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”.
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.