1. Things, I have things to tell you. Strudel, who is on the couch with a fever, has a different sticker on her belly button than when she left for school this morning, pre-fever. “The sticky wore off,” she explained. She can do a trick where she can suck her belly button in and the sticker disappears, or she pooches her stomach waaaaaay out and then the sticker is there for all and sundry to see, or in this case, me and Taibas Jones. This is the four-year-old equivalent of being in the Navy and having a naked lady tattoo on your arm and making her dance.
2. Today I discovered that I do not like olive loaf. What is olive loaf, you may ask, if you are not from the ghetto and were raised by a cup of coffee like I was? It is a formed meat product that has pimento-stuffed green olives in, of course, and then is sliced for ultimate sandwich makery. I loved olive loaf when I was a kid and I bet I have not had it for fifteen years. Now that I think of it, I suspect olive loaf is one of those things that I asked my mom for and was determined to like, because it was different. When you are bored out of your mind and stranded in the middle of fucking almost nowhere, odd lunchmeat items are a form of escapism, especially if you are years off from discovering the stunning, singular headache that is a glue hangover. Your sandwich is fucking staring at you with green eyeballs with red pupils, dude. I bought it this week. It is being donated to the eggbags.
3. Speaking of the eggbags, Now We Are Three. That freaky egg I mentioned last time on our program contained only one yolk, so I am thinking there was some kind of cloacaplasty. Those eggs are squeezed, Louise. I feel badly that there are only three hens now. They stare at me expectantly, looking for answers: Do you have food? Are you bringing more food soon? What is this wet stuff coming from the sky, I don’t think it was like this yesterday? Are we getting carried off at some point like those other feathered ladies we cannot quite remember? Are YOU Food?
4. In completely unrelated news, I am trying to figure how I can transport my own shit up to a second story balcony intact, so it looks like I took a dump there.
5. Speaking of vaginas, I have been one upped. I read about this woman who got herself “vajazzled,” meaning she treated her mons like I treat cell phone cases. At first I was VERY IMPRESSED by the state of her mons, which crazy smooth. I get ingrowns if a waxer even looks at me. Then I realized it is an all-in-one procedure. You get yoinked and then immediately glued. This would look good on me for about fifteen minutes.
I find the writer a little disturbing, honestly. I wondered what turning your baby box into a rasp would do for your sex life. Would you make up for the friction burns on your lover by offering to grate a little parmesan onto your post-coital salad? You know, the traditional salad you always eat after you have sex? FUCKING JUST NOD YOUR HEAD OK.
“Tell me when, sweetie.” Cheese shreds issue from your pussoidal region. Awesome. Beat that, Slap Chop.
But wait! No lovers will be injured, because the author assures us she has been asexual since her child was decanted from her body, ensuring the integrity of her vagina…which she is not using. WHOA DUDE it is like a Zen koan. Also at no point does she refer to any of her business by its proper name. I suppose if you don’t know the proper terms for your anatomy, the safest way to stay unpregnant is to abstain via a series of clever traps.
It is important for you to know that since I have participated in natural childbirth twice, if I don’t remember to clench my v-spot, it fucking FALLS OUT and drags behind me. The bonus of this is that when birds swoop down to peck at it, I can capture them and then arrange their joints artfully in gelatin, just like those lizards that can poop their own guts out, except they don’t have access to jelly molds.
Retweet that, bitches: I am a whore with a vagina that can be worn like a hat.
I have more to tell you, but I had better eat something.
Oh I’m using that last line. I now owe you royalties.
I am thinking very hard about the transporting-a-dump thing. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.
I loved your reaction to the pussybling.
For the pooh thing. I think it might require gladware and a spatula you are willing to part ways with.
1. I love you the mostest.
2. I think Strudel’s fever might be catching.
3. I am thinking you need a sheet of paper or wax paper for initial poo deployment and transportation, and then when you have it where you want it, you rip the paper away right around/under the edges so it isn’t be visible (this is why wax paper would be good — it would be less noticeable if you didn’t get it perfect).
3a. I really just spent time thinking about that and typing it out, didn’t I?
Ok. I figured out the poop thing.
Clean out your freezer.
Poop onto a prepared, flat surface. You know. Put some plastic wrap or waxed paper or something down.
Put the tray of poop into the freezer and freeze it hard.
Then, you should be able to pick up the poop with a glove or baggie or something over your hand, and place/throw it wherever you want it.
TA DAA.
Brigid is my new favorite person. That was hilarious.
And I know what you’re talking about when you say your vag falls out, SJ. I delivered my 2nd child breech. It doesn’t get much worse than that! I think they should make special panties to catch the parachute.
Frozen poop. I am wowed.
You are just the bestest.
Oh. Wow. I was really bored before I came here to I, Asshole. Now I’m slightly horrified. I guess I’ll go back to watching Ice Cube and Chris Tucker in Friday. Slightly less scary over there in Compton.
I got nothin. Actually, that’s not true. I have a show for you about a robotic dad. The dad can make a pizza in his chest cavity, but only a square one. He refers to himself in the third person. There is a wacky neighbor. It is called “Robot Dad.”
God, you make me love mondays. Bless you my maligned child.
I wish I had a Robot Dad who would make me pizza for dinner tonight. I would ask for BBQ chicken pizza with cilantro. I wonder if his chest gets really hot when the pizza is baking? “Don’t hug Dad right now, he’s baking a pizza.”
Also, when things get tough economically Dad can be a pizza delivery guy.
“Pussoidal region”–HAHAHAHAHAHAHA; oh, that was good.
So…..
what the FUCK??
i mean really, ARE you food??
If there was ever a chance that I might for a minute forget how fucking awesome you are, I think this post punches the first second of that minute hard in the face KNOCK OUT.
Vajazzling is proof that some people still have way, way too much money. Thank you for pinpointing what bothered me about that post so that I didn’t have to scramble around in my brain to find a way to say it.
JoEtta: if I fell, yes, I would be food.
HI ANNE!