Well, Christmas at home was a success. As usual, the ‘rents went overboard with the gift-giving and, since they liked the presents I got them, there’s one more year I won’t be cut out of the will. Since I’m still in the will, I try to buy them things that I wouldn’t mind inheriting. Who’s a thinker? Huh? Huh?
Christmas morning, I unwrapped a lot of running gear, which makes me think that everyone’s trying to tell me to get in shape. And maybe I should, you know, pick up the running. Either that or they think that my office’s business-casual dress code includes spandex and sweat wicking fabrics. By contrast, my sister Runtie got about 15 beef sticks. God knows what could be read into that.
Reasons I love Runtie #832
Runtie: Do you think I’m fat?
Me: No way!
Runtie: Well, maybe not as a human, but if I were a dog and were wearing a collar, would I have a roll of fat that is squeezed out over the collar?
Runtie: Would my collar have to be adjusted or could I wear it off the rack?
Then she eats all the Hickory out of Hickory Farms.
We also had the pleasure of attending a Christmas party that our parents threw. I dunno if anyone else goes through this but when I see my parents’ friends, usually people I see once a presidential administration, they like to guess how old I am. And their answers tended to be anywhere between 10 and 15. Part of it is probably my haircut. The other part is that I was eating pudding with my hands.
Reasons I love Runtie #475
During our parents’ party, I overheard her telling one of the guests (who brought a cream cheese dessert thing that tasted exactly the way a Christmas tree smells and looked exactly like a shaved mouse) that her cheese spreader would probably be a good gift for a secret cutter. “You know, if someone who, like, cuts themselves to feel pretty, they could probably use that knife because it’s small. And discreet. And sharp. And…Diane? Diane?”
Other highlights included my uncle’s Italian feast (my parents’ house has always been like Olive Garden. When I’m there, I’m family. When I’m not, I’m responsible for paying my own rent, insurance, and taxes), doing last-minute shopping at the BP station, and watching my grandmother mistakenly try to eat a peach flavored cigar.
What? Your family doesn’t break out the White Owls after Christmas dinner?
Because it's late and I'm lazy, the rest of the story shall be told in list form:
Things My Mother Said While Reading ‘Local’ Section of the Paper on Christmas Eve:
She’s married, why does she need all that plastic surgery?
Do you think she’s wearing a corset?
I thought that woman was already dead.
I taught her in school. She’s been hateful since the 3rd grade.
Her dress is too short. To be an older woman? Don’t you think?
[to my Dad] Isn’t Carol’s dress too short?
Way too short. It is her fourth marriage.
That has to be a corset.
Maybe that’s why he married her.
Things That Make More Sense Than The Homily Given at Midnight Mass By the Fijian Priest Who Invoked (I’m Not Making Any of This Up) Orville and Wilbur Wright, Email, Mickey Mouse, and Why No One Sends Any Christmas Cards With a Picture of the Adult Jesus:
Watching a fight to the death between the Geico lizard and the Aflac duck
Eating a plate of mushroom fudge then playing Hungry Hungry Hippos
Seeing a newborn deer try to stand up on a Slip and Slide
Actually, the best part of Midnight mass—other than when they said “Mass has ended, go in peace” was seeing the Knights of Columbus in full costume, outfits that look like what would be born if Marvin the Martian had sex with a Buckingham Palace guard. They look pretty badass with the swords and capes and stuff.
Well, except for the guy on the left. He looks like George Clinton and Prince and an effing Muppet all were involved in a high speed collision.
More club bouncers should look just like that (again, except for the guy on the left) without the parts of the outfit that cause them to sing hymns, genuflect, and ask people for money.
Reasons I love Runtie #259
When the Knights of Columbus came down the aisles before mass, she nudges me and whispers “Who are the pirates?”
Then she dropped a half-eaten beef stick in the collection plate and I ran a lap around the church.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
So I'm going to be at the Orange Bowl next week and, of course, I'll be one of the obnoxious fans waving gigantic signs and blocking everyone's view of the field. Old people, this is your cue to start writing those angry editorials now. Because everyone knows that only the elderly 1) hate when fans cheer at sporting events and 2) read newspapers.
I started this sketch of the Wake Forest Demon Deacon (how badass is that? YES! Violent clergymen!) choking the Louisville Cardinal (if that's not a euphemism, it should be...)
But I think I may go with the charming, classy "You Can't Spell Louisville Without L-O-S-E". Either way it'll be gigantic and by the end of the game will have either been confiscated or vomited on.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
I'm back from wild, wonderful West Virginia...
Christmas stories and pictures to be posted later today.
Until then, enjoy a shitty cameraphone pic of this delightful holiday tableau, which will no doubt remain in place until August. Of 2009.
The elegance is in the simplicity...
Monday, December 25, 2006
Not a creature was stirring, mainly because they'd been drinking heavily after seeing a 27-year old wearing dinosaur pajamas. And clutching a stuffed dino named Peckerhead (because he has a beak, not because his head looks like a penis..even though I guess it kind of does. That Phallosaurus classification isn't just a clever name) even though his real name is Kyle. And she's wearing a pair of snakeskin boots that she bought in a size larger than what she normally wears, choosing just to wear really thick socks (And insoles. And a couple of packets of that stuff marked "do not eat". And maybe some oatmeal.) with them rather than to pass up a deal. And she was listening to "Fergilicious".
I hope you all get everything you want. Unless that involves watching Unaccompanied Minors. The version with the kids in the airport, not Unaccompanied Minors 7, which I believe was showing on Spectravision in the last hotel I stayed in, right after Charlie's Anals, but before Women Who Really Like to Do It With Other Women on Cheap Wicker Furniture While A Heinous-Looking Guy Makes Grunting Sounds and Pretends to Be Interested Even Though The Whole Time He's Wondering Which Is Better, Water That Comes Out of Your Refrigerator Or Water That's Been Brita Filtered.
P.S. If anyone is turned on by the above picture, I'm terrified. Unless it's Hugh Laurie.
That would be the best Christmas ever, save for the time I got a crimper.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Here is a link to an eBay auction for a t-shirt from a Cocaine Anonymous convention in Sacramento.
If you're at saidconvention, wearing said garment, doesn't that negate the whole 'anonymous' thing? And if you plan to visit Sacramento, doesn't that negate the whole "No, I'm not on coke. Not me. No way, I even have a keychain" thing? Seriously. I've been there and almost developed a drug habit just to make it through three days.
It's probably a real faux-pas if you're the guy who says "This convention blows". Actually, it's a faux-pas if you ever use the word faux-pas. Especially if you're doing a line at the time, wipe your nose with your t-shirt and loudly ask, "OK, who wants to watch Vanilla Sky? "
They missed a real marketing opportunity when they didn't call it California Cocaine Anonymous, or Ca-Ca for short.
Somebody would've thought of that if they'd been high.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
On the drive home from Asheville, I had an engaging debate (yes, with another person. My stuffed dinosaur was sleeping) about whether or not the John Cougar Mellencamp aka John Cougar aka John Mellencougarthisisourcountrythisisourcountrythiiiiiiisisouuuuuuuurcountry song "Hurts So Good" is about, um, having sex through the doggie door.
Consider the chorus:
Come on baby, make it hurt so good.
Sometimes love don't feel like it should.
You make it hurt so good.
Really. Think about it. He's young, she's willing, and they're in Indiana. What else are they going to do? Build a scarecrow?
If the theory is true, I'm terrified by whatever is meant by:
You always look so invitin'
You ain't as green as you are young
Actually, most of his songs can be interpreted this way. And by "most", I mean, like, four of them. Songs like
We were goin nuts, girl, out in the stick
One night me with my big mouth
A couple guys had to put me in my place
When I see those guys these days
We just laugh and say
Remember when [subtext: remember when you cornholed me? Ah, the halcyon days of youth]
They like to get you in a compromising position
They like to get you there and smille in your face
They think, they're so cute when they got you in that condition
Well I think, it's a total disgrace
And we can't ignore Jack, Diane, uh, sucking on chili dogs, and "let me do what I please". Poor, poor, Diane. If Jack really did grow up to be a football star, he must have been Fred Smoot.
There's also "We Ain't Even Done With the Night". Our guess is that when he was finally done, the Night had a slow, painful walk home and spent most of the afternoon soaking in an Aveeno bath, eating Uncrustables, and sobbing.
I would also like to mention "Human Wheels". Just because that song sucked.
Well that was fun. I apologize if anyone read this while they were eating. Especially if they were eating an Uncrustable.
Monday, December 18, 2006
OK. I've almost recovered from the Warren Haynes Xmas Jam. Saturday most likely took 9 or 10 years off my life. I just hope they're the shitty ones at the end where I shuffle around in pajama pants, watch the Sleuth network, and can no longer eat solid food.
Actually that sounds a lot like yesterday.
I can NOT get enough "Murder, She Wrote". Because I love both Angela Lansbury and television shows with punctuation marks in the titles.
I'm still not thinking clearly and I blame that completely on what I bought in the parking lot. You know, a chicken burrito that was cooked in the back of a RAV-4 and sold to me by a guy named Unicorn.
The show was amazing and lasted about eight hours. No shit. A work day's worth of music. Or, in my case, 6 or 7 work days. The lineup included John Popper, aka the Gastric Bypass Candidate from Blues Traveler(who apparently didn't hear my requests for "Runaround or that other song you did, you know, the one with the harmonica? The one from Remember the 90s? Please?"), Marty Stuart, Taj Mahal, Branford Marsalis (best known as "The CD that played when my Wisdom Teeth Were Removed". Thanks for the dry sockets, asshole.), Dave Matthews, Warren Haynes/Gov't Mule and...wait for it...Taylor Hicks.
He smartly stuck to playing the harmonica because I'm pretty sure the crowd was not his target audience. Although, it was reaching the four hour mark by the time he got onstage and the audience was reaching the "we can see sounds and taste colors " mark so I think they could have thrown a stray dog onto the stage, called it Taylor Hicks, and no one would've known the difference. It was during his set that the guy beside me launched into a lengthy discussion of how bummed he was that a bear ate most of his homegrown this year. I also think the same bear must have eaten his toothbrush and perhaps some of his cognitive functions.
Don't get me wrong, I dig the atmosphere, but my knowledge of drug culture is limited. I thought THC was that group that sang "Waterfalls".
And yes, I'm saying that for your benefit, mother. Since you're here, enjoy this picture of Taylor Hicks and never read this page again.
For the sorority sisters who visit, here's Dave Matthews. I'm pretty sure all of you surrendered your virginity in some guy's top bunk listening to "Crash Into Me". There's nothing wrong with that. Unless it was the dude's ringtone.
Closing time. Hey, isn't that a Blues Traveler song?
Friday, December 15, 2006
So tomorrow I'll be going to the annual Warren Haynes Xmas Jam in Asheville, NC where over the course of seven hours bands like Gov't Mule and Dave Matthews will combine to play two songs, each lasting longer than The Thornbirds mini-series and I will leave the civic center smelling like the guy who runs the cart at the mall where you can have your name painted on a grain of rice.
Obviously I'm going to need beverages. And while I doubt the security will be tight since Gov't Mule does sell their own rolling papers on their site, you can't be too careful. Nor can you possibly be expected to watch people play Hacky Sack for more than three minutes without wishing you were drunk. Or dead.
That's where Target comes in. They've started selling mini boxes of wine [check local listings...they do here in NC, but we also have drive-through ABC stores and more than one street named after a member of the Earnhardt family] that are like Capri Suns but they taste like a rich cabernet. One that has been filtered through a Glade Plug-In and seasoned with dust. But they're cheap! And they make a beautiful centerpiece, suitable for your party, graduation, or bris!
Plus it looks super classy if you put two individual cartons of Shiraz in those helmets with the cup holders instead of two cans of beer. Or, in my case, two containers of Pedialyte.
You can also do like Runtie and I did when we went to the Wake-Virginia Tech football game and just stash them in the hood of your sweatshirt. It's completely undetectable. No one can tell I'm smuggling four cartons of wine!
Actually it just looks like I have spina bifida.
Which is probably why I suck at hacky sack.
See you guys on Monday.
This time next week, I’ll be in West Virginia, spending the holidays with the fam. Go ahead, make your jokes, get your cheap laughs at the expense of my Mountaineer family. We don't care. 'Cause we take one good Christmas card picture.
What can I say? I love you, Uncle Dad.
Actually, I was looking at some pics from last year and found this gem. Note the Rolls-Royce shirt, because I’m a classy bitch.
I’m dressed as my alter ego, Crazy Elf and obviously Crazy Elf is a lot better at coping with the holidays than I am. Crazy Elf didn’t notice that her grandmother had been humming hymns to herself for seven straight hours, that her uncle gave her a Toblerone bar for Christmas and told her she needed to split it with her sister, or that the dog was still dressed as a devil.
I had a comedy gig in Chapel Hill (or as I call it, Brokeback Mountain) last fall and wore that Rolls-Royce shirt. After my set I was approached by a man who had a special kind of disheveled craziness, like he’d been Tasered on his way to the show. Or perhaps during the show. Anyway, he told me that he thought I was funny even though he normally ‘don’t think women should tell jokes, cause they’re never that good’. And then he called the authorities to report that black people were learning.
He asked me if my jokes were true. I said that some of them were. He asked if it was true that I had a boyfriend. At the time I actually did, but I also would have dry-humped a plate of buffalo wings if it meant that he would stop touching my arm. He said again how much he enjoyed the show and started to walk away. But then he turned around, like he’d just remembered something and said very earnestly, “You know them Rolls Royces is good cars. But if you’d ever have any trouble, how bout you stop by my trailer and let me pop your hood.”
No shit. He does get points for the attempt and I really should’ve bought him a drink or given him a heartworm pill or something. You know, for the effort.
I think Crazy Elf would’ve liked him.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
1) So yesterday after my haircut I met My Favorite Attorney at the gym. I asked him if he liked the cut and—in true boy fashion—he said, “Yeah, it makes your face look bigger.” Great. That’s so what I was going for. I also hope my highlights give me the appearance of a pockmarked complexion and the style makes me look like I’m never going to date again and should probably just skip the gym in favor of another evening of dipping Eggo waffles in Crisco and playing Scattergories by myself.
We met for lunch earlier and he said I looked better today because yesterday "it was too shiny". I didn’t ask if he meant my hair or my WalMart-sized face.
2) When we were at the gym, we saw a guy I’ll call Bob. Because that’s his name. If you’d like an accurate picture of Bob, open Microsoft Word and use Autoshapes to draw a rectangle. Now draw a pair of glasses on the rectangle. Now make it very excited to have just had a prostate exam, because that’s most likely the only sexual contact Bob has had since that time he took an errant tetherball to the crotch. This is the actual conversation Bob had with My Favorite Attorney:
Bob: Hey J-Money’s Favorite Attorney.
MFA: Hey Bob. How’re you?
Bob: Got my prostate checked today.
Bob: I have a lot of calcium up in there. Lot of calcium.
Bob: It’s just on one side though. The other side doesn’t have as much calcium.
Bob: Calcium, prostate, prostate, calcium, prostate, something else disgusting, prostate. OK, this is the part where I was about to laugh inappropriately and had to turn around and think of things that make me sad, like puppies in the animal shelter or the clothing at DEB or Dakota Fanning so this is my best guess of what his final statement was before he walked away to tell someone else about his anal fissures when they asked if he was done using the 25-pound dumbbells.
Bob should be fine though. I’m sure that through the miracle of modern medicine, he’ll be killed so that his prostate can be used to cure osteoporosis. When that happens, use the “Format Autoshapes” feature to turn your rectangle black.
3) "House" is on hiatus until January 9. Until then, I'll be filling Tuesday nights from 9-10 with my other favorite activity, Swiffering my hallway.
4) No, that's not a euphemism.
5) Unless Hugh Laurie would like to...uh...Swiffer my...um...you know.
6) Here's where I deleted a really inappropriate WetJet comment.
7) Sometimes I don't know when to stop. With blog posts, with drinks, with the number of times I laugh at the Sirius radio display when I'm listening to the 60s station and the screen isn't big enough for the whole title so it just says "Build Me Up Butt".
8) God, I'm so lonely.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
I went to the salon at lunch today (that sounds so much better than "I got my hair did at Bonnie's Beauty Barn" which is closer to the truth). There were two women sitting in the waiting area and they were talking about mall Santas. One woman's son actually worked as a mall Santa but she said he resigned last week because he had chronic knee pain from the kids sitting on his lap.
My first thought was that at least his leg won't smell like pee until Easter but then I realized, you know, that really sucks. The guy's getting paid probably minimum wage to wear a flammable polyester costume, get covered in drool on a good day and used as a changing station on the others, and pretend to be interested when an endless string of kids tell him that they really, really want some rollerskate shoes and a puppy with all its legs and for Santa to put their new baby brother back inside mommy's tummy and all he gets out of it is arthritis?
Isn't there some kind of rule that doing something nice shouldn't result in bad shit? No one who dresses as a cartoon character (Macy's Parade, amusement park, theme restaurant or Disney World except for some of the people at EPCOT because not only are they boring, they try to make you learn), holiday icon (Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Great Pumpkin, Jesus), mascot (except for the Duke Blue Devil who should be thrown into a dumpster at BigLots and left for dead) should ever get hurt on the job. Also, no one should ever get sick from drinking from the communion wine goblet and nobody should ever get an STD from a mercy screw.
That's my Christmas wish. That and for these highlights to last forever.
In case you are all wondering what to get me for Christmas, I would like to suggest this, the BlackJack phone by Samsung. I won't actually be any cooler, nor will it ring more often (read: ever) but at least when someone sees me at my table for one with my face buried in my unfinished diary entry about how I wish I could grow a tail, their first thought will be "Hey, what a slick phone" instead of "I wonder how she's getting back to the group home."
The Blackjack. Nice work, Samsung. How many internal meetings did they hold to come up with a name for their product that was so similar to Blackberry, it actually involves the word "Black"? Some rejected ideas included:
So yeah. I still want it. I currently have a Razr and I decided it wasn't cool anymore about the time I saw one on The New Adventures of Old Christine. That's also the same show that made me sorry I had ovaries. And eyes.
More about cell phones tomorrow. Until then, could someone give me a ride?
Monday, December 11, 2006
Before you watch this, please consider the following questions for discussion.
1) Where did they film this? It looks like a parking garage.
2) Why is the conference table so close to a janitor's bucket?
3) Could this just have easily have starred Tommy Lee? In either role?
4) Why is this more entertaining than My Boys?
5) What's with the pile of appliances at the 00:45 mark?
6) How many games of SkeeBall were played to win that Pikachu?
7) Is the water bottle on the table to quench the dog's thirst or for scale, like when they put a penny beside the 'invisible' hearing aid in some of those ads?
My parents have a Boston Terrier, but she's not as hormonal. They dress her up every year as the Christmas Devil. She couldn't be more loveable.
I saw my former boyfriend’s new girlfriend at Harris Teeter over the weekend. I use the term ‘girlfriend’ just because ‘My Pet Monster’ was already taken. Sigh. She’s an absolute tragedy. She wears slouch socks. That’s all I’m saying. Sure that would be lovely if she were dressed up to exercise with her "Get In Shape Girl" playset, but they’re completely unacceptable for the grocery store. Or the dry cleaner or the petting zoo or any other place inhabited by people who don’t look stupid (obviously the state fair and my former high school are excluded). She was probably using the power of slouch to help her shoplift, cramming boxes of Tuna Helper into each sock where they’d go undetected against her cankles.
She was wandering the aisles pushing a cart full of South Beach wraps and Coca-Cola Black (or Blak or Blech, whatever) which obviously means that she’s mentally unstable. That shit tastes like gutter water seasoned with coffee and hobo tears. And raisins, because nobody likes raisins.
She's just heinous. Like Sarah Jessica Parker, but without those few minutes and couple of camera angles where she kind of looks cute. My sister Runtie and I bought some Birthday Cake-flavored Ice Cream last weekend and we dubbed it the SJP of Dairy Treats. We couldn't decide if it was actually pretty good or really, really awful. So we mailed it to Matthew Broderick to see if he'd have a child with it.
Back to My Pet Monster... allow me to mention her neck and how it looks like the place where excess skin goes to die. You could craft a sail for an America’s Cup yacht out of her saggy throat flesh. I really don’t understand my ex's attraction to her. If he's no longer interested in aesthetics, he should just have sex with a lint trap. Or Sarah Jessica Parker.
I believe ‘Saggy Throat Flesh’ is her Indian name. Either that or ‘Dances With TJ Maxx’.
Really, I’m not horrid enough to hope anything truly awful happens to her, but this year I’ll be asking Santa Claus to bring her the gift of alopecia. Or maybe a rectal prolapse.
This is a pretty accurate representation of what she looks like:
Compare that with me: young, supple, cultured.
Yes, that’s how I spent my Saturday night. I also watched Cops. Help me out. Do you have to have wood paneling in your house to appear on that show or do the officers stop by simply because you have wood paneling? Just once, I want to see the Boulder Police Department break down a door and corner a perp (that’s Cops lingo for ‘guy whose face gets blurred out’) behind the kitchen island where seconds earlier he'd delicately added a saffron thread to the paella he'd been preparing. They’d roughly shove his face down onto the granite countertop and haul him out as he kicks his Cole Haans against the SubZero appliances. All because his mangy, slouchy girlfriend stole a dozen Lean Cuisines by concealing them in the loose folds of her neck.
Just give them liver flukes and a skin rash.
Friday, December 08, 2006
I’ve just come from the restroom, the one with the sign, and noticed that someone had recently replenished the supply of magazines. I never read them since I can’t, um, call UPS at work. What can Brown do for me? Nothing, unless I’m using my own bathroom. Anyway, I saw something bizarre with the monthly periodicals. That’s what we call them in the ladies’ room…nothing like a little uterine humor to brighten your day. That and a nice "Family Circus" cartoon.
Anyway, stacked with the Cat Fancys and stolen SkyMall catalogs was the latest issue of Cooking Light magazine.
Like, gross. There seems to be something fundamentally wrong with looking at pictures of food while you’re, uh, taking the Browns to the SuperBowl. Granted, I did briefly stand at the vanity thumbing through it because—honestly—the cookies on the cover looked pretty damn good. I hurriedly tried to turn to page 89 but it had been torn out. WTF? Who clips and saves a recipe they read in the bathroom? I wouldn’t even want that on my kitchen counter because even though it was probably sprayed liberally with air-freshener, that doesn’t mean that a rogue poop molecule isn’t clinging to the underside of the page like Robert DeNiro in Cape Fear.
Cut to the church Christmas Party
That Old Woman Who Goes to My Mother’s Church Whose Name I Don’t Know, So We’ll Just Call Her The Highlander Because She Has to Be Damn Near 750 Years Old: Martha, these cookies are divine! Do I taste cranberries mingling with the chocolate chips?
Martha: Yes, and walnuts.
The Highlander: Oh, I must have that recipe! Unless it’s an old family secret…
Martha: No, it’s from a magazine, believe it or not. I found it while I was taking a dump!
The Highlander: A maga--what’s wrong with Linda? She’s throwing up in the Advent calendar.
I apologize for yet another post that involves the bathroom. And several synonyms for dropping a deuce. That alone is almost as tasteless as the "Family Circus", even though you never see the Mom stop to use that bathroom. She’s too busy cooking or vacuuming or dressing Jeffy up in a snow suit. But that’s what you get when you churn out four children in a six month period. That and the urge to slip some Ambien in their mashed potatoes.
Enjoy your holiday parties. Don’t worry. I’m sure the hostess washed her hands.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
I've missed you all. I had to take a break to clean the sarcasm off my keyboard. Oh and to do some really important things at work, like putting prototypes in plastic baggies and sealing them with masking tape, which I believe was the job that Charlie had in Flowers for Algernon at the beginning of he book when he was still retarded and spent the better part of the day peeing on himself and hiding behind the furnace.
The word 'prototype', along with the words 'mutual fund', 'Jarvik 7', or 'having an affair with the Provost', make me sound very mature and important at parties as long as I omit the fact that I'm basically cramming said prototypes into Gladware like they're bits of leftover lasagna. And by 'parties', I mean the evenings when my stuffed dinosaur and I sit on the sofa and watch "Muppet Babies" and wonder why no one ever returns our calls.
Until tomorrow, enjoy this graphic I did to commemmorate my alma mater Wake Forest's upcoming Orange Bowl appearance. We had a horrible football team when I was in school. We considered it a victory if we beat the spread. Hell, some guys (we'll call them Lambda Chi's) rolled the Quad if they beat off.
Come for the literary references. Stay for the masturbation jokes.
See you Wednesday.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
I've finished putting together my annual Christmas mix CD which includes such family favorites as "Please Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)" and "I Wanna Rock You Hard this Christmas". I was super pleased with the artwork, and no, I never get tired of putting my face on this blog. Just in case Hugh Laurie is reading.
Confidential to Hugh Laurie: No I don't own a furry abominable snowman costume. Unless that kind of thing turns you on, in which case I'll be at Build-A-Bear with the quickness, stitching pelts together like Betsy Effing Ross. Except hornier. And without the bonnet. Again, unless that kind of thing turns you on.
I also included the New Kids on the Block hit "Funky Funky Christmas" because no holiday is complete without a Joe McIntyre rap interlude. That song takes me back to an innocent time when wearing neon spandex was acceptable, when crimping your hair was radical, when your bangs were teased high enough to snag traffic helicopters or retarded sparrows. For me, it was 1990. For New Jersey, it was Tuesday.
I suggest you watch this and wonder how Donnie isn't still the most famous Wahlberg brother. Sure, Mark was in a Scorsese flick, but he can't sell me on a "Peace out!" like Donnie can. Donnie has conviction. Donnie has passion. Donnie also has a leather jacket with 48 peace signs on it, which means he's against world conflict but pretty OK with killing animals. And with child labor, because no way would anyone over the age of 10 sew that shit together.
Maybe I'm sharing too much, but I did have a pillowcase with his picture on it. That I made out with. This morning.
Limit your exposure to this clip. The New Kids are so white and cottony they could give you Toxic Shock Syndrome.
So many unanswered questions...
--Where did Donnie get the hat halfway through?
--Which picnic shelter does Danny Wood currently live in?
--Why don't I ever see anyone rock a studded leather jacket without a shirt anymore? I mean other than that guy at the Exxon station. The one who tried to get my attention a couple of days ago when I was filling my car up by yelling, "Hey! Number 5! Pump 5!", like I knew which pump number I was using. I do well to remember which side of the car my gas tank is on. Or which car is mine.
After realizing that it was me he was speaking to, I still ignored him. Mainly because of the whole jacket-without-a-shirt thing. And because of Stranger Danger. He finally walked over to me, stood beside the pump and tried to look non-chalant by sounding out the word 'Debit' before saying, "Hey baby, how 'bout you let me buy you that tank of mid-grade." My first thought was, "That's his opener?", followed immediately by "Does it ever work?". I politely declined his offer and got in my car as he yelled, "That's cool, you'll be back!" And he did have a point.
If I can figure out how to upload the tracks to one of those music hosting sites, I'll post a link so you can pretend you're spending your holidays with me. Just have the decency to leave the room when I let my Donnie pillow get to second base.
Just kidding, Hugh.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I just read this article about how the United States is trying to send little Kim Jong Il (I admit, the first time I saw his name in print, I thought it meant Kim Jong 2 and I wondered what happened to the first one. I also thought that Teddy Ruxpin could really talk.) to the time out corner by refusing to export any iPods, plasma TVs, or Segway scooters to North Korea.
First, if NoKo can create a super top secret nuclear program (and you have no idea how much I hope the doors are marked with big KEEP OUT! THIS MEANS YOU! signs with a hand drawn skull and a heart that says Duran Duran 4-Ever) my guess is they can figure out how to get a Playstation 3. My neighbor’s kid can’t even read and he’s already got a bootleg copy of “Casino Royale”. If K-Jong’s underground network isn’t better than the one at Sylvan Learning Center, he’s got bigger issues. I mean, other than the fact that he’s the only world leader small enough to be captured by Gargamel.
Next, I like that we're banning products that America doesn't actually make. Why aren't we withholding things we've crafted right here in the US of A? Things like tomatoes. Or Ford Festivas. Or Labradoodles. That would teach him.
Obviously we’re going about this all wrong. We should actually send NoKo (I so want this to catch on) a surplus of Segways. Nothing could make Kim Jong License to Ill (that’s what Chris Berman would call him) look like a bigger douchebag than riding a cumbersome piece of metal that could be outrun by Estelle Getty, who may or may not still be alive.
The most disturbing part of this entire situation is that Angelina Jolie seems to be basing Maddox' hairstyles on Kim Jong Il. I honestly can't tell the difference in these pictures.
Oh sure Maddox is biting K-Jong's look, but at least he has an iPod.
Enjoy your Zune, North Korea! Enjoy your effing Zune.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I saw this photo today and rarely do the things I hate most of all--the Yankees and Duke University--collide like this. I'll be unable to eat for the rest of the day. Unless someone leaves some pudding in the breakroom fridge.
There are only a few things A-Rod could do that would make me hate him more than seeing him dress up like a Dukebag.
1) Captured, stir fried, and consumed the entire cast of Happy Feet. Since he didn't eat the skin and only used Mrs. Dash brand seasonings, he counted the meal as 7 Weight Watchers points and then treated himself with a trip to Sephora.
2) Sort-of dated me for an entire semester and forced me to watch Ally McBeal with him every week of our pseudo-courtship, which should have been a warning sign. Then the night of my winter formal he decided to drive to Elon College to see his former girlfriend, a massive Ann Taylor-y creature nicknamed 'Salsa'. Because she was chunky.
This left me to attend the party alone and forced me to create an excuse for his absence. I also consumed three bottles of Boone’s Farm Kountry Kwencher, temporarily lost the ability to read, and admitted that I’d probably do the oldest kid from Hanson.
Confidential to Any Attendees of Said Formal- My date wasn’t really called out of town to donate bone marrow to orphaned baby seals. He wasn’t there because he’s gay.
3) While staying at my house for a slumber party, he was too afraid of the dark to walk down the hall to the bathroom so he instead peed in my Care Bear Cousins trash can.
Yes, that actually happened. Didn't it, Chrissy? You bitch. Thanks for pissing all over Tenderheart Lion. If your parents still lived beside mine, I swear I would've shat in their Dreamcatcher when I was home for Thanksgiving.
4) Was single-handedly responsible for 1918 flu pandemic, Clear Pepsi, the Lifetime Movie Network, the BCS system, my inability to find Boo Berry cereal, and for failing to prevent Charlie Weis from ever appearing in public. Although he was great as “Sloth” in Goonies.
5) Actually attended Duke University.
Now I can't even enjoy this Handi-Snak.
A-Rod and Duke are like tapioca, if by "tapioca" you mean "flavored with suck".
Sunday, November 26, 2006
To my Charlotte Reader(s)-
Catch me Tuesday night at the Comedy Zone being funny as part of Fresh Faces 6. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds sort of like a skin cleanser.
What if I told you that instead of telling jokes I was going to be writhing on the hood of a Trans-Am while "Here I Go Again" plays? OK, I'd be lying and that's kind of a horrid mental image. The only way I'll end up on the hood of a car is if I've been struck by one.
I hope all of you had a lovely Thanksgiving. Mine was uneventful save for the afternoon when my cell phone went missing. I was frantically tearing the house apart when I heard the muffled strains of the House theme song (Yes, that's my ringtone because I'm AWESOME. And very lonely.) coming from my grandmother's ass. My first thought was that she had eaten it, but then I realized that she was just sitting on it, which was both a relief and kind of disappointing because "Grandma Got CT Scanned For My Razr" is my favorite holiday song. She's reasonably deaf because she doesn't understand that for hearing aids to work, they have to be in your ears and not just in the plastic squeezy change purse you got from the bank. So there was nothing I could do...except get a cordless phone and keep calling my number--not because she was going to notice but because I felt obligated to share it with every member of my family.
Seriously--if you live in the greater Mecklenburg County area, come to the show. E me and I'll tell you how you can get a discount on tickets. It promises to be a good time. I hope that I can use some of that Fresh Faces stuff to disinfect my phone.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Dear Svenhard's Breakfast Pastries:
First, is your name Sven Hard? Because I believe I've seen your work in "Grinding Nemo". Or perhaps it was "Das Boob", also starring Michael J. Coxx? But that's not why I'm concerned, Mr. Hard. I don't know if you've noticed, but your choice of Cheese Horn illustration could not be more disturbing.
Not surprisingly, this pastry was abandoned on the break room counter this morning with some other things no one is interested in eating, like a dented can of tuna, any item from Ruby Tuesday's, and Clay Aiken's hand.
We're all thankful that you don't make chocolate horns. Although your founder, Farmer Tilda, looks like she was making a chocolate horn when this photograph was taken.
According to the package (No, not your package, although it was impressive. Bigger than a breadbox. And a Kia.) you're located in Oakland. If this is what cheese looks like in Oakland, then I'm starting to understand why Randy Moss is so sad. And why the word "Oakland" frequently preceeds the word "Sucks". I always thought it was because of that show, Hangin' with Mr. Cooper, but it could be because the cows there apparently shit cheese.
I visited your website and found this page, a list of events that could be celebrated by giving the gift of cheese horn. Click for larger or if you're just really bored.
And I ask you, Mr. Hard, how much would I have to hate my husband in order to give him an effing danish for our anniversary? "Darling, after 32 wonderful years together, I'd like to give you this, the cheese horn of love. I know that our time together has been more special than Funyuns, more treasured than that bag of trail mix that people only get so they can eat the M&Ms out of it. And it was item C-2 in the vending machine, a sign that this pastry was meant for you. Honey? Where are you going? Robert? Please! What if I said you could probably have sex with it? Like that kid from that movie? The one where you said that if I could ever stick to Atkins then maybe I'd be an, oh, what was it? It was an acronym, like NASA or LASIK or AIDS. A Mother you'd Like to Make Sweet Love To, instead of thinking about how that tramp Alison looks when she bends over to get the paper? Yes, I know all about her, you ass. Robert? Where are you going? You know Alison has Hepatitis! Robert, no!"
"Mrs. Cooper, I'm sorry to hear about your mother. I give you this cheese horn with a heavy heart. As you eat it, think about how her arms held you the way this light, flaky pastry holds this fatty, snot-colored cheddar blob. Let me know if there's anything else I can do. And if you see Robert, would you tell him to call me?"
I'm heading to see the 'rents for Thanksgiving. I do hope that you, Mr. Hard, are a part of our celebration. If we don't eat the pastries for dinner, we'll probably watch one of your movies for dessert. Nothing says 'we're truly thankful' like a family viewing of "Titty Titty Bang Bang".
Monday, November 20, 2006
So my sister, Runtie, came to visit me this weekend. Here's where I resist the urge to refer to my home as "The J-Money Pit" even though that's catchier than "The Place Where My Shitty Neighbor Let Her Dog Chew the Face Off Of My Carved Pumpkin, Which I Still Don't Appreciate Even Though Halloween Was Last Month So I Totally Retaliated By Putting Some Non-Recyclables Into Her Recycle Bin and By 'Non-Recyclables', I Mean A Dead Squirrel."
Friday's festivities included playing Nintendo and solving the crossword puzzles in US Weekly because they make us feel smart since the New York Times rarely features clues like:
"Tom Hanks Dog Comedy: Turner and _____"
or "Tom Hanks AIDS Drama: Phila_____, Or Also a Type of Cream Cheese That Rhymes With Miladelphia"
or "Tom Hanks Comedy You Didn't See: Joe Vs. The ______, You Know, Yet Another Film He Wishes You'd Forget About Because Now He's a Serious Actor Who Is Willing to Endure a Ridiculous Hairstyle for Months For the Sake of a Role. No, It's Not 'Big'. Or 'That Thing You Do'. Oh, Christ, it's "Volcano", Just Write The World "Volcano" in 24 Across."
Oh, and we also did some grocery shopping.
And we staged a performance in Aisle 8 of "They Shoot Horses Don't They? Especially If They're Unable To Mount The Other Reasonably-Priced Horse In Front of The Boxes of Keebler Town House Crackers."
Then we settled in for a quality evening of 8-bit entertainment punctuated by several crying jags because when someone asks who you spent your Friday night with, "That Blonde Guy From 'Skate or Die'" isn't a good answer. Especially since it's not 1988 anymore, except in some parts of West Virginia.
Now. Can anyone help me with 18-Down, "Tom Hanks Baseball Comedy: __ League of Their Own". Is it I? O? F? Shit.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Dear Small Woman Wearing a Patchwork Shirt That Sort Of Looks Like It Could’ve Been Stolen From Holly Hobby:
First, I’m not really sure what your name is and your company ID was obscured by the copy of True Stories magazine that you were clutching although I am intrigued by the headline about the woman who overcame fibromyalgia only to later be killed and eaten by former Night Court star Marsha Warfield, so maybe you could leave that on my desk after you’ve finished looking up all of the words you don’t understand.
Anyway, I went to the breakroom to refill my water bottle, sign that bitch from Accounting up for an order of 87 boxes of Girl Scout cookies (only the shitty kind, the shortbread ones that are either in the shape of the Girl Scout logo or a colon polyp) and maybe steal someone’s Diet Coke out of the fridge. OK, maybe steal is too strong a term. I was going to trade them a soda for some carpet cleaner or a Lee Greenwood CD or an IUD. You know, the stuff I keep in my desk drawers.
I had just opened the refrigerator door when I heard you announce, “Well my daughter had her baby.” Surely you weren’t talking to me because I didn’t even know you had a daughter. Until today I didn’t know you had feet. My response was something like, “Hey, do you think anyone’s going to miss this Fresca?”
But the conversation continued:
You: She wasn’t plannin’ on having a baby but she was takin’ medicine for her urinary tract infections and that messed with her birth control and she got pregnant.
Me: Otter Pops? Who brings Otter Pops to the office?
You: The labor was quick though. She was already real dilated by the time she got to the hospital. That baby pretty much just dropped on out.
You: Have a nice weekend.
See, here’s the thing. Until I’ve met someone, I really don’t care to know the details of their sex life, the state of their endocrine system, or the circumference of their vagina. Also, it's rare that you hear the words "baby" and "dropped" in the same sentence unless you're talking about Britney Spears.
So next time, before you decide to share stories about the genitalia of your family members, please give me a warning: a code word, a sign, or just hit me with your car. Really. I would rather spend the weekend picking bits of your "I'd Rather Be At a Clay Aiken Concert" bumper sticker out of my forehead then to ever endure that again.
But I’d still like to read that magazine. Tell your daughter I said congratulations and to stop by the breakroom. I left something in the fridge for her.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Thanks to Debbye I was directed to The Surrealist's Movie Quote Generator. Basically, you put in a word or phrase and it spits out a famous line with your word or phrase in it. Here are several of my favorites:
I hate that I didn't save "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his dick."
I'll be at Goodnight's tonight. It's just $2 to hear me talk about things that annoy me and people I hate. It'll be just like reading this blog except I'll be standing in front of a fake brick wall and you'll be paying for undercooked fajitas. But, hey, if you spill something at least it won't ruin your keyboard.
Act extra creepy and I promise to mention you in tomorrow's post. Or at least put your name in a movie quote.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
I walked into the restroom this morning and saw that Rusty the Bathroom Bailiff had taped this sign to the wall, which is creepy on so many levels.
How long has someone been listening to me pee? While my bodily functions don’t sound like a hand dryer, they do sound very much like a contestant buzzing in with an answer on Press Your Luck. Sometimes I do shout “No whammies! No whammies!” but that’s only during sex.
What happens if your, um, transaction takes longer to complete than one push of the button? Because now whoever’s listening in said adjacent room knows that as soon as the dryer starts, someone’s, uh, making a deposit and sometimes, you know, you don’t remember your account number, the teller goes on break, the drive-through canister gets stuck… OK, this metaphor sucks. BB&T is a shitty bank though. HA! You see what I did there? With the poop and stuff? The way I brought it full circle? That’s talent.
God, I’m so alone.
Yesterday I passed a new employee on her way out of the bathroom. She didn’t make eye contact and after stepping through door I realized why. Whatever she did in there will be listed in the birth announcements next Sunday. Look, when you start at a new company, you should probably wait at least a week before you absolutely destroy the restroom. Especially if it’s so heinous it activates the sensors on the paper towel dispensers forcing the other employees to wade through the equivalent of The Historian to reach a stall.
I hope someone keys her car. Or gives her an unfortunate nickname, more unfortunate than her previous one, “Granny Clampett if She Shopped at JC Penney’s and Wore A Lot of Tapered-Leg Arizona Jeans”. Yes, I’m the only one who ever called her that.
Personally, I can’t take care of business at work. I only listen to Bachman-Turner Overdrive at home, if you know what I’m saying. (If you don’t, I’m talking about pooping.) Nor do I think anyone else should unless they spent their lunch hour eating a manatee.
That doesn’t mean I’m above tormenting those who do, because women hate for anyone to be in the bathroom with them. As soon as the door opens, they’ll brace themselves with those parallel bars in the stall, holding their breath like Anne Frank in the attic and waiting for the threat to leave so they can unclench their colon and get back to reading the can of Neutra-Air or counting the tiles on the floor or whatever entertainment the intruder has interrupted.
If I notice that someone's hiding in a stall, I’ll stay at the vanity either grooming my cuticles, building a card house, or treating myself for lice, forcing the pooper to sit in miserable silence wishing that I would either leave or that they could fashion some sort of weapon out of the purse hook on the back of the door and use it to stab me in the head. After I’ve finished, say, sculpting an army of miniature terra-cotta soldiers, I return to my desk and hope that I’m not recognizable by my shoes. Then I eat a Twizzler.
Confidential to Myself: You should probably stop wearing your Pokémon slippers to work. Oh, and stop contracting lice.
If the tables are ever turned and someone catches me trying to flee the scene of the crime, there is only one option: sealing them permanently in the restroom, Cask of Amontillado-style. Then I’ll grab my bowl of Twizzlers and hand in my resignation. I just can’t forget to turn the dryer on.
Monday, November 13, 2006
So Friday night my favorite attorney and I went to a Charlotte Bobcats game. The Bobcats are famously named after their owner, BET founder Robert Johnson, who obviously didn’t realize that he’d have a much cooler logo if he’d settled on the Charlotte Johnsons. But that mascot would be terrifying to lesbians and the elderly and Family Fun Night would probably lead to some awkward discussions on the drive home, epecially when children don’t already realize the historical significance of the namesake, Ladybird Johnson. She’s legally blind and damn near 174 years old but she probably has a better jumper than anyone in the Cats starting five. Oh, and also she likes wildflowers.
You know that the team you’re going to see isn’t very good when the game program talks less about the players and more about the uniforms. The promo for next week’s games read (I’m not making this up and would totally scan it but I’ve been forbidden to use the scanner at work ever since I tried to scan several slices of lunchmeat):
November 18: Charlotte Bobcats at Orlando Magic
The Bobcats unveil their new blue alternate road uniforms when they travel to Orlando to take on Dwight Howard and the Magic.
November 20: Charlotte Bobcats vs Dallas Mavericks
Bobcats fans will get their first look at the new blue jerseys as Charlotte looks for its first win over Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavs.
I hope these new uniforms are made of sequined fabrics or they have Magic Eye drawing on every player’s back so the crowd will be distracted long enough not to notice that Sean May just dribbled the ball off his foot again. And then he becomes so distraught that he rages into the stands and eats everyone in Section 103. And then he weeps. But we love the new colors! And I believe that’s Tweety Bird on Primoz Brezec’s jersey! Or maybe a fire hydrant! Go Bobcats! .
Unfortunately, the new clothes weren’t part of Friday’s loss to Seattle. The ineptitude of the team could only be entertaining for half the game so we spent most of the second half scanning the crowd trying to decide which woman had the ugliest arms.
Confidential to Woman In Row L, Seat 14: Please contact us to collect your prize--a list of plastic surgeons torn from the yellow pages--so that you may be able to remove that mole from your shoulder. You know, the one that kind of looks like a Bojangles chicken leg is growing from your scapula. Gotta, wanna, needa, getta, hava that thing lasered off.
Confidential to Anyone Who Has Recently Eaten Bojangles: I’m really sorry, but I swear, if you saw it you’d think the same thing, right down to the tiny biscuit and small side of pinto beans on her neck.
Confidential to My Employer: I’m not the one who changed the menu to read 'Blowjangles' in the employee breakroom, but I am responsible for writing ‘Dick-Fil-A’, ‘Crapplebee’s’, and ‘TGIFriday’s Is A Really Shitty Restaurant and Every Time I Eat There Someone From My High School Class Waits On Me and I Swear They Put Olive Oil in My Salad Even Though I Ask Them Not to Because I’m Allergic To Olive Oil and I Spend the Rest of the Day in the Bathroom’ on the dry erase board. I also wrote ‘Olive Gar-Den of Iniquity’ but I don’t think anyone from the warehouse really appreciated that one.
A group of women was sitting in front of us at the game and they all had on those jeans that don’t have back pockets which they should've just paired with a Bedazzled sweatshirt that said "We've All Started Menopause!" The day the back pockets migrate from your jeans is the day you officially become middle-aged. Other warning signs include:
--Having a can of grease under your kitchen sink
--Saving old bread bags so that you can reuse them
--Placing a tissue box in the rear window of your car
--Laughing at anything Caroline Rhea says
--Reading anything endorsed by Oprah
--Learning someone’s last name before sleeping with them
--Subscribing to Redbook
--Using the phrase ‘art’ and ‘Thomas Kincaide’ in the same sentence
--Ordering anything from the Lillian Vernon catalog, especially one of those little pouches for the TV Guide and the remote control that you drape over the side of your recliner or a frame for that Precious Moments jigsaw puzzle that you finally completed and want to move from the card table
--Having a card table
--Going to church
The Bobcats play New Orleans/Oklahoma City/Kissimmee/St. Cloud/That Place Where A Friend of Your Dad's Lives tomorrow night. I’ll be watching. Ladybird’s got game.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
You've already ruined Christmas, Eckerd. You just had to stock the hair-removal products in the front window so when a wide-eyed child stops to point at the festive display featuring a giant singing Santa Claus, he'll also get an eyeful of me sniffing the various kinds of Nair and wondering how long the tropical papaya scent would last. Then as the child tugs at his mother’s hand and begs her to buy the Santa, I’ll realize it won’t matter since no one will be near my nether-regions until my gynecologist's appointment in 6 months and there's no way anyone could stay tropical that long. Eventually, I climb into Santa’s sleigh with a fistful of Toblerone and begin sobbing to the tune of “Up on the Housetop” as the terrified child recoils and buries his face in his mother's pant leg.
And no, that didn’t really happen. I was actually eating Dove Bars.
I had to visit Eckerd last night to pick up my birth control prescription even though by this point taking each pill has become a completely empty gesture, like giving to the United Way or saying “I love you.” I could save $15 a month by just nibbling one link from a candy necklace every morning without the daily reminders that I’m not having sex. Today is Wednesday. You call it "Hump Day". I call it "Not Since The Breakup But Thank You For the Painful Reminder You Asshole" Day.
But, like the commercial says, "Maybe She's Born With It Or Maybe She Caught It When She Spent That Semester Abroad". No, wait. The other commercial says "Image Is Everything", so I loudly announce to everyone waiting in line at the pharmacy (Motto: We'll Fill Your Order In 'REckerd' Time. We Also Got Our Degrees At Strayer. Is That a Problem?) that I’m refilling my birth control prescription. Because I'm shifting my weight impatiently and checking my watch, surely everyone thinks that I'll be downing the 'Wednesday' pill in the car before racing home to my boyfriend Hugh Laurie to spend the evening testing positions we read about in Cosmopolitan, positions with names like “Reverse Thruster” or “Abacus of Passion” or “Dirty, Dirty Seahorse” instead of spending the night playing Nintendo alone and wondering if I can fit an entire package of Lunchables in my mouth at once. Either that or they think I have to pee.
On the bright side, Ortho-Tri-Cyclen does give me a lovely, glowing complexion.
Confidential to My Mother: That’s the real reason I take it and has been since high school. I swear.
Confidential to Everyone Else: When your parents ask if you are sexually active do not respond, “No, I usually just lie there.” That'll wreck Aunt Nell's funeral with the quickness.
At least I haven’t gotten desperate enough to order one of the decorative birth control pill cases that are often advertised in trashy women’s magazines like Redbook or Southern Living. These cases are brightly colored with zebra stripes and neon polka dots so instead of dispensing your pills from a plain package you'll now look like you’re pulling them directly out of 80's icon Debbie Gibson.
At a previous job, I had a coworker we’ll call Jen Towers, because that’s her name. Every day at lunch Jen would pull Debbie Gibson out of her purse and make a huge production of taking the pill, chomping it like the Cookie Monster of Contraceptives. Tacky, yes, but also reassuring that she wasn't trying to reproduce. After her eventual termination (not for the pills but for skipping work because she said she had to deliver a litter of baby goats. Not. Kidding.) I inherited her file cabinet which was completely empty save for a pair of slingbacks, a plate memorializing Princess Diana, and several pages she’d torn from a bondage magazine.
Since we worked at an advertising agency, she was immediately rehired. And promoted.
Back to Eckerd...
While I was waiting, an ancient woman Rascal-ed her way to the counter to ask the pharmacist where the condoms were. The entire display was hanging on the wall right behind her but, understandably, she didn't realize it since the last time she bought a prophylactic they were made of papyrus. The pharmacist's response was "Right over there, in our Family Planning Department." Excuse me? Family Planning? That's like selling cans of Raid in the Hornet's Nest Planning Department.
And so it goes. This woman whose cataracts are older than my parents is buying Trojans and going back to Shady Pines to have osteoporosex (Oh yes, I'm also an etymologist. That would be the term for an elderly couple getting it on. And by "it", I mean "the nasty".) Oh well. I take solace in the fact that if someone jumped her bones, they'd crumble to dust. And then I laugh, check my watch, and finish my Dove Bar.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Gypsy, I see you clap hands rhythmically to sound of pop song "Your Kiss is On My List".
But really where has John Oates been lately? Perhaps...Kazakhstan? Or perhaps bagging groceries at a Food Lion somewhere and hoping the customer doesn't notice the way he gently taps her Lean Cuisines against the conveyer belt in time to the chorus as "Private Eyes" (tap...they're watching you...tap tap...Private Eyeeeees) plays over the store's loudspeaker.
Would you like paper, plastic, or the sounds of me revisiting every bad decision I've ever made?
1) 8:48 is the new 8:00. Seriously. Ask InStyle.
2) If anyone from the China office mentions our 'Erection Day' again, I am going to snicker audibly, even when you are trying to subtly stop me by kicking my shin, stabbing me in the eye with the tiny rake from your desktop Zen garden, or by having the security guard escort me to my cubicle to watch me pack my things. You call it 'termination', I call it 'termina-fun'! Speaking of erections, a man I met at the hotel bar in Greenville spent a good twenty minutes talking about his cocker spaniel farm. Every time he said 'cocker', I said "BUT I BARELY KNOW HER! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" and then spun around on my barstool. Oddly enough, this did not deter him from attending the show although it did deter several other patrons from staying to finish their drinks.
OK, time for my break. See you on Thursday.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
1) I had an allergic reaction to the eye mask that the hotel provided for me. Apparently, they scented it with lavender and pollen.
2) Because my eyes were the size of the 'insert coin' slot on a vending machine, I washed my hair with lotion.
3) While trying to check out a guy's calves, I fell down the stairs in the hotel lobby. So much for subtlety, but I got a good look as I rolled past them.
Confidential to the Guy in the Baylor T-Shirt Who May Have Felt Someone's Sleeve Brush His Thigh As He Clung to the Railing in Horror or Perhaps Lust: Did you play soccer? Because you have very nice legs. And if you'd ever like to maybe get a Frappuccino and watch me pick at my face rash just email me.
4) I saw the beginning of "Kindergarten Cop".
Great success. Show at 8. I hope people will still laugh,so I don't sob myself to sleep on this lovely cat dander pillowcase.
P.S. This is my 100th post. The first Benadryl's on me.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Singing loudly is a good way to stay awake on long drives.
It is not a good way to stay awake during meetings.
Or maybe Sales & Marketing just doesn't like the Spin Doctors.
I knew I should've gone with "Runaway Train" instead.
If you live in Greenville, SC, come out to the LaffTrax comedy club this weekend. I believe it is conveniently located close to an interstate exit ramp. Perhaps while I'm there, one of the fine residents of G-Vegas will be able to tell me what the hell a Paladin is. I think they're those nimble, sparkly creatures that followed Rainbow Brite around.
If I owned a comedy club, it would be called Mr. Chucklepants. Or Old People Falling Down On Ice because there's nothing funnier than a broken hip. Or J. Crew. I'll be doing shows tonight and tomorrow night...and if you treat me right, you may get a spin in my Murano.
God, that sounds dirty.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
--Driving home from my show at Goodnight's last night, there were several signs on the interstate flashing an Amber Alert. You were to call the authorities if you saw a red Dodge pickup. Um, this is North Carolina. I passed 38 potential suspects in the first ten minutes of my drive and that didn't even include the Wal-Mart parking lot.
--I'm currently driving a rental, a Nissan Murano.
Apparently, Murano is a Japanese word meaning "you're never getting laid with this car". I don't think any potential dates would be impressed if I pointed out that there is room enough in the back for 2 carseats so perhaps we should start making babies, or that I can fit my entire left leg in the glove compartment...would he care to hold my purse while I demonstrated?
Also, rental car comes from the ancient Greek words meaning "let's see if I can drive over that stack of recycle bins. And that dogwood tree. And maybe a swingset."
--It seems like the EZ listening station starts playing Christmas music earlier every year... I think their current playlist is actually in celebration of Christmas 2009. Last night I heard the Manheim Steamroller version of "Deck the Halls". Wow. If aluminum foil could make a sound, that's what it would be. Except shittier. Just hearing it made my fillings hurt.
And no, Manheim Steamroller is not the fat woman from The Practice. I looked it up right before I called the cops again...I think the kidnapper just delivered my paper.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Well, Halloween's over and my eyelids are still caked with black makeup and my bed is full of melted candy. It's just like the day after prom. Yes, I wore one of those t-shirts that look like a sequined bodice. Why do you ask?
I went as the love child of Gene Simmons and Richard Simmons, although I looked terrifyingly like Carrot Top. (For Halloween, not for prom. That night I was a dead ringer for Delta Burke).
I actually did trick-or-treat last night, although my range was limited to the homes of people I knew wouldn't put D-CON in the Gummy Bears or hand out generic drugs. No Alprazolam in my plastic pumpkin head, please.
Most of my friends have really nice houses that have been carefully decorated, places where 'refinishing the floor' doesn't mean 'buying a Dora the Explorer blanket to throw over that place in the carpet that you burned with the crock pot'. I came home and realized that I live at the equivalent of Baltic Avenue.
Let me point out that if I were a little kid, I would effing hate Dora the Explorer because I can just hear my mother lecturing me that "Dora's only 4 years old, she's bilingual, she can tie her shoes, and travel unattended. You have yet to use a can opener without opening a vein." Actually, we had that conversation last week.
So anyway, the night was a success until I took my wig off. The combination of the makeup and my matted hair made me look like I should've been backstage at a drag show. Well, at least the ones I've seen on HBO's Real Sex, right before the segment about the woman who turns mittens into sex toys but before part with the naked, pockmarked insurance adjusters stumbling around the woods naked like characters from the worst episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? EVER. I spent the rest of the evening singing "Jesus Doesn't Want Me For a Sunbeam" to my reflection and sobbing.
Confidential to the Man Who Brought a Tiny Batman to My Door:
Hi there, you came to my house last night with what is probably your child. Or maybe he was in costume as what your child would look like. That would be a little weird, but I'll let it slide because you had nice teeth. Pedophiles tend to shy away from porcelain veneers. Regardless, please come back and perhaps we could spend an evening talking about things that adults talk about, like where is the best place to purchase a fountain pen or whether having a political sign in my yard makes me look fat. So call me. No, I don't wear the KISS makeup all the time and yes that blanket stays on the floor and you're going to have to open your own can of Beefaroni. Just ask my mother.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Happy Halloween, or they call it at work "Non-Denominational Fall Holiday". We can't say 'Halloween' because either we'd upset the Baptists, everyone would insist on trick-or-treating at the receptionist's desk (I got a typewriter ribbon), or Michael Myers would kill someone's babysitter while Jamie Lee Curtis shrieks in the lobby. Maybe they have a point.
Anyway, we all received an email from HR yesterday pointing out that while costumes are permitted, they have to be tasteful (which killed my Slutty Borat idea) but if you do not dress up you are to wear professional attire. Screw that. I am in costume as a 27-year old who sleeps alone because she frequently wears glow-in-the-dark dinosaur pajamas.
Business casual, minus the business. Just another service I offer.
And, yes, she's jealous as hell.
Does her ascot glow in the dark?
No. Effing. Way.
We also have the Fall Festival today, where our breakroom has been magically transformed into a breakroom with straw on the floor. There are tons of superfun activities like:
--A representative from a local funeral home to talk about burial arrangements
--A table where they only speak Spanish and one guy is dressed as Raggedy Andy which is terrifying on so many levels, especially the way he tried to cover his beard with white makeup
--Our HR department who don't seem to appreciate my costume so I'm not spending too much time in front of them even though they have a bowl of Laffy Taffy
--And a horse. No shit, there's a horse here. I secretly hope that somehow it's affiliated with the funeral home. Either that or somebody's got one hell of a Seabiscuit costume.
And just in case you don't have any costume ideas, here are some suggestions that will either make you the hit of your OK, Maybe It's A Tiny Bit Satanic Autumn Tuesday Party or will cause an emergency meeting of your homeowners' association in which they decide it's best if you live elsewhere.
For the Guys-
Borat with an inexplicable Southern accent
Borat with an Irish accent
Borat Who's Not Even Trying to Be Borat, He's Just A Guy With Bushy Eyebrows Who May Or May Not Have Just Delivered the Takeout You Ordered
Asian Beastie Boy aka Kim Jong Illin'
Guy With a Hockey Jersey and Golf Club Who Says He's Happy Gilmore but Really Just Likes to Say "The Price is Wrong, BITCH" as He Trips Over Things In Your Living Room and Eventually Throws Up in the Fireplace
Asshole Duke Fan
Asshole Carolina Fan
Thinly-Veiled Representation of Your Sexuality
And For the Ladies:
Slutty Helen Keller
Slutty Meredith Baxter-Birney Starring in the Lifetime Movie Of Your Choice
Slutty Allegories From the Poems of William Blake
Slutty Representation of Britney Spears' Questionable Parenting Skills
Slutty Carnival Worker
Slutty Mayor McCheese
Slutty Ramona Quimby
Enjoy! For me, it's the best day ever. I've had nine flu shots already. And after planning my cremation, I learned that you're not supposed to try to ride the horse because that makes it poop and inevitably it will do so on the one tile not covered with straw. Hooray!
Sunday, October 29, 2006
So the whole family traveled to visit my sister Runtie this weekend.
This morning we had breakfast at Bob Evans because we like to party. And we also like having diarrhea.
We were very proud of my father for not insisting that we eat at the Hampton Inn, especially since we weren't staying there. He just really likes their cream cheese danish. Every morning on his way to work he stops there to get a pastry and sometimes a clean set of sheets or a new desk chair.
I'm pretty sure a Bob Evans is what happens after Cracker Barrel has sex with Wal-Mart. They're half restaurants, half gift shops stocked with products too shitty for QVC. If you ever need a set of Momma's Family porcelain dolls, a wallet made of Lincoln Logs, or an All My Children diaphragm, this is your place. They also have a large selection of candles and Bob Evans-flavored products, either of which would make you the envy of the other residents at the Rescue Mission.
1) I have never, ever walked out of Robert Evans' restaurant wishing that more meals I prepared at home could have their patented Ohio-y taste. This morning I spent at least four minutes after breakfast vigorously scraping my tongue on the sleeve of the scarecrow decoration outside the door, trying to get rid of the residue from 'Grandpa's Down Home Rusty Ol' Skillet Plate with Kountry Gravy and Oily Rags'.
2) All of the candles available for purchase had some sort of food scent, like Banana Bread or Pumpkin Pie or Freezer Burn. Since I never light candles anywhere than in my bathroom, there's no way I'm buying those. I don't really like to equate pooping with the aroma of baked goods. Nothing will ruin Thanksgiving faster than having an uncontrollable Pavlovian poop response when Grandma places the pumpkin pie on the table. No, the candles I burn have the smell of things I'm unfamiliar with, like 'Hope' or 'Maturity' or 'Potential'.
Thank God they don't combine the items to make Bob Evans-scented candles. Sure it's home cookin' (assuming your home shares a parking lot with a Days Inn) but every menu item smells exactly like the sawdust that an elementary school janitor sprinkles on vomit.
And yes, I like to think that I'm the first person to ever use the phrase "Pavlovian poop response".
That's why you readers keep coming back.
Friday, October 27, 2006
If you're like me, you'll be spending your Friday night writing Tesla another letter to see if they'll play a reunion show at your office Christmas party. Or maybe you're tempted to go see Saw 3. Don't. Even though I wished for it every single time I blew out the candles on my birthday cake, nothing happens to Rachel Ray. In fact, she's not even in the movie. I always heard that if you don't tell anyone, your wish will come true but that's obviously bullshit. Next year, no one will be able to shut me up about how much I want a box of Shark Bites brand fruit snacks that is so huge the sharks are life-sized.
So here's basically how Saw 3 goes down:
Despite the numerous times Fred Rogers crammed his hand into the nether-regions of an unsuspecting puppet, he would never have such a decidedly unbeautiful day in the neighborhood, a truly un-neighborly day in the beautiwood as he did after assaulting Jigsaw.
Things escalated quickly after Mr. Rogers confiscated Jigsaw's tricycle and forced him to ride on that shitty little trolley. As a result, Mr. McFeely was dispatched in the most unpleasant way possible: by having to try to teach the concept of hours and minutes to the mildly retarded Daniel Striped Tiger.
Jigsaw did manage to seduce Lady Elaine Fairchilde, because she is a sucker for a man in a tuxedo. Who is she kidding? The only other eligible bachelors in the MB were Prince Tuesday, obviously gay, and X the Owl who was always stoned off his ass. Sure, she tried to seduce him, inviting her over to her carousel/museum/taxidermy, but he giggled through dinner and shouted repeatedly "That's what you call a masturbating cow!" every single time she asked if he would like another helping of Beef Stroganoff. So when Jigsaw showed up on the trolley track with a book of David LaChappelle photographs, she knew he was different.
Their union was brief and terrifying to those who saw it broadcast on their local PBS pledge drive, but it beat the hell out of a woman wearing a windsuit and a Dorothy Hamill haircut trying to tell you that a khaki "Why Aren't You And I Part of PBS? Because Then It Would Be PUBIS" totebag is worth a $500 donation.
And yes, nasty as it is, they did have a child. Some outlets are reporting the name as 'Sutton Pierce', others as 'Jaden James' but the most likely choice is 'But You Said If We Had Another One, You'd Get Me A Four-Wheeler'.
There. I just saved you $8. Tesla sure as hell better be ahead of me in the holiday buffet line.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
I still enjoy calling Rick's Fried Chicken to ask them if they have chicken breasts, then when they confirm it I say "Well, I bet mammograms are really hard for you", cackle madly and hang up. Yes, I do that two, three hundred times a day. So obviously I don't give up easily. And I'm lonely.
I attempted to carve another iconic pumpkin last night and again it was more difficult than teaching Kevin Federline how to use a condom.
I could carve a more realistic likeness of Ron Burgundy from a chicken pot pie and some melted crayons, neither of which will stain your carpet like a pumpkin that's been thrown down the stairs.
The only solace I took from the evening was that my neighbor has yet to install motion detectors.
I'm going home to listen to my Train CDs and sob. While I was next door, I was thisclose to filling his birdbath with some drops of Jupiter, if you know what I'm saying.
Oh, silly Train. From now on, whenever I proposition someone for sex, I'm going to do so by asking if they'd like to "Meet Virginia".
She never comprimises,
Loves babies and surprises (*Perhaps I'll save this line for the 2nd date)
Ain't it beautiful
And here she is again on the phone
Just like me hates to be alone
We just like to sit at home
And call a shitty chicken place
To ask if they have chicken breasts
"When everything feels like the movies
You bleed just to know you're alive"
No you don't.
You bleed just to know you're not pregnant.
"I just want you to know who I am"
You're an idiot, Johnny Rzezezezezezeznik.
I've got to stop listening to Virgin radio.
Especially since I am now talking shit to the Goo Goo Dolls.
And since I caught myself doodling "Dr. and Mrs. Robbie Williams" all over my notebooks.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
I was sitting at a stoplight today and noticed that a reasonably attractive man (read: no weeping sores) was staring at me. Normally this would be cause for me to celebrate, perhaps by drinking a bottle of Boone’s Farm and passing out facedown in the Ruby Tuesday’s parking lot, but not before asking several tables of terrified diners if they’d like to see my jalapeño poppers.
Oh, but there would be no Kountry Kwencher today...
No, Attractive Guy happened to be paying attention to me at the exact moment that I was picking my teeth. Using the corner of a baseball card. He couldn’t have been more horrified. I tried to show him the card, hoping he’d think it was OK since it was Byung-Hyun Kim, but he refused to open his window.
To prevent this situation from ever happening again, I crammed my glove box full of those red plaque tablets from the dentist’s office. So now any stoplight encounters with potential admirers can be interactive experiences. I can turn to him with my teeth dripping red like I’ve either made out with the Kool-Aid Man or feasted on the blood of the innocent and casually ask him to point out any places I missed with my toothbrush. And he can casually ask me to get out of his car.
I will, but not before he drops me off at Ruby Tuesday's.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
So the other night some friends and I got together, ate some chili and carved some pumpkins, then just sat around and waited for the LL Bean photographers to show up. Our evening was basically what would happen if a James Taylor song came to life. Regardless of the Hallmark Hall-of-Fame environment, my pumpkin sucked. It looked like someone had just thrown knives at its face. There was no discernable pattern at all, even though I was following a page from those pumpkin-carving kits they sell at Harris Teeter. You know, the ones in the 'seasonal' aisle right beside the costumes that people only buy if they don't love their children. Really, under no circumstance should you purchase your kid's Halloween costume at a grocery store. Social services should be waiting beside the register to take your child into custody as soon as Judy rings up that filthy unicorn suit with what looks like applesauce or quite possibly phlegm matted into its fur.
Despite my earlier failure and the fact that I have a hard time carving a fork-sized bite out of a piece of meat, I decided that I could design a pumpkin so incredible, you would have to use profanity to describe it. It would be such a breathtaking gourd, the trick-or-treaters wouldn't even notice that I was filling their bags with tiny shampoos and sewing kits I'd collected at various Best Westerns.
I spent most of my day working on said design and in a perfect world, where things were just like they are inside my head, where I have my own dinosaur, and we sit on my sofa admiring my pumpkin and watching "My Two Dads" all day, the result would look like this:
That's right. Borat. High five!
So I printed out a template, bought a pumpkin, and started carving. And by 'carving', I mean repeatedly knocking the pumpkin onto the floor, somehow cutting myself on the shin, making a large gash in my kitchen table, and maybe crying. More than once. Just let me point out that I could be out having sex if I wanted. Really. I've done it before. With another person.
Then reality reared its misshapen little head. The end result looked nothing like Borat. Or Alex Trebek. Or any other person that doesn't have severe chromosomal abnormalities. Several chunks of his flesh broke off and fell into his head cavity...the same thing that happened to Cher. As you can see from the picture, I had to reattach the missing bits with tiny nails. Again, just like Cher.
Some people say you just have to make lemonade out of life's lemons. These are the same people who have that "Hang In There" poster of a cat clinging to a branch. They also wear windsuits and collect Precious Moments figurines. So obviously we should ignore them. But when life gives you a shitty-ass, waste-of-time-you-could-have-spent-having-sex-or-playing-Nintendo-or-maybe-both-at-the-same-time-especially-if-you-did-it-on-the-Power-Pad kind of pumpkin, there's only one option.
Setting it on fire on your neighbor's patio.
And standing beside his stupid plastic Tiki statue, downwind from the scent of disappointment.
And running like hell when that wind picked up.
Maybe I should feel moderately bad about singeing the edges of his pony-shaped "Wipe Your Hooves" doormat, but I can't, because what does that even mean? What kind of women does he bring home? Effing centaurs?
What a letdown...thank God I have this unicorn costume. I can't believe they had one in my size.