Follow me live tonight at Obama speech inside the stadium!

Listen to this Utterz update I just sent on my cellphone!

Mobile post sent by imaginarybinky using Utterz. Replies. mp3

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Links to follow tonight:

Imaginary Binky on Twitter

BlogHer - live blog

Imaginary Binky



Send me direct messages (DM) on Twitter if you would like for me to hear from you personally!

Yo momma so poor she saw Obama for free

Yeah. You heard me.


What a strange day.


I have a job.


What?!


Yeah. A job. Sort of.


I became a guide at ChaCha yesterday. They had me waiting and agonizing for 15 days over whether I had passed the tests or not. I saw countless people approved ahead of me while I languished.


It's not the best paying gig, but it's kinda fun. People ask questions, and ChaCha answers. It's like a Magic 8 Ball of texting mayhem. Except, we provide URL links to our answers as well. Try it out sometime. Ask about flights, the weather, the closest restaurant to your location, or, as I was asked today:

• Who is the tallest man? (he's 8 ft 11.1 inches!)
• Yo momma jokes (mine: "Yo momma so poor, instead of television she watches Etch-A-Sketch.")
• What is the chemical makeup of Windex?
• Do u have a girlfriend? (Sadly, I do not. That wasn't my answer, though. I gave dating advice.)
• Various pubic hair shaving/waxing questions from a 14-year-old boy

In other words, it was one heck of a fun first day at my job.

(Would you like to be a guide? Lemme know. I can refer you. Use my e-mail address.)



In other news...


Phil and I have tickets to see Barack Obama's speech at Invesco Field at Mile High!!


WOOOHOOOOOOO!!!!!


Remember when we volunteered in order to get those tickets? When I didn't get felt up by an old man? Apparently, volunteering pays off.


At first, they turned us down and put us on a waiting list. I gave up after that, thinking all the tickets would be gone. But, today, I received the golden ticket after eating a chocolate bar... or after opening an e-mail (one is slightly less truthful than the other).


Here's the dilemma...


That same night, the very same night, I am scheduled to canoodle and schnooze with none other than Mr. Lady herself, the purveyor of spirits at Whiskey in My Sippy Cup. ARGH! She and some fine folks are having a big ol' blogger party in downtown Denver. I'm going to try my dangdest to be there after the big ol' speechifying.


There are all kinds of rumors about the speech. Will Hillary Clinton speak? What about Al Gore? Is it going to be Bill Clinton? If so, should I bring my black beret or leave it at home?!


TOO MANY QUESTIONS!!!


SO MUCH EXCITEMENT!!!



I think my head is going to spin in circles and pop off.



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New post over at Imaginary Shrinky. Won't you come on by?

Mama of the Mile High, at your service

I have yet another redirect for you today. Did you see the one from yesterday? The one where I launched Imaginary Shrinky? Well, then GO!

(There's a new post over there today.)


Next announcement...


Drum roll, please.


* rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat *


Today's featured guest writer on Mile High Mamas is none other than yours truly!



Woo! Yay!



* clap clap clap *



Alright, all y'all yunz. Head over there and read up. It's a good one. I swear.


I pinky swear.

Ladies and gentlemen, Imaginary Shrinky

It's time to unveil the blog I've withheld for so long.


Drum roll, please...


*rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat*


Ahem.


I would like to introduce my new, snazzy, fancy place:


Imaginary Shrinky



Yay! Woo! *clap clap clap*


Imaginary Shrinky is a place of wonder. It is full of truth, the nitty gritty, and more details you ever wanted to know about this here lil' (or not so lil') lady.

What is it?

It is a blog to document my weight loss journey. It is honest, raw, embarrassing, and keeping me going in the right direction.

Imaginary Shrinky is more honest about my body and state of mind than you might have ever glimpsed here. Why? Because weight loss, my friends, is not a pretty picture. It is full of despair and doubt. It is slow and slower. It takes patience. It takes time.


Thankfully, that means a lot of blog entries for your voyeuristic minds.


So, go and take a peek. Leave a comment. Poke fun at me. Cuz if you do, I'll moon you with my new, tiny butt.

Eventually.

Citizen Porter, at your service

Yesterday, I performed acts of kindness. I volunteered.


Now, technically, this is my first time volunteering as an adult. One of my first experiences as a volunteer was traumatic and fairly hilarious. We'll get to that later in the post, shall we?


Part of my volunteering yesterday was out of sheer selfishness. I wanted tickets. I wanted to see Barack Obama and all of the people who will give speeches at Invesco Field at Mile High on the last day of the Democratic National Convention. It's not every day that a convention of this magnitude lands just a few blocks from my home. Volunteer opportunities were created all around Denver for people wanting to land tickets to Obama's speech. We were given the chance to try for tickets by volunteering six hours of service per ticket request.


So, last night, Phil and I performed our civic duties and helped to register people to vote. We went to the Wheatridge Carnation Festival to stand at a booth, smile, and ask over and over, "Are you registered to vote?"


Most of the festival attendees were high school kids. So, our line of questioning turned to, "Are you 18?" Whenever I asked that, I felt like I was screening for porn tryouts. "Hey, little girl. If you're 18, I can get you into the movies..."


However, I was not a peddler of smut. I was a volunteer looking to recruit Americans to stand up and let their voices be heard, something that people in many other countries rarely get the chance to do. I'm tired of the apathy of this country. Stand up. Let your vote count. Be a part of this country. Don't complain if you never participate. And worst of all, don't register to vote and then fail to show up at the polls or even attempt to send in the easiest of ballots - the mail-in.


We were told that only 40% of Wheatridge Democrats voted in past elections. That's sad, people. Very sad. Apathy is rampant.


I'm not a Democrat. I'm an Independent. I vote with the issues. I care about what is going on in my city, my state, and especially, my country. I enjoy going to the polls and wearing the little sticker that says "I voted!" It means something to me.


Enough preaching.


Amos enjoyed his time at the festival. He grinned his ear-to-ear jazz face whenever he heard music, kids, or the bouncy castle. He successfully untied two balloons from his wrist that were donated by the karate booth. Amos toddled through the crowd without ever turning around to see where we were, and our panic-stricken hearts were thumping as we chased him through the crowd. He stomped in the grass and yelled at kids as they ran past.


In essence, my baby has become a boy. *gulp*

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In the fall/winter of 1991, I was 18 and ready to leave my small town. I was a giant nerd of ultimate nerdiness, participating in every club I could find. It passed the time.


As part of my membership in the National Honor Society, my duties included random volunteer efforts. On one of our volunteer days, our group had prepared songs and was ready to sing our Christmas carols to elderly folks at a rest home in the larger town nearby. We sang and sang, fa la la la laaaaa la la la laaaaaa....


Because of the magnitude of my nerd status, I had to leave early for yet another club activity. I made my way through the winding corridors of the drab rest home. I felt good about the service we had performed - cheering up people who might not have family to visit with around the holidays - and was riding that high that people talk about after they volunteer for a worthy cause. As I approached the sliding doors in the front, I was waved down by an older gentleman in a wheelchair.


His kindly face beckoned me to come closer. I was hesitant, but he seemed nice enough. He was all alone by the front door, as if he had been sitting there forever, waiting for his son or daughter to stop by. I was full of Christmas cheer and brimming with love for my fellow man. How could I not stop to listen to him for a moment?


He mumbled something. I said, "Sorry?" He mumbled again. I stepped closer. He mumbled. I stepped closer, leaning in to listen to his words.


In an instant, an incredibly strong hand reached up to clasp both of my wrists. At the same time, his other hand brutally grabbed my breast and squeezed hard. He had pulled me in closer to him, and I saw a grin flash across his face as I struggled to get free.


I pulled away, standing there in shock. I had no idea what to do. I ran to my car and drove away, barely able to concentrate on my driving.


I had been felt up by an old man.


The next day, I mentioned it to a few people as the National Honor Society gathered for a meeting. Giggles and dropped jaws abounded as I told my tale. Then, our pretty, young sponsor walked into the meeting. She said that the night before, she was walking alone, and she was waved down by an old man by the front door...


My first volunteer effort resulted in an old man getting his rocks off on not one, but TWO young ladies and their perky breasts.

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It was satisfying to sign up several college age kids for their first voting experience. They even took my advice when I told them, "Hey, now that you're registered, you can go over there and celebrate by dunking a cheerleader." Cheerleader dunking is always fun.


No one groped me after the voter registration drive. Not even Phil (boo). Maybe my volunteering track record is on the upswing.

Random Sunday

I'd make that a meme, but I'm too lazy.

Here are various thoughts running around in my head that could be blogs on their own, but I'm too lazy to explore the details of each one. Consider this blog a light read for the bathroom.

• We're disappointed in John Edwards. We liked him as a candidate. Now it turns out that he slept around behind his sick wife's back. For shame, John Edwards. For shame. He would have made a great VP.



• I'm waiting to hear whether or not we scored tickets to Obama's speech at Mile High Stadium (Invesco Field at Mile High, if you want to be a corporate stickler). I volunteered to do phone calls and to walk to the stadium since we live so close to it. Will the sun shine upon us, ninja warrior, and let us watch this historic event? We'll see...



• The opening ceremony for The Olympics was a hoot. I spent a fine evening with Shoes and Pie and Marge in Real Life as we made fun of (critiqued, if you prefer) outfits for each country. I love that Cuba had no imagination (communism sucks that right out of the country, you know) and went with bland, gray suits. America looked like a club full of yacht and golf enthusiasts with their smart jackets and "go faster hats" as Phil calls them. China looked like gaudy conventioners in Vegas. The highlight of the fashion show was comparing all of the hats. I am convinced that each country should have to wear their opening ceremony outfits in their prospective competitions. Wouldn't that make for interesting events? Come on, wouldn't you watch Zimbabwe or Malawi athletes trying to swim in traditional tribal dress?



• I have a complete girl crush on Shoes and Pie, and meeting Marge in Real Life, well, in real life (heheh) was an exquisite event. Yay for cool bloggie ladies! She wrote fabulous things about me, so of course I must return the favor. This lovely lady has moxie and fun and wit, if I ever did see them. That ding dang cute kid of hers had Amos wrapped around his finger. If you are a blogger and have yet to venture out and meet real people behind the keyboard who live near your domicile, you are really missing out. People you will really dig are just one social gathering away from becoming your total BFFs with SWAK and TTYL on top. Maybe even with some XOXO thrown in for good measure.



• The diet is going well. If I can ever figure out FTPs and uploads and stick this zip file in this here thingy over there kind of stuff, then I'll get that blog going. Damn you, Wordpress, and your lack of doing things for me automatically!



• Sometimes, after a whiskey and a few beers, Phil may or may not slightly miss the bowl when he is evacuating his bladder. Oooh! Did I just say that?



• Amos learned to climb stairs at the Shoes and Pie event. In fact, that is ALL that he did the entire night. Up the stairs. Down the stairs. Up the stairs. Down the stairs. Punctuated with a few rounds of "Hey! I can stick my body through the railing and I'll do it and make your heart stop when you realize that I might fall and break my neck!" Try chasing a toddler who is putting on that kind of circus act while balancing a cup of water. Yay for babies.



• I went to the zoo Friday morning with a few ladies who had babies around the time that Amos was born. Yet another meet-up I've had lately with people I know on the Internetz but have yet to meet face to face. Woohoo! Amos was the only boy amongst the ladies, and he made his slick toddler moves on an older girl. He did this while near the lion display, so perhaps he is trying to tell me that he likes cougars. Ba da boom.



• Sad goodbye to Isaac Hayes. You bastards! You killed Chef!

And that's how it was.

Comedy is now defined as "morose"

Ugh. UGH. Did I mention ugh?


Just watched "Last Comic Standing." I don't know why we tortured ourselves with that slop. I can't (yet I can) believe that the dopey Iliza Shlesinger won.


I'm floored, America.


Why would you vote for the unfunny? Why is un-comic your choice? How is Dane Cook with tits your candidate? Really, America? REALLY?!


{{ Disclaimer: I am married to a professional stand-up comedian. I have watched stand-up comedy (the good, the bad, the worse, and the nauseating) up close and in person since 1996. Heck, I've been to more comedy shows than many comedians. I am a comedy wallflower, through and through. }}


Interestingly enough, Iliza used the Dat Phan formula for success. Get other comedians to make fun of you and make you a target, therefore getting more camera face time. This elicits sympathy from Americans who do not watch stand-up comedy but like voting for the reality TV beat-up underdog. Neglect to write any funny material (it's in the bag already, so why should you make anyone laugh or come up with something that isn't hacky?). Sit back and watch the votes roll in.


Here's the strangest part of all. Are you ready for it?



Dat Phan is FUNNIER than this woman.



YEAH! I said it! I can't believe I said it, either. It's bizarro world!


I'm tired of seeing incredibly funny female comics thrown under the bus for idiots like this woman. Kathleen Madigan should have won during the season she was on. Yet, America said no. America likes its idiots. America enjoys television reduced to the lowest common denominator. America? You might be a redneck if.


I know a whole lot of incredibly funny comedians who tried out for this show and made it only part way or were cut (after being chosen) because they didn't fit the profile that the show was looking for. This year, they wanted "young." That's right. Young. It was made clear to the contestants.


I've got news for ya, NBC. Young don't always mean funny. You're final two contestants were either Dane Cook with tits or Dane Cook with manscaped eyebrows and bad impressions.


America, you decided that the fake gold on Dane Cook had finally worn off. You started listening (reluctantly) to sensible people who told you that his material is crap. You were starting to impress me, America.


Then, you go and do this.


UGH!!!


That's about all I've got to say about that. Back to happy thoughts...

Shimmy shimmy shrinking doodley-ooo

No, I have no idea what that means.


I have news! News that strikes me as being important! News that you won't care about but should pretend that you do!


I, my friends, have lost 10 pounds. Yes! Ten whole pounds of fat and shame. I'm on a diet, and it is working slowly but surely. Some days have a little loss, others I get a whopper of a drop. I'm encouraged and ready to find the MILF in me. (Not that I want to MILF myself. Yes, I just turned MILF into a verb.)


So, I'll be starting another blog soon to document my journey from Fatty McFatfatterstein to Slim McTinyerton.


Read with me. Feel my pain. Share my joys. Point and laugh at the agony of defeat as I fall off of my skis and a sports network shows the footage over and over again.


Heheh.


I'm ready for the old me to become the new me which will look like the old, old me, except I won't look old. I'll look hot.


And MILFy.

Making love in the butt

I'm on a music kick lately. An odd one, I might add.


Do you remember those days as a kid when you didn't know what the heck some singer was emoting about in a song? What the Chuck Dickens is that dude saying?! Stick my arm in a machete of love? What?!


I found a blog none too recently that discussed the "Wrapped Up Like a Douche" phenomenon. What is that, you ask? Well, many (and I mean MANY) people think that the lyrics to the song "Blinded By the Light" go as follows:

"wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night..." instead of "revved up like a deuce."

Because obviously, when someone is running, they are twisted and contorted the way someone douching would be, or uh, running is for douchebags. Or, uh, well... you tell me.


There are a katrillion comments on that blog that split my sides from too much laughter over how many lyrics people have misheard. I thought long and hard and found that I have a few golden gems of my own. I also quizzed Phil.


Many of these examples come from my childhood when I was forced to tape songs from the radio. Ah, the days of the early mixed tape, when I tried in vain to STOP! REWIND! PLAY! STOP! to cut out the one second of a radio DJ that leaked into my precious tape. I don't care about the weather or your upcoming Thanksgiving turkey drop from a highrise (*wink*), just stop talking over "Sister Christian"!!! (*side note* I would NOT tape "Sister Christian" in my current adult form)


I can't decide whether Phil's misheard lyrics are more due to his ability to rewrite songs in ridiculous ways and then always sing them in that manner, or whether he genuinely misheard the song. My examples, however, sadly, and forlornly, are certainly due to my poor hearing.


So, without further ado, I give you a list of songs that the Porters may have misheard in their time on this planet. Enjoy.





Phil couldn't remember the band who sings this. Is it Fuel? Is it Filter? Perhaps Fuel Filter? I found that it is Fuel with the title "Hemorrhage (In My Hands)".

This is what Phil heard and we still sing it to this day. Try it. You'll hear it, too. It makes the song much better.

"Blee blah blee blah in my hands!"

But the reality is, "And leave love bleeding in my hands..."

Why are most of Phil's entries either sexual or deviant? Observe:







Phil claims that back in the 80s, a few little girls walked by him while singing,

"I'm your penis, I'm your fire!..." from that Bananarama song, "Venus."

I think you can guess which word that SHOULD be. What joy those girls must have gained from that song. It has certainly kept Phil's attention.

Phil also claims that as a child, when watching Olivia Newton-John writhe around on the set of Grease, he heard this song:

"Making love in the butt! Ooh ooh ooh!! Honey!!"

instead of, "You're the one that I want!"

I'm guessing he must have hit puberty right about then.








Listening to KBCO out of Boulder, Colorado can sometimes force one to listen to such people as Sarah McLachlan. Phil is not a Lach-head, but he remembers hearing this every time the song "Fallen" would come on:

"I'm a masturbater, I should know."

What does she really say? "I messed up. Better I should know."

In the Feist song, "Mushaboom," Phil insists on singing:

"Mushy poop, mushy poop, mushy poop..."

And that is exactly what I say now.








I now give you my contributions.






There is a song that always perplexed me. Eric Clapton goes on and on about why you should try "Cocaine". Such as "If you're thing is done and you wanna ride on: cocaine." Ah, I see. The perfect solution. The perfect after dinner mint: cocaine. But, then he turns around and growls:

"She don't like, she don't like, she don't like... cocaine."

I didn't realize until reading that misheard lyrics blog that what he is REALLY saying is

"She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie: cocaine."

AH! The sweet lady cocaine is still on my side! There isn't some skank that Eric was groovin' on that decided to snub her nose at his chosen drug. Now I know everything.










The 80s were rife with bad songs and equally bad lyrics. I can't decide if this is one of them, since I did have giant metal hair back in the day. Big hair definitely clouds judgment. However, I found it an odd choice to say this in Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again":

"Like a twister I was born to walk alone."

Huh? You are like a tornado, roaming the plains? I suppose tornadoes travel on their own and destroy things, but sometimes a storm can spawn multiple tornadoes; therefore, poor Mr. Whitesnake could have a partner. I fully expected him to sing more about twisters and barn destruction. Sadly, he did not. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the actual lyric:

"Like a drifter I was born to walk alone."

Oh. That, um. Yeah.









Toto was equally frustrating. What the heck are you talking about, dude?

"I kiss the rains down in Africa."

or,

"I check the rains"

or

"I check the drains down in Africa."

Why does Africa need only one plumber? How do you kiss the rains? Does a white dude need a rain gauge when going on safari? WHAT THE HELL?!

But, of course, this is what they are actually saying:

"I bless the rains down in Africa."

OH, YEAH. Like THAT makes more sense.









This goes all the way back. ALL the way back. I heard Christopher Cross say,

"Sailing takes me away to where I'm always hurting."

Huh? I'm no captain of the seas, but perhaps you shouldn't be sailing if pain is the end result.

Actual lyric:

"Sailing takes me away to where I've always heard it could be."

All I know is that Michael Jackson should get the mush (and the Jesus Juice) out of his mouth.

"But Jim is not my son."

Song: "Billie Jean"










This is my personal favorite. I love Tracy Chapman. I could stare at her all day while she stares back uncomfortably at me and warbles a tune and strums a guitar. I was a bit perplexed by her first hit "Fast Car", however.

I heard,

"Been working at the Canteen Store"

Canteen store? Is that like an army surplus? I always thought it was strange that Tracy Chapman would be behind the cash register selling camouflage. Maybe that scenario creates good folk music. Who am I to judge?

Ah, but the lyric is actually:

" I been working at the convenience store."

Heheh. Yeah, SURE you were.










Alrighty. Your turn. Slap some silly, misheard lyrics in my general direction.


(And YOU thought this blog would be about sex in the unmentionables. Shame on you!)