Please, please, please don’t tell me this style is going to continue. At least, not without ruffles on the butt a la a three-year-old.
Seriously, what happened here? Did someone lock Britney in a room with a mountain of cocaine and a Wii and told her not to come out until it’s all gone? Hmm, I think I just thought of a new “diet plan.” I’ll make millyuns.
Head cold subsiding…more later.
My macrolulz is on the cover of I Can Has Cheezburger. Fnif.
BOY HOWDY have I been crafty today. It’s like someone squeezed my fucking ovaries or something. I have been working on a project I put aside months ago, which is a conversion of an old medicine cabinet into a jewelry box. And I have been painting the bathroom. Go me. Go spring mania. The sun is back.
Box and Titties. Okay, no titties. But don’t you want to sing that now?
Oh to the motherfucking ho-ho-ho, bitches, my Vurah Special Box from Wyoming came today. That was nutty-fast. I’m glad I didn’t drop the extra forty bone for express shipping. Come ON. How much faster is less than a week, anyway?
Franny peeps in unbridled curiosity. She did not know I was getting a box. I got her a wee apron when I was in WY, so she can be all Encyclopedia Domestica like me.
She fucking flipped her lid when I opened the box.
Okay, as you may recall, a couple of months ago I whored myself out for a free trip to BlogHer, which culminated in me posting a picture of my damaged ass online.
There’s no way back, is there? Will I ever have legitimate employment ever again? Not at this rate.
Many of you have claimed your favors, so thanks. I know I have lost track of a couple of you though, which comes to me late in the night as I am falling to sleep. I have searched my emails and comments for you to no avail.
There was one person who wanted a recommendation for good Greek food in Denver. I don’t know anyone in Denver. Anyone want to chime in on that topic, particularly people who live there?
Also, someone else besides Scot-san who wanted a PNW’ed. I know it’s one of my regular commenters, too. I blame glue huffing. Will you please remind my dumbass of who you are? Also, shout out a subject and I will make it happen. Ice cream, sock garters, the color puce. I’ll take it in the direction of your choice.
Anyone else? Aiight Blah.
Also, if you had a Murloc. Those WoWers. At least this boy isn’t beating off, like the last one.
O. Minor Pwnage; Maximal Lulz
“So Ginger painted her living room. And Mary Ann got mad because she said Ginger was just copying her,” my acquaintance said.
“Well, no one should be mad at anyone,” her husband said. “They were both just copying the Pottery Barn catalog.”
M. New Methods in Urban Boredom
I have been angry since I’ve been back to Seatown. I am now back in the land of passive-aggressive driving, and I have decided to take this problem head on, in a fashion that is best suited to the natives.
I was driving around Fremont yesterday and going to a munie lot that was near the restaurant we wanted. I was stopped at a light and a man wanted to get out of his parallel spot in front of me. I was thinking I would let him in, but I was kind of tired and hungry, which was making me spacy.
He did that thing they always do, which is to turn on the turn signal, try to inch out, and sigh a lot. He did not look at me. I like to make eye contact with people so I can see if they’re awake, on their phones, hittin’ teh bongz, whatever. I crept forward a bit, kind of on accident, and I could see the back of his head go all agitated (seriously), and his lips were moving. Still, he did not look at me, which is the proper protocol for a Seatool.
The other proper protocol in this situation is for the driver’s girlfriend to crane around and look at you, after the boyfriend’s lips finish moving furiously. The girlfriend at this point does one of two things: 1. Frowny brows, or 2. The blank, “I’m not really involved here, I’m just checking you and your assery out” look.
That’s it. No more feeling stupid from the passive-aggressive fuckwads. My new tack is to smile. For real. And mean it. I smile and wave like I am a smiling and waving machine, who is programmed to do those two things and nothing else.
The girlfriend smiled and waved back.
I did this to someone who almost ran me down in a crosswalk a couple of weeks ago, and to someone in Boulder who was crossing the street illegally and gave us a death look because we were coming to a stop sign legally.
I like how it pulls people up short as they go, “Do I know that insane person?” GERT.
G. PSASTFU
“hey, in a completely unrelated matter, can you give me a good solid definition of assmitten?”
—Zan
Assmitten n. ‘as ‘mi-t&n c. 2003 An assmitten is a person who is foolish, but fairly benign. It’s the guy who takes the last doughnut and says “Whoops, last doughnut!” and then moves to put it back, realizes that you can’t put the doughnut back once you’ve touched it, shrugs, and then sheepishly starts eating it. Also the person who just cut you off in traffic, and they’ve got the “Beam me up, Scotty” bumper sticker and their turn signal on, indicating the direction opposite of which they just moved in.
Usage: “When I realized my tampon string was hanging out my shoe, I sure felt like a grade-A assmitten.”
Related terms: Assmittens, Assmittentry
Also, WTF, Saturn?
One: Golden Flea
Yesterday, my last day in Laramie, was such a major mondo coup. You might even say it was a total coupgasm. I liked Laramie and I had a fabulous time, although I am still a little mad at it for eating my best friend.
Dear IB Diary,
Denvermolorado
Yesterday was great! I was all abouts in the Southwest. I landed in Denver, where my friend greeted me by texting me a picture of a blue-suited furry she saw at the airport. “No head, though,” she said ruefully. I saw skatepunks and a cowboy-looking guy within seconds of getting off the plane. I was worried about turbulence, because Denver is infamous for rocky landings, but it was fine. My stomach didn’t even drop.
So, I was meaning to post these with my theivery posts, but fucking shit if I could find them. Guess what, though? I was ransacking my joint while I was packing, and Strudel found my hatbox where I keep some of my old pictures. Way to be useful, tiny shit-losing feral dwarf.
If you were wondering if child abuse could be perpetrated through “hairstyles,” the answer is yes, yes it can. I liked this dress because it reminded me of the dress worn by Angel Face Barbie. Early acne? Check. Snaggleteeth? Check. Who loves an ugly duckling? NO ONE.
This is the age I was when I was at the height of stuffing candy down my pants: eight.
Exhibit “B” is probably when I was at the beginning of my porn gaffling. The little feral dwarf next to me is my sister, of course.
Look at that jaunty denim hat! Even that diaper is totally eighties! I’ll bet that diaper is about to come back into style any minute now. Also, no pants. Did you miss that trend? Yeah, I think everyone else did, too. I’m telling myself that I was wearing a bathing suit under that tee shirt, but who knows? Maybe not.
Here I am at my eleventh birthday. Banana clips! Fonzie attitude! “Aaaaaay!” Bad perm! Did I even deserve a party? Probably not. This was around the time that I stopped rootling drawers. But did I stop stealing things? No, I did not.
To be continued. Dun-dun-DUN!
I am starting to get paranoid with my new comment filtering, because maybe only half of my comments are showing up in my ass-comments email folder. If you are bored or an interested party, and you are not hellaspamming my comments, will you send me an email and say if your previous comment attempts have gotten et, in say, the last week.
TY! esjay art iasshole.orgy
You might not want to comment. Cause it might get et. Hur. This is making me twitch.
Hey! I tricked my BFF into putting me up for the weekend, so I’m off to Wyoming. I think I’m bringing a laptop, though, because I want to get a jumpstart on a book review I’m writing. I will also be bringing my camera and I hope my MP3 player, and of course, my phone. This may be the most electronic devices I have ever traveled with, but I will be staying with a fellow NerdAbrarian, so she will understand.
I think I’ll be sending you all a couple of postcards, though, so you can stay abreast of impending shenanigans.
I am so excited to flee the Poxtator, who has been generally unpleasant for the past week. Supposedly there’s a blizzard a-brewing, so I could get stuck in Denver for a while. Which is okay, because, NO POXTATOR. Also, no rattling windows while the construction site across the street creates a mini-apocalyptic wasteland where a house used to be. I told Companion that if I get stuck in Denver I’m going to hook it up with some hott tranny action. Hott Trannys are the new Botox.
Today I leave you with one of my favorite songs. I first heard it in college on Dexter Gordon’s Way Out West, but it was written by Johnny Mercer. This is the best version I could find on Blorttube.
Because god hates me, the airport shuttle is coming at 4:30 tomorrow morning. Fnif.
