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.