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!
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.
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.
Of course, if my relationships were pitches they'd be down and away. Ding ding ding! Hey-oh! I'll be here all week...
This article in Cosmopolitan magazine is about sex, since everything they print is either about things to do during sex, how to meet someone for sex, and how to save both money and embarrassment by using everyday household objects to treat yourself for sexually-transmitted diseases. Until I read the September issue, I had no idea you could use a Swiffer for that.
The title of the piece (HAHAHA, that sounds dirty) is "14 Sex Moves You've Never Heard Of", which is true for most people not named Tara Reid because foreplay rarely involves the phrase "I double-dog dare you". Anyway, they're writing about items you can use during sex to heighten the passion and ensure that someone writes a limerick about you on the condom machine at the Shell station.
Things Cosmo says you should try--and I swear to you I'm not making any of these up--include a turkey baster, a baseball, saran wrap, and a stack of Scrunchies.
My question? If you still own Scrunchies, how the hell are you getting laid in the first place? Tara?
I just hope the kind of girl who wears Scrunchies can find the kind of guy who gets turned on when he finds a turkey baster in her nightstand.
And who doesn't know why she has a trashcan full of broken Swiffer pieces.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Imagine watching a documentary on the history of oats as hosted by the pig's head from Lord of the Flies. While you sit wrapped in a smallpox blanket. And you have bad skin. Now you have a rough approximation of this morning's meeting. Then picture yourself going out to lunch--and by 'going out' that means walking to an adjacent conference room so a woman with her name stitched on her shirt can give you an ice cream scoop full of something that is either squash or a dead Snork--and watching the pig head eat a Caesar salad one agonizing lettuce leaf at a time as he touches your wrist for emphasis after each comment about how his job is "soooo organic". You don't ask him to elaborate and eventually he ignores you except to make the occasional remark about your wardrobe selection which makes you think that he's just not familiar with the proud history of the US Olympic Drinking Team. It's not like this is just a t-shirt. The logo is embroidered. Em-effing-broidered, Assbag.
I was asked to attend an 'employee development' session which is corporate speak for horrid meeting that requires you to wear nametags even though you've had to walk past the desks of most of the attendees for two years every time you had to pee and no one is going to appreciate it when you insist on being addressed as 'Shasta McNasty'. I never enjoy these meetings because, to me, personal growth sounds like a tumor. No thank you.
But...I will share with you what I learned today
1) When being taught on how to properly give and receive praise and compliments in the workplace, it is appropriate to say "Eve, your new haircut is very flattering." It is not appropriate to continue "So much more flattering than your face, which makes you look like a retarded piranha".
2) When you are divided into teams and have to name yourself something empowering, it is appropriate to use your favorite album for inspiration. While team names like "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" or "Born in the USA" are stupid, they add levity and give insight into the team's focus. No matter how much you like the Pogues, your teammates will not appreciate when you christen them "Rum, Sodomy, and Lash".
3) It builds trust and relationships to socialize with your coworkers away from the office. It also builds your tolerance for Adderall because at the book club meeting last month you said "Then why are you reading this shitty book?" when you heard Pam say that her husband had a huge conch and it was too late when you realized that she was talking about their seashell collection.
Yes, in an effort to find someone I don't hate, I signed up for the Employee Book Club. The reading selections look like this.
October- Something I didn't even buy because it had a picture of a petticoat and a quill pen on the cover.
November- The Bible
December- The Bible
January-Tuesdays With Morrie, which I misunderstood as "Tuesdays with Maury" which could've been fun because Tuesday is always paternity test day.
February- The Bible
March-How to Make Love Like a Porn Star
Just kidding. It's The Bible. Apparently, if your first suggestion to the club is The Cannibis Companion, you will be asked to instead report back on the major themes found in the Employee Policy Manual.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
I hope this letter finds you well and that none of the reindeer have tapeworms or anything. I care about your reindeer, even the stupid ones like Dancer. I care both because they're majestic, if itchy-looking, animals and because I ate some reindeer meat a couple of weeks ago in Alaska and I've kind of had some intestinal issues since then. Let's just say I now have one over-developed forearm from making so many toilet paper mittens. That's what women do, Santa. Every time they use the bathroom, they wind so much Charmin around their hands it looks like they've jammed their fist inside a hornet's nest.
Maybe before I alluded to poop, I should have asked if you were eating. Sorry for that.
Anyway, all I want for Christmas this year is osteoporosis.
And maybe a new housecoat, some nitroglycerin pills, and a Columbo DVD box set because I am apparently now 63 years old.
See, this morning I was cleaning my house (read: picking up the confetti and empty Teddy Grahams boxes scattered about the Nintendo) and decided to vacuum. You know, cause that's how I roll. I have a hand-me-down vacuum from my mother who used it so often she could have swept up all the debris between here and Mercury. My mother vacuums something every single day. She is the Cal Ripken of the Dirt Devil. The vacuum...wait, is there a synonym for 'vacuum cleaner' that I could use here? Forget it. From now on, I'm referring to it as Charles. Charles is so heavy it's like pushing John Madden across the carpet as he performs a downward-facing dog.
Anyway, I was standing there wondering if anyone else had ever pulled a hamstring while Charles-ing. Or ruptured their spleen. Or just gave up and climbed on top of the kitchen counter and filmed their own submission for Pants Off Dance Off. And halfway through lip-synching "Onward Christian Soldier" (the Andy Griffith version...suck it, Jim Nabors) I thought, "Hmm, maybe I'll ask for a new Charles for Christmas."
And then I slammed my head in my car door repeatedly.
An effing vacuum for Christmas? What's wrong with me? I can't be that mature; I spent the remainder of the afternoon spelling dirty words out of Alphabits. I can, however, hear my bones getting brittle. You work fast, Claus.
So, I'll see you and a big shiny box full of stooped posture and broken hips at Christmas. As always I'll leave some treats for you: a cookie and a bottle of Purell, because God knows you need to wash your hands after being in my neighbor's house.
Stay jolly...it's slimming. Well, being jolly and taking 34 Trimspas.
P.S. I'm really sorry that Tim Allen is playing you again in another wretched movie. I didn't really pay attention to the trailer but it looks like it also has an irregular-looking, TJ Maxx-caliber reindeer and features Jack Frost in the role of Clay Aiken. Sweet.
P.P.S. Oh, could I get some more Charmin too? TP mittens are helpful but fingerless gloves, not so much.
Friday, October 20, 2006
I need a small favor.
My neighbor, Mr. Diagonal, is in my space again.
Not all of his car. Just enough that I can only get out of my own car by removing several important bones. This blows. Either I'm covering the damn thing with bumper stickers (or hood stickers or side mirror stickers or fixing his broken taillight stickers) or bashing it repeatedly with my tiny fists.
This seems more effective and pleasantly destructive in a Fight Club kind of way.
The first rule of My Shitty Neighbor is that we do not talk about My Shitty Neighbor.
If everyone could please print this out and paste it on his car, that would be swell.
Kisses and thank you for your help,
P.S. His is the black Volkswagen, the one still wet with my tears. I'll be inside playing Nintendo and creating a prosthetic femur out of papier mache and Laffy Taffy.
The Nintendo came in yesterday. That is definitely the greatest $150 I have ever spent in my entire life other than those Hepatitis vaccinations. And maybe the Intelius People Search report on my freshman-year boyfriend. (Hello Jim! Hope you liked the flowers! Why do you still live with your parents?).
Not only do I now own 32 games and two controllers, but it also came with the gun which is painted orange. The gun I used to have was grey which apparently could be viewed as "menacing" if you pointed it out your mother's van window at someone walking across a parking lot and they could "feel threatened enough" to "call the police" and even though you were just "bored" because you'd "been asked to leave your sister's dance recital" because "you wouldn't stop kicking the seat in front of you", you'll still have to spend a couple of weeks doing "community service like pulling tires and appliances and sometimes a Jim Croce album or two out of rivers".
Allow me to point out that while littering is indeed bad and always makes Indians cry, in southern West Virginia where I grew up if it weren't for discarded items beside the road the residents would have no idea how to get anywhere. Directions to peoples' homes frequently include phrases like "turn off the main road" and "take a left at the washing machine. No, the Kenmore. No, someone took the Maytag. Last weekend. Are you writing this down? OK, keep going until you pass the refrigerator. We're the third house on the left, across from the brush fire. Bring some pimento cheese."
Anyway, I immediately unpackaged the Nintendo and hooked it up to my huge TV which is what I purchased to replace my former boyfriend with. Sure, we had some good times, but could he broadcast "Shark Week" in stunning HD? No one ever wanted to come to my house, smoke pot, and watch my boyfriend. I'm just saying.
After 2 or 3 or 85 games of the Mario trilogy, I realized that 1) I had developed carpal tunnel syndrome and 2) if I had this setup the first time I had a Nintendo, I would still be a virgin. And living with my parents. Which reminds me, Jim, I sent you a Pajamagram.
Of course my mother wouldn't let me or my sister Runtie have any cool video games. We couldn't play anything that didn't come packaged with an almanac. Imagine our disappointment when none of our classmates ever wanted to stop by for a game of 'Extreme Win, Lose, or Draw' or 'Christmas at Step-Grandma's' or 'Virtual Vegetable Canning'.
But now I'm a grown up. I work hard so I can stock my own fridge with soda, purple stuff, and Sunny Delight. I also throw a massive tantrum when that effing dog laughs at me if I don't shoot one of the ducks. If anyone would like play a game of 'Skate or Die' with me this weekend, send me an email or stop by. Just turn onto the gravel road and take a right at the stack of tires.
P.S. Just kidding, Mom. We're totally playing "Sticky Bear's Typing Tutor".
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Dear Mr. B.E. Cajun-
I was at the mall today and was trying to make a lunch selection from the Food Court. I immediately vetoed Sbarro pizza because the last time I ate there I Sbarfed. Great American Cookie Company was out since they refused to design a cookie cake for me that looks like a giant communion wafer. The refreshments during Mass rarely contain Reese’s Pieces. Or have a picture of Piglet drawn on them with icing. Steak Escape’s sanitation rating was too low which was surprising since they hire from only the finest work-release programs.
And Dippin’ Dots may be the ice cream of the future, but in the present they look the shit inside those packets marked “do not eat” that are always at the bottom of shoeboxes. Which left you, Big Easy Cajun.
You had me from that free sample because everyone knows that any food tastes better if it’s served on a toothpick. I ordered that very item, the Bourbon Chicken, with a side of noodles. I don’t know what brand of bourbon you use, but it—and by extension, your chicken—tasted like nightcrawlers. And sir, please explain to me how you can take an ordinary package of noodles and prepare them so that they taste exactly how a wet dog smells. Could you send me the recipe? Because that is a dish that I would like to fix for someone I hate.
So I spent the afternoon curled into a ball underneath my desk. Yes, that’s how I spend every afternoon, but today I didn’t enjoy it as much. Upon reflection, I think it was the toothpick that tasted good. And by 'good' I mean 'without the aftertaste of mulch'. Here's the deal. You ruined my nap. So you can either get rid of the lying bitch who dispenses the samples or I tell the guy at Steak Escaped From Minimum Security that you were on his jury.
Keep in touch! Spanish class was da bomb!
Is cleaning Folgers' grounds out of your toe webbing after you spill an entire can of Dark Roast onto the kitchen floor. But the smell of coffee as you shake it out of the Raid ant baits beside the refrigerator is so exhilarating.
First question of the day:
Really, how many more blades can they put on a razor?
I assume that when the Gillette Gigashaver slices off the top two layers of skin, that would probably eliminate that pesky hair growth problem. A close shave, yes...close to your face bones. But comfortable? Even with the 18 pound Aloe strip, probably not so much.
Obviously, the multi-bladed razor is in keeping with the incredible advances in technology we've seen over the past 100 years.
(Here's where you should start the slide show. I'd really like it to be narrated by a guy who uses old-timey words like 'swell' and 'hip' and 'why can't we still have Clinton as our president?')
A title slide goes here. Then...
1903- The Wright Brothers invent the airplane, leading to the most boring tourist attraction ever at Kitty Hawk. Planes are nice and all, but everything you need to know about their invention can be found on the North Carolina license plate.
1923- Clarence Birdseye invents frozen vegetables, laying the groundwork for the discovery of Skillet Sensations 60 years later.
1928- Jonas Salk discovers Penicillin, following the discovery of an odd rash on his daddy parts after attending the 1st annual Sorority Rush.
1932- Polaroid instant photography is invented allowing someone to dress like Pocahontas and pose seductively without having to hang on to the film until 1974 when a Photomat opens down the street.
1934- The Monopoly game is produced, forcing generations of children to realize it's the most boring shit in the world and the only good use for the game is to scatter the pieces beside the bed of their younger sister so that she wakes up to the sharp pain of a tiny Scotty dog imbedded in the sole of her foot. Or maybe it was the sewing machine. Either way, it was hilarious.
1943- Jethro Tull invents the Aqualung.
1947- Tupperware is invented, creating a need for pot roast. I have a great recipe for leftover pot roast. I'm pretty sure that's the only way you can prepare it.
1955- Tetracycline is developed and my mother says it's to blame for our neighbor's nasty brown teeth. No word on what caused him to be a douchebag.
1970- Alan Shugart creates the Floppy Disk. Mrs. Alan Shugart claims he's had it since their wedding night. She sobs and puts her Pocahontas costume on, but it's all for nothing.
1978- The Jarvik-7 artificial heart is developed. It only works intermittently until it is upgraded to the Jarvik 7-11, which is operational 24 hours a day.
1983- Cabbage Patch Kids are sold.
1984- Consumers realize that Cabbage Patch Kids are the ugliest creatures they've ever seen.
1985- Yard sales invented in the hopes that you'll make 75 cents off of that hideous Cabbage Patch Kid with the stupid-ass name that you bought for $150 the day after Thanksgiving that your daughter played with for about half an hour before she ran over it with her Big Wheel and dented its nasty goblin head. Then you shouted at her for no reason and got so upset you tried to calm yourself with a glass of gin which turned into a tumbler which turned into the bottle which turned into 6 months that you don't remember but you've been sober for 18 months now and DAMN YOU Xavier Roberts! DAMN YOU TO HELL!
1986- Max Headroom is effing awesome.
1989- Philip Lilly wears a calculator watch into Mrs. Cooper's 3rd grade class and you immediately send him a note asking if he'd sit with you at lunch. He checks 'no' and you throw your Trapper Keeper across the room, earning you a spot in detention where you have to copy the selections from the letter 'N' out of the dictionary.
1992- The smart pill invented. I don't know what this is.
1998- Viagra developed. Mrs. Alan Shugart pinwheels in her grave.
2002- The Mach 2
2003- The Mach 3
2004- The Mach 4
2005- The Mach 5
2006- The Mach 6
I can only hope that they trick us and jump straight to the Mach 8. The Mach Ocho? The Macho? Gillette, I expect royalties for that...
Whew. Take a break and run to the restroom.
I really want to be described in print somewhere as being attractive and fit. I mean, other than in something I've written about myself. Oh, and maybe if the word 'creepy' wasn't used, that would be neat too.
Once I read an article in People or some other publication that I only read at the dentist's and they described Tea Leoni as being 'impossibly lithe'. This was before she was known being 'impossibly married to David Duchovny' but still 'impossibly irritating but sometimes with a cute haircut'. Anyway, future biographers, I would like a description like that. Perhaps in my obituary. Those plush casket linings can be so flattering.
The other thing I really want is to be driving at a high rate of speed and have to perform some insanely challenging yet delicate maneuver--like swerving to avoid a burning, runaway school bus full of orphans or a baby duck or maybe just once I won't hit the curb when I pull out of the Chick-fil-A drive through--that I'll manage to pull off without even putting my cell phone down. Yes, I'll be talking on the phone and not just using a Bluetooth headset (side note: I really hate the ones that look like you've got a gigantic slug curled around your ear. I always want to go dump salt on the wearer, just to see what happens). My passenger--perhaps Owen Wilson, not because I really like him, he just seems like a good sidekick--will shout an obscenity, partially out of relief and partially out of awe for my driving skills but I won't even notice. Then, we'll park the car and we'll get out to go to the station--because we're FBI agents too--and he'll get out of the car and have to jog to catch up with me and he'll kind of slap me on the back and say, "Hey, nice driving back there." And I'll just shrug and say something like, "Yeah, I do what I can."
And then he'll tell me that the coffee on my feet makes me look impossibly lithe. And perhaps impossibly retarded. But that part he says under his breath.
The days where you can extinguish an orphan and send a baby duck home...well, those are the days that are worth living.
No, I wouldn't actually say that. That's so Tea Leoni.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
I just did the 'face recognition' thing on MyHeritage.com. Why? Because the Nintendo I won on eBay isn't here yet and I still have time before every waking moment is spent playing Kid Icarus.
Obviously MyHeritage is trying to get into MyPants. Why else would they tell me I look like teen idols Clarissa Explains it All, Kelly Kapowski, and that girl from The Princess Diaries who played a slut in that crappy movie about rich kids that tried to join a Mexican gang? Plus, MyHeritage keeps calling me at 2 in the morning, asking if I'd like to come over and hang out or eat some EZ Mac or something. What does that mean?
And Jessica Alba? Right. Maybe they meant Alan Alda.
If you're going to lie to me, at least make it believable.
Me: So, MyHeritage, here's a creepy picture of myself where I look like I've spent three days passed out facedown in an Estee Lauder blush compact. What do you think?
MyHeritage: If I squint, you look like Kimmy Gibbler or a thinner Carl Winslow or sort of like this woman that used to work with my mom and make everyone in the office buy her kid's Girl Scout Cookies. We used to hide from her but you're OK, even though you dress like a subway busker. Now please stop standing on my porch.
Me: Want to play Duck Hunt?
This is a more accurate representation.
Lady Elaine and I share makeup tips. Obviously.
P.S. This is as good a time as ever to finally post this.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Here's what I wanted the opera to be like.
Here's what it actually was.
So I reluctantly agreed to go to the opera with a friend of mine. We went to see La Boheme which is basically Rent without the AIDS or the black people. I tried to like it but anything that involves that much singing without a single guitar solo sucks. In fact, opera is derived from an Italian word meaning "just as enjoyable as slow death by glue trap".
I attempted to have a positive attitude. Freddy Mercury made it sound fun: "Bohemian Rhapsody", "My Best Friend"...they were part of his night at the opera. Although he was so coked out, he'd have a pleasant time staring at a gum wrapper and a bit of string for three hours.
The positive attitude bullshit lasted until I noticed that the couple sitting beside me were potentially the last two surviving members of the Whig party. And he chose to whistle along with the orchestra, not realizing that they weren't playing "The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy". And she parked her Rascal scooter in the middle of the aisle beside me, forcing everyone to use my face as a handrail to steady themselves as they made for the exits. All of that and I was rewarded with four tuberculosis-filled acts of mind-numbing boredom.
Poor, disease-harboring girl meets poor shitty poet.
The concession stand is out of Diet Coke.
After 10 minutes of singing in Italian, they fall in love.
I get distracted by the awkward clapping style of the woman in front of me.
They break up because he's jealous and she's coughing phlegm onto his poems.
Here's where I notice that someone in the program is named "Charles Peed".
She dies in his bed in his dirty apartment even though you know he couldn't afford a new bed and he definitely had to incinerate that one after she kicked off. I've seen the Velveteen Rabbit.
Bedtime. But first I'm taking something for this wicked headache. I think my brain is La Bohemmorhaging.
More tomorrow. Actual words and not just crap I do in Photoshop.
So we had a small earthquake here this morning. It was a 2.6 on the Richter scale which is less powerful than Rosie O’Donnell’s post-Chipotle farts but that hasn’t deterred the local news from going batshit over it. They’ve placed this graphic on their website and the newscasters are discussing it in anxious tones generally reserved for their exposés on why the shelf you bought at Pier 1 is both a silent killer and a pedophile.
I’m not sure what the WXII art department was thinking. It looks like they combined an EKG with a picture illustrating that ‘Footprints’ prayer. Between the arrows marked ‘P’ and ‘S’ is where Jesus was carrying you. Then he tossed your body into that huge chasm.
If you don’t work for a local NBC affiliate, you can stop reading here. If your name is, say, Kimberly and you kind of look like maybe Richard Dreyfuss sculpted you out of a plate of mashed potatoes, please continue.
Dear Kimberly of WXII News 12:
Long time listener, first time writer. Yes, listener. I can’t watch your newscasts because neither you, nor any of the other anchors are capable of blinking and that is somewhat unsettling. But I do tune in regularly for hard-hitting journalism like your recent feature on the trapping and selling of Build-A-Bear pelts. Anyway, I know you’re busy sending a news team out to Harris Teeter to stand beside the free cookie bin and ask shoppers if they plan on purchasing milk or bread or Snausages to store in case of another earthquake, so I’ll make this quick. I just wanted to donate the graphic below for you to use in the event of additional seismic activity. Obviously, it’s in keeping with the subtlety and nonsensationalisticness (Yes, that’s a word. So is douchebaggery, but you know this; you work with sportscasters) that I’ve come to expect from your station. The same station that calls itself WXII but broadcasts on channel 11. Enjoy.
P.S. I’m pretty sure my neighbor is giving me cancer by continuously parking in my space. Could you please do a story on him?
Monday, October 16, 2006
I received the official NFL Shop Holiday catalog in the mail today, featuring an expanded line of women's merchandise. Sure Reggie's a stellar running back and a swell person but I can't see many women interested in wearing the word 'Bush' across their backs. I guess a jersey is more tasteful than a thong but for the love of God, I don't ever want to see the man who purchases the boxer shorts that say "Packers" on the ass.
Confidential to The Guy Who Lives Beside Me Whose Name Is Potentially Brian or Brett or Felix: Parking your car is not a game of Connect Four. You do not get a reward for doing anything diagonally. The next time your Passat is passartially in my space, you're getting a "So Gay I Can't Even Park Straight" sticker slapped on your bumper. And I'm putting one on your car too. You're really pissating me off.
There is no reason in the world why this should even exist.
But sometimes I get tired of drawing sea monsters.
And no, I have no idea what my t-shirt means.
Probably something like "I Have Sex With Dragons".
Or "There's No Reason Why a 27 Year Old Should Still Shop at Wet Seal".
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I was on the phone with Runtie earlier today and, admittedly, not paying attention because my elderly neighbor was creaking across the parking lot, a process that takes all day especially if she has to crouch behind the dumpsters to wait out the buzzards. You may be familiar with her if you ever studied the ancient Sumerians. Which explains why she refers to her apartment as a zigurrat but not why she calls her crotch 'the fertile crescent.'
Anyway, Runtie had been talking about her volunteer work at the Free Clinic (she's a nurse...although I don't know what else you could volunteer to do at the Free Clinic. Valet is probably out) and while I was trying to navigate through the cloud of dust and locusts the Sumerian just farted out, I spaced and the next sentence I heard involved speed dating, twenty dates in an hour. I was really starting to think that her standards had dropped if she was trolling the waiting rooms for companionship. But then, thank God, I realized there was an additional subject and two predicates that I'd missed. Not that there aren't lovely people sitting there reading Highlights and waiting for the results of their syphilis screenings...she probaby just wouldn't need the entire three minute 'date' to explain to him how many times a day he needs to apply the ointment.
Remember kids, as Neil Young said 'only love can break your heart.' But only syphilis can make your genitals feel as though they've been gnawed by an angry wolverine.
CLARIFICATION- Runtie is not affiliated with speed dating in any way. Because she's super cute and fun and smart and is the one my parents show off in pictures. My face is only placed in a frame after they've filled the others with snaps of their dog, the salad spinner, the results from my mother's colonoscopy, and a photograph of marigolds that used to be on a packet of seeds.
On another note...
Today was day three of my Triumphant Return to Work (cue trumpets and elaborate Terry Gilliam animation) and I have three Somewhat Less Triumphant Things to Share with You:
1) When trying to look busy, spend an hour or seven sending yourself meeting requests in Outlook and then replying to tell yourself that yes, you will attend the meeting tomorrow morning about "The Flushing Problem." Not only will your calendar fill up, but your coworkers will listen jealously as your email notification beeps out the morse code for "I effing rule."
2) When working with Sales and Marketing people who are trying to assign tasks for next month's inappropriately titled "S&M Update", no one thinks it is funny when you raise your hand and say that you'll bring the ball gag and some disinfectant spray.
3) When you see your boss, he will not really appreciate when you point out that he looks well-rested, like his face is at least 800 thread count. You know. Um. Really smooth. Like a nice sheet. It's...uh...good. You look good. Sir.
Knowing is half the battle. Hiding from the vultures is the other half.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I had to go back to my real job today which means I had to make my own fun and/or draw pictures of sea monsters for eight hours. Actually, if that were a Venn diagram, you'd find "More than half of my workday" in the overlap between those two items.
So I created a game for you, my loyal readers and new tipster Jenn to play at home. It's called "Ski Resort, Gum Flavor, or Names Mel Gibson Called a Female Police Officer?" And it's so easy! Look at the list below and select which items fit into which category. Answers below. Yes, I'm insanely proud of myself for this...
Big League Chew
Pencils down. The answers are:
Ski Areas- Alpenglow, Snowcrest, Powder Ridge
Gum Flavors- Spearmint, Winterfresh, Winterfrost, Polar Ice, Arctic Chill, Avalanche Mint, Winterblue
Mel Gibson Insults- Sugartits
Ski Areas That Mel Gibson Could Use As Insults in Future Drunken Rants- Sugarbush, Titcomb
Ski Areas Listed Just Because They Made Me Snicker- Titcomb, Antelope Butte (yes, in my head I pronounce it 'butt'. Because I am 12 years old.)
Ski Area That is A Potential Term of Endearment for My Next Boyfriend- Butternut(s)
Question That Was Added For Those of Us Who Perhaps Have Suffered From Carbon Monoxide Poisoning Because If They Missed This One, They Shouldn't Be Allowed to Do Anything Unattended Including Purchasing Potting Soil or Accessing the Internet From Their Assisted Living Facilities- Big League Chew
Ski Area That Dentyne Would Like to Purchase Because They Would Love to Combine The Flavors Of Hot and Cold Into A Chewable Square- Frost Fire
Ski Area That is Also a Gum Flavor- Wintergreen. I so hope for a bloody battle between the state of Virginia and the makers of Trident. Who would obviously use Tridents as their weapons. And Virginia would use...um...Virgins.
Oddly enough, Trident is listed as a gourmet food on Amazon. But a cursory look at their gourmet food best-sellers makes me think that they're pretty liberal with the definition.
I hope they open a restaurant, because I'd love to have their feature entree, Boeuf Bourguignon with a Confit of Gushers and Garnished with Funyuns. Ignoring the fact that 'Boeuf' looks like a sound effect--an onomatopoeia if you will--for vomiting that you'd see in a foreign comic strip. And Bourguignon just sounds pretentious. If Butternuts ever used that word, our relationship would be over with the quickness.
UPDATE: According to commenter, um, Anonymous, 'boeuf' is also the sound one's head makes when it is struck by a French-English dictionary. No word on whether the person had to boeuf after the trauma.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Wow. Apparently I have more than two readers. My former roommate and my fake uncle have been joined by the mysterious Jenn who tipped off Hugh Laurie FAQs about my current obsession.
If it leads to more readers and to perhaps taking Hugh Laurie to The Cheesecake Factory or something, I'll continue to mention him in posts. But, seriously, thanks to my new reader(s) for the recommendation. I hope that a tipster points out yesterday's post to the employees of Abercrombie & Fitch. Oh, who am I kidding? Someone would have to read it to them and nobody wants to sit and smell that cologne long enough to do so.
Today's interesting "Here's Why I Sleep Alone And No I Don't Have Any Effing Cats" fact is that apparently the name "Greg House" was derived as an homage to Sherlock Holmes. It makes sense, as the Doctor's address is #221, an obvious parallel to Holmes' home at 221B Baker Street. If you'll turn to page 193 of "The Hound of the Baskervilles", you can follow along as I place my head inside the book and slam it violently. There is no reason that anyone should know that.
Jenn, let me know if Hugh calls for me. I could really go for some of that Bang-Bang Shrimp. No, that's not a euphemism.
Seriously, Jenn, do this fast. I'm hungry. And kind of woozy...I should've chosen a smaller book.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
I saw this sign in Alaska. I think it means that people wearing Abercrombie & Fitch clothing will be crossing here. They will no doubt also have razor-sharp cheekbones and perfect hair and will silently guide you and your gigantic pores to the nearest Old Navy.
I hate Abercrombie. I wear an XL at Abercrombie and I'm not willing to remove my ribcage in order to fit into more attractive sizes. I mean, sure, I like some of their sweaters but exposing my internal organs to the elements in exchange for a V-neck seems ridiculous. Well, unless it's teal. Because teal makes me feel pretty.
As both of my readers know, my sister Runtie is the cute one in the family. Our parents were planning on having six children and I think they planned on an equal distribution of aesthetically pleasing features. I came out with all of my limbs and fontanelles that eventually closed so they were happy. Five years later when I still couldn't tie my shoes but also couldn't use Velcro without bleeding, they'd resigned themselves to stopping at two. They had several helixes worth of good-lookingness left and they gave it all to her. Sooooo, when she goes into Abercrombie, they always offer her a job or offer to put her face on a shopping bag. When I go into Abercrombie, they point me in the direction of the dead rat clogging the employee urinal.
It's cool. I'm over it. I'm better than Abercrombie and their stupid Moose logo and their cologne that smells like every Sigma Chi's laundry hamper and their thin cashmere sweaters and their sticky urinal cakes that always cling to the rat when I'm removing it and their $30 flip flops and their overpriced Ezra Fitch line. Yeah, I'm better than Ezra. So there.
Um. Excuse me. Back to the street sign. Drivers are encouraged to speed up.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
I'm back home and ready to take a nap for a couple of hours or until Lindsay Lohan makes out with yet another Greek shipping heir, whichever comes first.
Between Honolulu and Raleigh I managed to watch approximately 22 straight episodes of 'House'. Excessive. Halfway to the Avis counter I realized that I was walking with a limp.
I can suspend my disbelief with that show up to a point. Sure, insomnia means you've contracted the bubonic plague. I'll bite. The part that is completely ridiculous is the slick, sterile art-deco hospital where they work. I've never seen a hospital/walk-in clinic/student health center where there wasn't at least one vinyl chair with a slash in it, something dirty written on the wall in Spanish, a sticky end table with 42 issues of Highlights magazine, and two televisions on different channels each turned to the maximum volume level, shouting at each other like contestants in the "Family Feud" faceoff circle. Either the producers have never actually been to a hospital or they've been receiving medical attention at IKEA.
And, right, like there wouldn't be a single Asian doctor there either.
I did enjoy my stay in Honolulu. I met the chef of the hotel restaurant...OK, 'chef' in that context is a Hawaiian word for 'guy who opens the cans of beefaroni". Anyway, he was very nice and on my way out gave me a gigantic pineapple. I thought that turning it down that would be bad luck--aren't dead Hawaiians reincarnated as Del Monte products? So that was my 'small personal item' that I carried onto the plane. Trust me, you can really make friends with your fellow passengers when you place a ripe fruit on top of their luggage.
OK, sleeping for a couple of hours. I'm tired, Lindsay...I hope Thursday is your slow day.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
On my way home. Courtesy of the International Dateline, I'm on my second Wednesday of the week. The way my travel schedule's been, if it weren't for birth control pills I'd have no idea what day it is. So now what? I guess I should've cut Wednesday in two and just taken half yesterday...um...today.
Currently in Honolulu at a hotel by the airport that is dying to be authentic. They have ukelele music playing in the lobby, a bowl of macademias on the counter, and they say 'kaumaha' after they slice your foot with your suitcase wheel and then cheerfully point out that you're getting 'koko' all over the 'papahele'.
I left Kwajalein, Marshall Islands on Wednesday, Part A. That may be the most beautiful place I've ever been in my entire life. The color of the water there is so incredible that if you tried to paint it, it would look too fake to sell to even the least discerning hotel chains. Except maybe this one. Actually, if you drew a giant laughing hibiscus in the foreground it would probably hang behind the front desk.
The flight was uneventful, finally. Although my luggage appeared on the carousel soaking wet and smelling like tuna. I just threw it in the closet and will leave it there until it flakes easily with a fork.
Bedtime. Going to try not to get any 'koko' in my 'moena'. Especially since I'm out of birth control.