YouTube won't let people embed their videos anymore. Assholes.
Amish Paradise Quiz:
1. In the opening shot, why was he standing and staring at his shoes?
a) He was contemplating the way man came from dust
b) He was simulating a hanging
c) He was kicking himself for not harvesting enough grain this year
OR d) he had just wet himself.
Please explain your answer.
2. Which drugs was PlainWife on?
a) Prozac
b) Lithium
c) Acid
d) All of the above, plus heroin on bad days.
3. Who is the creepy lady Amish Guy is singing to?
a) His dead mother, taxidermied
b) His dead mother, taxidermied and mummified.
c) His dead mother, taxidermied, mummified, and made into a blowup doll.
d) Jezebel.
4. How much is Amish Guy enjoying churning that butter?
a) SO much.
b) WAY too much.
c) Not quite enough.
d) He should be shot.
5. How much of a discount would YOU require to buy one of those quilts?
a) 50%
b) 99.9%
c) Maybe if you threw in a cow, pre-milked.
d) I would rather live in Amish Paradise than buy one of those quilts.
Please Note: D is the correct answer.
6. What are your feelings toward the butt-kicking little boy?
a) He is going to hell.
b) He is awesome.
c) He is the living embodiment of every fantasy I've ever had.
d) All of the above.
7. What hand gesture was Amish Guy making to the tourists?
a) Peace
b) Thumbs-up.
c) A-okay.
d) Mimicking a gun firing.
8. What came out of the telephone?
a) Anthrax.
b) Cocaine.
c) Illicit donut powder (those Amish-- so secretive about their sugar fixes!)
d) Casper the Friendly Ghost
9. What was the barn made out of?
a) Wood from Noah's original ark.
b) Play-Doh.
c) Cowpie.
d) Rag dolls.
10. Who styled Amish Guy's hair?
a) A blind sadist.
b) Mary Poppins
c) Dr. Suess
d) Both (a) and (b)
The winner will receive an all-expenses-paid (even the Valium!), permanent vacation to Lancaster, PA! Step right up, don't be shy! You could spend all your time hanging with Amish Guy!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Adventures In Moving
Pretty much everybody’s favorite activity in the whole wide world, and it’s pretty obvious why. When else do you get to:
-Finally address the problem of those cockroach carcasses that you, uh, just sort of swept to the side of the stove once they were dead, vowing never to look in that particular space again,
-Ask yourself why, exactly, you needed eight cans of spray freshener,
-Rope your significant other into helping you move from your apartment to his in exchange for a healthy 60% of your stuff, including furniture,
-Sit on the floor of the cab of a particularly bumpy U-Haul all the way to Manhattan with your head down so the NYPD doesn’t see you, which is so comfortable you would not believe it, I want to travel this way all the time,
-Practically lose it seven or eight times because despite the fact that you’re getting rid of tons and tons of your stuff and you didn’t have a lot to begin with, the piles of stuff you ARE taking are not getting any smaller, DAMMIT,
-And, of course, sit around for forty or fifty minutes of anxiety while your vindictive little worm of a superintendent (unless he's somehow reading this, in which case he is a very handsome sweetheart of a man, and I'm pretty sure he's been working out) inspects your apartment and arbitrarily decides whether or not to sign off on you getting your $2,000 deposit back.
However, I have a secret weapon at my disposal: I am a master mover/packer. Yes. It’s not quite as exciting as being able to fly or see through walls, but it is a superpower all the same judging by the awestruck looks I get from friends after I finish packing their 3 bedroom apartments into a single van.
An thus far, my plan seems to be working fairly well. About a month ago, my charming boy and I agreed that he would rent a truck on Sunday and, with the help of his roommate, help move my/their stuff from my Queens apartment to their Manhattan one.
This made sense on any number of levels; for one thing, I think we’d get some pretty funny looks trying to schlep a sofa on the subway. For another, I will be staying with them until my departure next Friday—just about ten days and six or seven mental breakdowns away at this point. I would leave only a few items at my apartment until Tuesday night, when he would come over and help me bring them to the apartment.
Give or take a couple of back spasms, that’s exactly how it all played out.
My apartment is now empty, desolate, emotionally spent at the idea that after one last short visit today, I will be gone for good.
I’m lying. It doesn’t care. Hello, it’s an apartment.
I care, though. Nearly two years, I’ve been in this apartment. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere absent my parental units. It was my fifth residence since leaving college, third apartment I was paying for, first apartment I lived in alone, and the place in which I finally got my shit together. It’s where I grew up, learned to operate as an independent agent, loved two incredible men, survived heartbreak and loneliness, resolved past missteps, made decisions that would shape my future for the better, and became happier than I have ever been in my life.
Most importantly, it is the place where I finally learned how to play strip poker. Do you know how embarrassing this knowledge gap has been at parties?!
(Just kidding, Mom.)
(I already knew how to play.)
In a very real sense, I am moving on to bigger and better things. I was recently honored with an actual writing contract, so I will be writing my first book for publication. I will be returning to school and finishing the degree I am so ready to earn now. I will be getting to know my extended family much better than ever before. I will be living in a quiet place, a welcome change after the frenetic pace of the city.
I’ve lived here before, but I am returning a different person. By the way, I’ll be going by Fred from now on.
It’s the last two years that have made this possible. No risk was spared in the creation of this life, and as a result I have become a person with whom I can be pleased and proud. Emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, fiscally, socially, I am more ready to take on these challenges than I have ever been in my life.
I am at peace. The decision I made this time was the right one.
-Finally address the problem of those cockroach carcasses that you, uh, just sort of swept to the side of the stove once they were dead, vowing never to look in that particular space again,
-Ask yourself why, exactly, you needed eight cans of spray freshener,
-Rope your significant other into helping you move from your apartment to his in exchange for a healthy 60% of your stuff, including furniture,
-Sit on the floor of the cab of a particularly bumpy U-Haul all the way to Manhattan with your head down so the NYPD doesn’t see you, which is so comfortable you would not believe it, I want to travel this way all the time,
-Practically lose it seven or eight times because despite the fact that you’re getting rid of tons and tons of your stuff and you didn’t have a lot to begin with, the piles of stuff you ARE taking are not getting any smaller, DAMMIT,
-And, of course, sit around for forty or fifty minutes of anxiety while your vindictive little worm of a superintendent (unless he's somehow reading this, in which case he is a very handsome sweetheart of a man, and I'm pretty sure he's been working out) inspects your apartment and arbitrarily decides whether or not to sign off on you getting your $2,000 deposit back.
However, I have a secret weapon at my disposal: I am a master mover/packer. Yes. It’s not quite as exciting as being able to fly or see through walls, but it is a superpower all the same judging by the awestruck looks I get from friends after I finish packing their 3 bedroom apartments into a single van.
An thus far, my plan seems to be working fairly well. About a month ago, my charming boy and I agreed that he would rent a truck on Sunday and, with the help of his roommate, help move my/their stuff from my Queens apartment to their Manhattan one.
This made sense on any number of levels; for one thing, I think we’d get some pretty funny looks trying to schlep a sofa on the subway. For another, I will be staying with them until my departure next Friday—just about ten days and six or seven mental breakdowns away at this point. I would leave only a few items at my apartment until Tuesday night, when he would come over and help me bring them to the apartment.
Give or take a couple of back spasms, that’s exactly how it all played out.
My apartment is now empty, desolate, emotionally spent at the idea that after one last short visit today, I will be gone for good.
I’m lying. It doesn’t care. Hello, it’s an apartment.
I care, though. Nearly two years, I’ve been in this apartment. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere absent my parental units. It was my fifth residence since leaving college, third apartment I was paying for, first apartment I lived in alone, and the place in which I finally got my shit together. It’s where I grew up, learned to operate as an independent agent, loved two incredible men, survived heartbreak and loneliness, resolved past missteps, made decisions that would shape my future for the better, and became happier than I have ever been in my life.
Most importantly, it is the place where I finally learned how to play strip poker. Do you know how embarrassing this knowledge gap has been at parties?!
(Just kidding, Mom.)
(I already knew how to play.)
In a very real sense, I am moving on to bigger and better things. I was recently honored with an actual writing contract, so I will be writing my first book for publication. I will be returning to school and finishing the degree I am so ready to earn now. I will be getting to know my extended family much better than ever before. I will be living in a quiet place, a welcome change after the frenetic pace of the city.
I’ve lived here before, but I am returning a different person. By the way, I’ll be going by Fred from now on.
It’s the last two years that have made this possible. No risk was spared in the creation of this life, and as a result I have become a person with whom I can be pleased and proud. Emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, fiscally, socially, I am more ready to take on these challenges than I have ever been in my life.
I am at peace. The decision I made this time was the right one.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
And Then It Crashed Kaboom
I used to live with a little kid. One day she was telling me a long, rambly story the way kids do and at one point she used the above phrase. I stopped her.
“Hey, what does that mean?”
“It means it went CRASH and made a KABOOM sound,” she replied in a patronizing, “you complete moron” kind of voice. The way kids do.
Well, that is sort of how I feel about this blog right now, in much the same way that McCain sort of didn’t win the election (woot!).
Here has been my month so far, in the summary form we all know and inappropriately lust over:
-Wrote. Wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. 25,000 words in 12 days is no mean feat, my friends.
-Finger began hurting somewhere around 13,000 words. Pain became fruitful and multiplied throughout my hand.
-Continued writing anyway, since I am such a “tough cookie.”
-Finger was amputated.
Okay, the last is a complete lie. Actually my finger is doing fine now, in the sense that I can use it to type without actively weeping.
Other than that I’d say the above list was fairly accurate. I also squished in a trip to Baltimore, another trip to Philly, and still haven’t packed a single box for my apartment.
I should really get on that soon.
Anyway, all of this is my rationalization for not writing more in this blog. And my backup plans didn’t exactly work out either. I did get two very good guest blogs submitted by two writers who are at least as funny as I am, but then something strange happened. I didn’t want to use them.
Not because they weren’t good, more like because I got weirdly jealous and possessive.
My blog. Mine. MinemineMINEMINEMINE!!!, is how the thought process went. Also, I was sort of scared everyone would think they were funnier than me and stop reading my blog.
As for the CCS marathon, I would have been happy to continue with that (I still have plenty of backlogged favorites) but unfortunately the entry offended someone very close to me who regularly reads this blog. As a result, I do not feel entirely comfortable running a similar entry at this time. Perhaps after this person has had a chance to proofread the entry.
As a sidenote, I should point out that censorship is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. I heartily disagree with it and almost never employ it, but this particular situation is so delicate right now, and this person means so much to me, that I don’t feel okay about pushing the envelope just for laughs. Cost-benefit, my friends.
So both of my blog-fillers turned out to be epic failures. I guess I’ll resign myself to a light posting month, here. Hopefully when December hits, I’ll have a) more time to write and b) some good stories that don’t involve my occupational injuries.
December involves a cross country move, Vegas, friends, family, copious traveling, and proximity to death in the form of skydiving, so there’s a really excellent chance of that.
“Hey, what does that mean?”
“It means it went CRASH and made a KABOOM sound,” she replied in a patronizing, “you complete moron” kind of voice. The way kids do.
Well, that is sort of how I feel about this blog right now, in much the same way that McCain sort of didn’t win the election (woot!).
Here has been my month so far, in the summary form we all know and inappropriately lust over:
-Wrote. Wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. 25,000 words in 12 days is no mean feat, my friends.
-Finger began hurting somewhere around 13,000 words. Pain became fruitful and multiplied throughout my hand.
-Continued writing anyway, since I am such a “tough cookie.”
-Finger was amputated.
Okay, the last is a complete lie. Actually my finger is doing fine now, in the sense that I can use it to type without actively weeping.
Other than that I’d say the above list was fairly accurate. I also squished in a trip to Baltimore, another trip to Philly, and still haven’t packed a single box for my apartment.
I should really get on that soon.
Anyway, all of this is my rationalization for not writing more in this blog. And my backup plans didn’t exactly work out either. I did get two very good guest blogs submitted by two writers who are at least as funny as I am, but then something strange happened. I didn’t want to use them.
Not because they weren’t good, more like because I got weirdly jealous and possessive.
My blog. Mine. MinemineMINEMINEMINE!!!, is how the thought process went. Also, I was sort of scared everyone would think they were funnier than me and stop reading my blog.
As for the CCS marathon, I would have been happy to continue with that (I still have plenty of backlogged favorites) but unfortunately the entry offended someone very close to me who regularly reads this blog. As a result, I do not feel entirely comfortable running a similar entry at this time. Perhaps after this person has had a chance to proofread the entry.
As a sidenote, I should point out that censorship is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. I heartily disagree with it and almost never employ it, but this particular situation is so delicate right now, and this person means so much to me, that I don’t feel okay about pushing the envelope just for laughs. Cost-benefit, my friends.
So both of my blog-fillers turned out to be epic failures. I guess I’ll resign myself to a light posting month, here. Hopefully when December hits, I’ll have a) more time to write and b) some good stories that don’t involve my occupational injuries.
December involves a cross country move, Vegas, friends, family, copious traveling, and proximity to death in the form of skydiving, so there’s a really excellent chance of that.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
CCS, Edition One: Questionable Theology
As I mentioned last week, due to my wretchedly busy schedule (which isn't really all that wretched at all; I am quite enjoying it) I will not be posting much this month, and since I wasn't exactly breaking records in this department to begin with, I figure that on the somewhat rare occasions this month that I do post, I should have something a lot funnier than my own drivel to entertain you. I am sure we're all thinking of the same obvious source of this hilarity: the church.
Now, I know what you're going to say: It's not very nice to make fun of a thousands-of-years-old institution that has brought us such fine figures as George W. Bush and Shirley Phelps-Roper, not to put too fine a point on it. And you are right, of course.
But I simply cannot resist when they make it this easy. And I am not alone in this. Thus, with all due credit to Crummy Church Signs, which has made my workdays so much more pleasant and abdominal-muscle-surgery-inducing than they would have otherwise been, I will now share with you some of my personal favorites from his website. I've got a bunch, so this will likely be the first of four or five installments.
Not wanting to make this a completely Lady-Snark-free post, let me assure you that all sarcastic comments on these signs are my own. Joel's original commentaries are plenty funny as well, and I highly recommend that you spend some quality time with his site.
Without further ado...
A Step By Step Tutorial:
Step One: Love God and live a really good life...
Fake it till you make it. Arr.
Normally, we worship Satan. But we like to mix it up a little.
Think awful thoughts however, and they will cast you into hell.
Tamie, I just thought you'd like to know that you've been leaving out a word. It's soooooo much more sincere this way.
After death, they sink into a deep depression.
Way to hedge your bets there, First Pentecostal Holiness Church.
THE FOLLOWING SIGNS HAD NO PICTURE:
"Live Drive-Thru Crucifixion. March 31-April 1, 7-9pm"
Yeah, I'll have the two-for-one nail-through-the-hand special with ketchup down my side and an extra large Chalice please.
"Salvation: Apply Within"
Please allow four to six weeks for your application to be processed. We regret that there are only six open slots at this time and encourage candidates who are not selected to reapply next year.
"After the darkest night, perhaps the brightest dawn."
But you never know. Perhaps the even darker morning.
"When you step out, God steps in."
And he turns your life around (no thanks to chickenshit you)... that's what it's all about.
Clap clap.
Now, I know what you're going to say: It's not very nice to make fun of a thousands-of-years-old institution that has brought us such fine figures as George W. Bush and Shirley Phelps-Roper, not to put too fine a point on it. And you are right, of course.
But I simply cannot resist when they make it this easy. And I am not alone in this. Thus, with all due credit to Crummy Church Signs, which has made my workdays so much more pleasant and abdominal-muscle-surgery-inducing than they would have otherwise been, I will now share with you some of my personal favorites from his website. I've got a bunch, so this will likely be the first of four or five installments.
Not wanting to make this a completely Lady-Snark-free post, let me assure you that all sarcastic comments on these signs are my own. Joel's original commentaries are plenty funny as well, and I highly recommend that you spend some quality time with his site.
Without further ado...
A Step By Step Tutorial:Step One: Love God and live a really good life...
Fake it till you make it. Arr.
Normally, we worship Satan. But we like to mix it up a little.
Think awful thoughts however, and they will cast you into hell.
Tamie, I just thought you'd like to know that you've been leaving out a word. It's soooooo much more sincere this way.
After death, they sink into a deep depression.
Way to hedge your bets there, First Pentecostal Holiness Church.THE FOLLOWING SIGNS HAD NO PICTURE:
"Live Drive-Thru Crucifixion. March 31-April 1, 7-9pm"
Yeah, I'll have the two-for-one nail-through-the-hand special with ketchup down my side and an extra large Chalice please.
"Salvation: Apply Within"
Please allow four to six weeks for your application to be processed. We regret that there are only six open slots at this time and encourage candidates who are not selected to reapply next year.
"After the darkest night, perhaps the brightest dawn."
But you never know. Perhaps the even darker morning.
"When you step out, God steps in."
And he turns your life around (no thanks to chickenshit you)... that's what it's all about.
Clap clap.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Annoyingly Happy
Perhaps it’s the proximity to Christmas that’s making me feel this way. Perhaps it is the fact that I have been playing happy music. Perhaps it’s the fact that I have really fun things planned for the next few weekends, including this one. Perhaps it is the fact that I have never felt so deliriously excited about the prospect of my future, so secure in my choices, so certain of my path.
Whatever it is, it’s making me smile a lot.
This is sort of becoming a problem (not a big problem, I grant you... more like a problemet). It’s considered rude to be openly happy in New York City, since so many people are not. So I’ve been getting some Weird Stares, even some Grim Looks (as well as some returned knowing grins from people who are ALSO celebrating clandestine happiness for whatever reason).
I don’t blame them. I’d probably kick my own ass if I saw me acting this way.
But I can’t help it, you know? The smile, it is completely involuntary.
The happy, it is in me.
And I am not unhappy about that.
Whatever it is, it’s making me smile a lot.
This is sort of becoming a problem (not a big problem, I grant you... more like a problemet). It’s considered rude to be openly happy in New York City, since so many people are not. So I’ve been getting some Weird Stares, even some Grim Looks (as well as some returned knowing grins from people who are ALSO celebrating clandestine happiness for whatever reason).
I don’t blame them. I’d probably kick my own ass if I saw me acting this way.
But I can’t help it, you know? The smile, it is completely involuntary.
The happy, it is in me.
And I am not unhappy about that.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Epic Fail, Party Of One
You know, I started this blog thinking that it would be a hoot, a source of laughter and merriment, a venue for getting wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, etc. I figured that it would be a casual thing, that I would have a bevy of devoted readers who would enjoy reading my babble just as often as I pleased to write it, and that it would of course be tons o’fun.
And this blog has certainly exceeded my expectations in those respects. If by “exceeded” I mean “completely destroyed,” which I do.
Oh, not that I haven’t come close enough to spit on some of these goals. Hey, I was even “I Love Your Blog”-d in what was possibly the proudest moment of my existence so far, mainly because the author of this blog is not only my own personal American Idol but also a much cooler representative of Alaska than, oh, I don’t know, anyone currently up for the VICE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.
But enough about that.
The thing is, in a giant stunning upset, people are suddenly wanting to pay me for writing stuff. Don’t get the wrong idea; there isn’t a Pulitzer involved or anything (except in the private dinner theater of my imagination, that is). But nevertheless, I’ve been writing a bunch of pieces for this online magazine. For the first time in my life, I’m a paid freelancer (as opposed to being unpaid and, um, not a freelancer at all). A positive development, to be sure.
However, a blog AND a weekly column AND a bi-weekly article AND two big, top secret writing projects that are also expected to yield me some money at some point in the future are suddenly adding up to a lot of work, especially since I still have a job. At least for the next five weeks.
Oh, didn’t I mention? I quit last week. Resigned, actually. I did this so I could move to Arizona in five weeks time.
Where am I going with this? What is my very subtle point here? Why is the person who handles your money referred to as a broker?
I AM BUSY.
Busy writing, busy packing (well, technically I haven’t packed anything yet but I’m definitely thinking seriously about starting), busy working, busy selling stuff like couches, busy traveling (I’m out of town the next two weekends and either coming or going for three out of December’s four weeks), busy hanging out with friends I probably won’t see again for a very long time, busy trying to keep the sweet guy who keeps bringing me flowers happy.
Considering that I spent a big chunk of the summer (something like 89% but I’m sure no one was keeping track) as a slothful wretch who basically did nothing, this is quite a change of activity pace for me. I’m not complaining, mind you. These are all good changes, if they do make me want to occasionally pound my head into something equally hard repeatedly.
But something has to give, and I think it’s going to have to be this blog. For the month of November, I will not be posting.
I KNOW. Please stop wailing and gnashing your teeth. You have such pretty teeth. I would not have them gnashed on my account.
All is not lost. As I am traveling so much in December (a trip to Vegas is involved, and I think we all know what that means… I may well come home a different gender), not to mention moving to a new city and getting a new job and getting to know my new family (well, technically they’re not new but living with them is), I am sure I will have plenty to write about when that time comes.
In the meantime, I will not leave this blog completely unattended. I have two or three people in mind whom I plan to ask to write guest posts on here. They are all extremely funny, wonderful people from whom I regularly draw inspiration, hope and blood (they don’t actually know about this; they think the bite marks on their neck are from their loved ones, and I am all about having other people take the blame for my nefarious activities for as long as possible). It’s quite possible that you won’t even want me back after having them in your blog-life. I will try to have one guest-post per week.
IN ADDITION, I have recently made the best discovery of my entire Internet life ever. It stimulates your funny bone to the point of orgasm, and reading it while at work is nothing if not an exercise in containing laughter the way you try to contain unwanted gas at a nice dinner party.
With (ir)reverence, I give you… Crummy Church Signs.
Because Joel Bezaire does not mind people reposting the signs he gets as long as credit is given (I hope he considers a modest shrine sufficient), I will post some of my favorite signs along with my own snarky comments. I will also try to aim for one of these per week.
So, there that is. Sorry for the horrifying news. Grief counselors are available in the lobby.
And this blog has certainly exceeded my expectations in those respects. If by “exceeded” I mean “completely destroyed,” which I do.
Oh, not that I haven’t come close enough to spit on some of these goals. Hey, I was even “I Love Your Blog”-d in what was possibly the proudest moment of my existence so far, mainly because the author of this blog is not only my own personal American Idol but also a much cooler representative of Alaska than, oh, I don’t know, anyone currently up for the VICE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.
But enough about that.
The thing is, in a giant stunning upset, people are suddenly wanting to pay me for writing stuff. Don’t get the wrong idea; there isn’t a Pulitzer involved or anything (except in the private dinner theater of my imagination, that is). But nevertheless, I’ve been writing a bunch of pieces for this online magazine. For the first time in my life, I’m a paid freelancer (as opposed to being unpaid and, um, not a freelancer at all). A positive development, to be sure.
However, a blog AND a weekly column AND a bi-weekly article AND two big, top secret writing projects that are also expected to yield me some money at some point in the future are suddenly adding up to a lot of work, especially since I still have a job. At least for the next five weeks.
Oh, didn’t I mention? I quit last week. Resigned, actually. I did this so I could move to Arizona in five weeks time.
Where am I going with this? What is my very subtle point here? Why is the person who handles your money referred to as a broker?
I AM BUSY.
Busy writing, busy packing (well, technically I haven’t packed anything yet but I’m definitely thinking seriously about starting), busy working, busy selling stuff like couches, busy traveling (I’m out of town the next two weekends and either coming or going for three out of December’s four weeks), busy hanging out with friends I probably won’t see again for a very long time, busy trying to keep the sweet guy who keeps bringing me flowers happy.
Considering that I spent a big chunk of the summer (something like 89% but I’m sure no one was keeping track) as a slothful wretch who basically did nothing, this is quite a change of activity pace for me. I’m not complaining, mind you. These are all good changes, if they do make me want to occasionally pound my head into something equally hard repeatedly.
But something has to give, and I think it’s going to have to be this blog. For the month of November, I will not be posting.
I KNOW. Please stop wailing and gnashing your teeth. You have such pretty teeth. I would not have them gnashed on my account.
All is not lost. As I am traveling so much in December (a trip to Vegas is involved, and I think we all know what that means… I may well come home a different gender), not to mention moving to a new city and getting a new job and getting to know my new family (well, technically they’re not new but living with them is), I am sure I will have plenty to write about when that time comes.
In the meantime, I will not leave this blog completely unattended. I have two or three people in mind whom I plan to ask to write guest posts on here. They are all extremely funny, wonderful people from whom I regularly draw inspiration, hope and blood (they don’t actually know about this; they think the bite marks on their neck are from their loved ones, and I am all about having other people take the blame for my nefarious activities for as long as possible). It’s quite possible that you won’t even want me back after having them in your blog-life. I will try to have one guest-post per week.
IN ADDITION, I have recently made the best discovery of my entire Internet life ever. It stimulates your funny bone to the point of orgasm, and reading it while at work is nothing if not an exercise in containing laughter the way you try to contain unwanted gas at a nice dinner party.
With (ir)reverence, I give you… Crummy Church Signs.
Because Joel Bezaire does not mind people reposting the signs he gets as long as credit is given (I hope he considers a modest shrine sufficient), I will post some of my favorite signs along with my own snarky comments. I will also try to aim for one of these per week.
So, there that is. Sorry for the horrifying news. Grief counselors are available in the lobby.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Must Be Nice To Have Those Crystal Balls
It was a dark and stormy night.
Actually it wasn’t. It was a bright and chilly afternoon. In autumn. This weekend. But I’m about to tell you what an encounter with pure evil looks like, so go with me here.
I was with a certain handsome, gregarious fellow that I like a little bit. We had just finished a picnic lunch in Central Park, which is not at all a cliché, so you can all stop humming annoying Chicago songs right this minute.
Being the perfect fall afternoon that it was, things inevitably grew a little chilly. So we decided it was a good time for hot chocolate (in this context, “good time” is loosely defined as “anytime between September and April”).
By and by, we found ourselves in the Trump Tower, a building that boasts an indoor waterfall, a hideously expensive (I assume; we decided that it was in our best interest not to know for sure) bar, and a lot of floors that common folk can’t visit.
There is a brightly lit café beneath the main floor. It offers tasty hot chocolate and decent tourist watching. Someone should try combining those. “Tasty Tourist” would be a good new coffee flavor, plus I bet a lot of them would have improved demeanors if they were to be submerged in a hot beverage.
We were a little sleepy. I was leaning against the boy, he was playing with my hair. (It is not at all advisable to do this to someone who needs to stay awake, such as someone who is actively participating in a surgery. By the way.) We were talking sporadically, but mainly just enjoying the bustle around us, enjoying each other’s company, and most importantly, minding our own business. Probably this is implied, but I really want that point to hit home.
We were about to make a very important discovery about life.
A woman came up to us. Now, I am not going to lie to you. This woman was old. Grandmother at a minimum, at least she could have been if anyone had ever wanted to have children with her. And she had obviously learned a thing or two in her day, like how to be a completely pessimistic bitch to total strangers. We were about to benefit from her sagacious charm.
Pollyanna walked up to us from behind, so we had no warning that her veritable tornado of cheer was about to descend upon us. She tapped my friend on the shoulder and said in a loud (smoker-coated, Brooklyn-bred, cranky) voice, while gesticulating wildly at the two of us, “THIS… RIGHT HERE… YOU TWO… THIS IS JUST TEMPORARY.”
Our reaction, predictably, was a rather dumbfounded and unoriginal “Um…” This did not stop Pollyanna from continuing to expound on her theory.
“THIS ISN’T GOING TO LAST. IT’S ONLY FOR NOW.”
The boy recovered first (he’s good like that) and thanked her politely for coming over to tell us about that. Her response?
“AHAHAHAHAHA—cough—HAHAHAHAHAHA.”
This wasn’t a normal laugh, the sound a person makes in response to an amusing statement or occurrence. This was what a nice cocktail of bitterness, old age, chortling at one’s own “jokes” (epic failures), and throat cancer sounds like in auditory form.
“I’M JUST MESSING WITH YOU, HONEY. I’M OLD.” (No kidding.) “YOU TWO LOOK VERY CUTE TOGETHER.”
At this point, my companion was laughing. He even wished her a nice evening as she walked away. Me, I was trying to remember where the good voodoo doll vendor stands were located. (This is New York—of course there are voodoo doll vendor stands. I think.)
OF COURSE, the good comebacks started coming to me well over an hour later:
Yes, this is temporary—fortunately for humanity, so is everything else, including your life!
Who, him? He’s actually my brother.
(sad look) Yes, the doctor pronounced it terminal yesterday. I have two months left. How did you know?
Actually it wasn’t. It was a bright and chilly afternoon. In autumn. This weekend. But I’m about to tell you what an encounter with pure evil looks like, so go with me here.
I was with a certain handsome, gregarious fellow that I like a little bit. We had just finished a picnic lunch in Central Park, which is not at all a cliché, so you can all stop humming annoying Chicago songs right this minute.
Being the perfect fall afternoon that it was, things inevitably grew a little chilly. So we decided it was a good time for hot chocolate (in this context, “good time” is loosely defined as “anytime between September and April”).
By and by, we found ourselves in the Trump Tower, a building that boasts an indoor waterfall, a hideously expensive (I assume; we decided that it was in our best interest not to know for sure) bar, and a lot of floors that common folk can’t visit.
There is a brightly lit café beneath the main floor. It offers tasty hot chocolate and decent tourist watching. Someone should try combining those. “Tasty Tourist” would be a good new coffee flavor, plus I bet a lot of them would have improved demeanors if they were to be submerged in a hot beverage.
We were a little sleepy. I was leaning against the boy, he was playing with my hair. (It is not at all advisable to do this to someone who needs to stay awake, such as someone who is actively participating in a surgery. By the way.) We were talking sporadically, but mainly just enjoying the bustle around us, enjoying each other’s company, and most importantly, minding our own business. Probably this is implied, but I really want that point to hit home.
We were about to make a very important discovery about life.
A woman came up to us. Now, I am not going to lie to you. This woman was old. Grandmother at a minimum, at least she could have been if anyone had ever wanted to have children with her. And she had obviously learned a thing or two in her day, like how to be a completely pessimistic bitch to total strangers. We were about to benefit from her sagacious charm.
Pollyanna walked up to us from behind, so we had no warning that her veritable tornado of cheer was about to descend upon us. She tapped my friend on the shoulder and said in a loud (smoker-coated, Brooklyn-bred, cranky) voice, while gesticulating wildly at the two of us, “THIS… RIGHT HERE… YOU TWO… THIS IS JUST TEMPORARY.”
Our reaction, predictably, was a rather dumbfounded and unoriginal “Um…” This did not stop Pollyanna from continuing to expound on her theory.
“THIS ISN’T GOING TO LAST. IT’S ONLY FOR NOW.”
The boy recovered first (he’s good like that) and thanked her politely for coming over to tell us about that. Her response?
“AHAHAHAHAHA—cough—HAHAHAHAHAHA.”
This wasn’t a normal laugh, the sound a person makes in response to an amusing statement or occurrence. This was what a nice cocktail of bitterness, old age, chortling at one’s own “jokes” (epic failures), and throat cancer sounds like in auditory form.
“I’M JUST MESSING WITH YOU, HONEY. I’M OLD.” (No kidding.) “YOU TWO LOOK VERY CUTE TOGETHER.”
At this point, my companion was laughing. He even wished her a nice evening as she walked away. Me, I was trying to remember where the good voodoo doll vendor stands were located. (This is New York—of course there are voodoo doll vendor stands. I think.)
OF COURSE, the good comebacks started coming to me well over an hour later:
Yes, this is temporary—fortunately for humanity, so is everything else, including your life!
Who, him? He’s actually my brother.
(sad look) Yes, the doctor pronounced it terminal yesterday. I have two months left. How did you know?
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