick each one of them and yell, “GUESS THEY’RE ALL MINE NOW.”

What was the next letter oh my god this is sooooooo duuuuuuuuuumb.

SCIENCE.

You’re not psychic. Not even a little.

I always think it’s weird when someone casually throws out, “I’m psychic,” the way one might throw out, “I have blue eyes.”

You know, like being psychic is a thing.  Like you are capable of literally seeing the future.

Let’s really parse that one out here.  Because it’s Monday and, believe me, I’m suffering for it.  Let’s suffer together.

I mean, do you really know what you’re saying when you tell me you’re psychic?  You are saying, out loud, with no shame, in front of other humans, in the 21st century, that you have magical powers.

No punchline.

You are telling me that you, specifically, have:

🤪 🤪 Magical Powers 🤪🤪.

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I’ve gotta tell you, it makes me think you either: (a) think very, very highly of yourself, or (b) are insane.  Or both.

You’re like a weird, old neighbor lady who’s a dead ringer for Abe Vigoda, who tells you that the only reason she lost the role in “Some Like It Hot” to Marilyn Monroe was because she came down with Mono right after her audition, and you think, “Well, maybe she looked different when she was younger?”

Then she shows you a picture of her from 1957 and then lightning crashes and a dead crow falls from the sky right onto the photo because she somehow looked even more like Abe Vigoda back then than she does now, and you’re just thinking, “Who is this woman trying to kid here?  Am I in an alternate universe?  We both know you’re making this up.”

I always feel really bad for those “Well, I am psychic” people because I know I can barely mask how much I cringe when they say it.  It takes everything I have to not say, “And why do you suppose you specifically were blessed/cursed with these magical powers?  Were you sent here by all-knowing genius aliens to change the world with your intuitive powers to prevent wars and famine?  Please.  Enlighten me as to how you wield this power for the greater good.”

No, I wouldn’t even ask that, because I already know that you’re not wielding this power for the greater good.  You’re using your psychic powers to tell your niece to try out for “America’s Got Talent” because you saw in a vision that she made it to at least the third round.

It really does just make the most sense that you, of all people, have been granted the power to see the future.  I mean, look at how much good you’re doing with it!  I’m so moved, I’m totally picturing your face right now and singing Michael Jackson’s “Man in The Mirror”.  Sha-mon!

Make that change. 😢

And while we’re on the subject, let’s talk about manifesting.  Manifesting almost makes sense to me on a practical level because if you spend enough time thinking about something, there’s a good chance you’ll actually get off your ass and do something about it.  The “doing” being the operative part of it.

If I think about grilled cheese long enough (thirty seconds), I’m eventually going to go out and get one.  But manifesting as in, “I’m just going to think about how much I want grilled cheese, paste a photo of it to a board, and then hope grilled cheese will appear at my front door?”

Yeah, there’s already a word for that.  It’s called “wishing”.  It’s the thing you tell children to do when they find a fallen eyelash or throw a penny into the fountain, because they’re too young to know that wishes aren’t really a thing.

Be happy that kid-wishes don’t come true, by the way.  If kid-wishes came true, your kids would have had you struck dead years ago that time you told them they had to put on their shoes when they didn’t want to put on their shoes.

From my observations as a child-free person, asking a small child to put on shoes is akin to asking them to co-sign a mortgage for your junkie half-sister.  They’re having NONE of it.  They would absolutely strike you down right that second if all they had to do was wish for it.

Then they would take all the blood-soaked money out of your pockets and run out the door, barefoot, to buy a metric ton of ice cream and a petting zoo for themselves and not even feel bad about it.  This is why it’s your job as a parent to teach them empathy.  God knows those jerks aren’t born with it.

Not unlike the psychic thing, if you tell me that you’re able to “manifest” things and have them suddenly appear in your life, you’re basically saying that unlike the rest of the entire world, you are so special that when you make a wish, it actually comes true.  With a straight face you’re telling me this.

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I mean, really.  You’re that special?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want anyone to walk around thinking they’re a pile of crap (except Becky’s mom), but on the other hand I feel like there should be some middle ground between “I’m a pile of crap,” and “I’m so special that I have magical powers.”

But then apparently I’m in a “mood” today.  You should have seen it coming, though.  You’re psychic, after all.  Maybe you can manifest a better mood for me, or at least a grilled cheese.  I TAKE IT WITH YELLOW MUSTARD AS GOD INTENDED.  Thanks.