Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I know it's humorous that I am turning slightly blue and waving my arms about, but I promise I'm not doing an impression of a chicken. But I am choking on chicken, so if it isn't too inconvenient, would you mind coming over here and performing the Heimlich Maneuver on me?
I also want to take this moment to say that I'm having a really great time with you. You're taller than I expected, and at first I was a bit put off by it, but now that I'm looking at you in my oxygen deprived state, you're actually quite lovely. And those arms look good and strong and very capable of grabbing me around the middle and pulling upward so we can pop this thing out of my windpipe. So, if you would just stop misinterpreting my frantic hand gestures, things would be just perfect.
Despite the fact that I got something lodged in my breathing passage, this has been a really fun night. The movie was actually pretty good, despite the fact that Nicolas Cage walked around naked in it for thirty minutes with absolutely no explanation. Or maybe I'm not remembering it correctly due to the lack of oxygen in my brain. But I would definitely nominate him for best naked Oscar. Oooooh, who let these rainbows in here? They're so fluffy.
I think it's safe to say that the combination of your muscular arms and Nicolas Cage being naked and this nice dinner that I'm currently choking on has made an impression on me. So, I guess what I'm saying is, if I end up pulling through this, I hope we can go out again. We seem to have a good connection. If not, well, it's been nice knowing you. If I do die and my mom comes, tell her to stay out of the folder marked "Private" on my computer and to not look in my sock drawer. Okay, I think that's everything. I'm so hot. Is it tired in here?
Wee! Things are getting a little dark now. I'm just going to put my face down right here in this soup. Please don't take it as a comedic pratfall. I am actually chok...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Suffer from short eyelashes? Love Brooke Shields? Try Latisse, the treatment to grow longer, fuller, and darker eyelashes.
Nothing is worse than having short eyelashes. People aren't drawn to your eyes and must focus on your breasts instead. You try to put mascara on, smear it all over your whole face, and end up looking like the love child of Gloria Swanson and Tammy Faye Messner.
Short eyelashes make dating difficult as well. Available men look into your eyes and just think, "Yuck! What a disgusting specimen of a human being. Her eyelashes are practically stumpy. I've seen some ugly women in my time, but this no-eyelashed freak is going to give me nightmares tonight. I'll wake up screaming, clutching my pillow in terror and grasping at my own face to make sure that my own supple eyelashes are still there."
It's worse when you leave the isolation of your own home and forget to wear the veil that covers your deformity. And children see you and start to cry and say, "What is wrong with that woman over there, Mommy? She's scary." After which time the mother will shout at you, "You're scaring my child, your horrible eyelash-less freak!" So, you drive back to your tiny, empty, lonely apartment to weep your bald eyes out.
Once you've frightened too many small children, you have to register as an eyelash offender and end up in the permanent eyelash violation registry. People drive by your house at night and set fire to enormous mascara wands in your front yard. The neighborhood children refer to you as "Old Bald Eyes."
So, you pick up and move to an isolated mountain cabin and begin a whole new life away from eyelashed society. At first it's fun. No one ever makes fun of you again. But then you realize that no one ever visits you. No one ever calls. You spend your holidays alone, unwrapping pine cones you wrapped for yourself and trying to act surprised, even though it's the same thing you got last year.
Years turn into decades. Eventually, you die, and your lifeless carcass is torn apart by scavengers. Bears, coyotes, wolves, various birds, and insects dine on your innards, with only the slightest disgust at the fact you have no eyelashes.
All because you didn't use Latisse.
So, think about it, you bald-eyed freakfest.
Monday, September 28, 2009
MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I am an evil copyeditor!
You give me your manuscript, and I will purposefully make mistakes to vex you. I will put commas in the wrong place! I will leave something lower case, rather than capitalizing it. I will laugh at your semicolons, and I will defy your efforts to place quotation marks outside the restrictive confines of the period.
And you? You can do nothing to stop me. Because what I say goes. If you argue with me, I will simply pull out my evil style guide and show you how you are wrong. Or my copy of the Evil Chicago Manual of Style, 666th edition! And then, as you stand there, mouth agape, I will laugh in your face in the most grammatically correct way possible. Like this: Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He He! He! He! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
And when I am done laughing, I will poke you with my red copyediting pencil, so that it looks like you are bleeding, but it's actually red pencil markings, like I quickly proofread your arm and marked it for errors.
People will read your book, and since your name is on it, they will think you were too stupid to use proper grammar. They will create a Wiki of your grammatical errors, and then all of them will gather on the internet to make fun of you. Only you and I will know the truth. That I, your evil copyeditor, made those errors on purpose to make you look ignorant.
Some evil people have nuclear warheads. Some build lairs in unlikely evil places. Me? Armed only with my pencil and several Post-it notes, I will take you all down....slowly and with many dangling modifiers.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Hey! You up there wearing the size 12 loafers! Don't tread on me!
No, I'm serious, dude. You might want to walk around. Someone finished with me and just kind of threw me here like a big, littering jerk, and now I'm actually kind of a safety hazard.
I don't know if you know this, but we banana peels have kind of a reputation for causing accidents. Some joker in the 15th century dropped one of us at the top of a staircase, and a countess fell to her death in an extremely comical manner. So, now we're outcasts, just garbage that gets hauled to the curb every Tuesday. It's actually pretty unfair.
Bananas themselves get known for being high in potassium and delicious with strawberries. But we, the brave sheaths who protect them until they are safely squashed into baby food, have been reduced to comedic props. Like a group of noble knights going down like so many dominoes for some cheap laughs for the king.
And look at orange peel. It gets grated into things for extra orange flavor. Same with lemon peel. Me? I get tossed in with the coffee grounds and the meat scraps and turned into compost. No one ever adds a few tablespoons of grated banana peel to things. It's fruitist, I tell you.
But that's another discussion altogether. All I was saying is that you should watch where you're going. For your safety and for mine. I'm just a lowly banana peel, sitting here waiting for the man to haul me off to the landfill. And you're a busy corporate type, probably on your way to some meeting where the VP of Smugness will get fired and some other corporate tool will be promoted to take his place for less money. Somebody will spill a coffee, and it will get all over that pretty $600 suit jacket. Then, you'll take it off and have your secretary send it off to the cleaners. You'll go on enjoying your day, with no regard whatsoever for that suit jacket. Or this banana peel you could have slipped on this morning.
Man...my life sucks.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Inspired by the weight-gaining efforts of Renee Zellweger and Matt Damon for their respective roles in the Bridget Jones films and The Informant, local Arby's employee Jason Fordley intends to bulk up for his new role as manager.
"Who would you accept a hot roast beef sandwich from?" asked Fordley. "A skinny little guy or a big, fat guy? Skinny managers just look like they're judging your eating choices. I intend to take this managing role to the next level."
Fordley's new diet includes four large jamocha shakes each day, along with seven orders of curly fries and six large beef and cheddar sandwiches with plenty of mayonnaise. With over 427.5 grams of fat and 8,925 calories entering his system daily, Fordley will likely reach his goal of being tastefully obese by Thanksgiving.
"I'm happy with the way things are going," said Fordley. "My skin is breaking out nicely, and I've definitely developed a second chin." He added, "My girlfriend loves to play with it."
Fordley is even working with a trainer who helps him find the most comfortable spot on his couch at night and brings his remote control and several six-packs.
Fordley defended his choice of gaining weight for the part, rather than just donning a fat suit, as many have by saying, "If I'm going to do this...if I'm truly going to lead this team, I'm going to do it as real as I can."
Employee of the Month nominations are to be announced early next week.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Well, I'm just going to turn around and have you pull this knife out of my back. I thought we were Facebook friends. And then you just unfriend me like it all meant nothing to you? All the months of me commenting on your statuses with amusing clips from YouTube. All the pictures of birthday parties I wasn't invited to. Quizzes where you discover that your best sex position is reverse cowgirl. I was there for all of that. And you just cut me out of your Facebook life after everything.
Wow. It hurts so much.
Don't you remember when we first became Facebook friends? We were only kind of acquaintances back in college. You lived at one end of the hallway, and I lived at the other. But we always said hello.
And then when I accepted your Facebook friend request, I thought, "This is it! We're finally really and truly friends." I mean, it's not like we really had anything to say to each other after all this time. But I always thought that the silence meant that we didn't NEED to say anything. Like back in the dorms when you would be in the bathroom stall having violent diarrhea, and I wouldn't say a word, just sit in the stall next to you silently showing my moral support.
I totally voted for you when we were electing a hall president. And, just so you know, your roommate voted for Amber. I see she was one of your bridesmaids. Isn't that interesting?
So, I logged onto my Facebook this morning, notice I'm a friend short, go through my spreadsheet, and see that you're the one who is missing. Well, two can play at this game. I'm not going to follow your blog anymore.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
In one of the worst disasters in the history of young adult fiction, a tanker carrying 12,000,000 copies of the popular series Twilight ran aground off the coast of Hawaii spilling millions of pages of teenage romance into the harbor and polluting everything within a twenty mile radius with sappiness.
The popular series, involving a teenage girl who falls in love with a vampire, has likely sold more than 80 kajillion copies since the first book was released in 2005. The movie, merely an assault on the eyes if you leave the television on mute, was released in 2008.
Making the situation worse, Twilight fans in the area of the spill leaped into the water to retrieve the books, citing that their love for Edward Cullen would never let them drown. Several of them did, as the 498-page, water-logged tales of hot teenage vampire lust dragged them to the bottom.
Area seagulls, who before the spill were just walking around pecking at scraps of things, suddenly began to stumble around love struck. One slightly scruffy and abnormally large male seagull and one smaller extremely pale seagull began to fight over the affections of one female seagull, who seemed flattered but surprised by all the attention.
Cleanup is already underway. DVDs of Blade and Buffy are being dumped in the harbor to counteract the effects of the spill.
Fishermen are urged to stay out of the area during the cleanup, lest they fall victim to Robert Pattinson Fever and start running around screaming like sissy women.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The stench was overpowering. As I moved the trash can and saw the unsightly remains of the mouse, it was all I could do to not hork like rookie working a homicide.
"Oh...my...God," I said, surveying the mess, my bottle of Febreze cocked and ready in one hand, a broom in the other. It was the biggest disaster the underside of my trash can had ever seen. Not since the great All-Purpose Flour Spill of 2006 had any garbage receptacle in my apartment experienced such a mess. But this wasn't the first mouse I'd seen that week.
On Wednesday, as I stumbled blindly into the bathroom to put in my contact lenses, I stepped on something small and crunchy on my bathmat. Was it a rogue pork rind? No, it was a petrified mouse corpse, probably retrieved from a heating vent and batted around for hours before boredom and a nap overtook my cat.
Yes, it was definitely my cat who did this.
There was cat hair all over the crime scene, tufts and tufts of it, signs of a struggle. She liked to catch the mice and torture them until their only escape was to crawl away and eventually die somewhere no one would discover them until the stench wafted.
But the cat lived here. It was only natural that her hair would be found near the body. It would take hard evidence. DNA. Matching her bite pattern to the ones on the body. And that would take months, years even, to bring this serial killer to justice. It would take black lights and some of those orange glasses CSI people wear to spot semen and blood spatter. And then there's the red tape. Damn it. Damn it straight to hell, along with the bureaucratic a-holes who cut all the funding.
I'll just have to wait until she kills again, catch her in the act. Sleep with one eye open. Wait for the squeaks of another victim. And then I will bring her to justice. Oh, yes. I will.
I threw a paper towel over the victim. It's a tough job, but somebody has to clean it up.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Oh, excuse me. I know this is the middle of your blessed wedding day, but I REALLY have to take this call. Hold on a second there, Mr. Reverend Guy. Quit talking for just a minute. I'll just step out in the hallway, have this conversation, and be right back. Now, don't exchange any vows or any stuff with the rings until I return. I mean it, you guys! It will just take, like, ten minutes tops. And then you guys can finish up and we can head to the reception for all the cake and punch stuff. But I don't want to miss anything, so just take a load off for a minute.
What's your name again, Bride? Laurie? Okay, yeah. Get comfortable. I hate to see you standing there all uncomfortable in that getup. Especially in your condition. What? Nobody knows about the baby yet? My bad. I thought everyone knew considering you threw this shindig together in just the last two weeks. It doesn't help that you look a little bit like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in the dress, if you get my drift. But, hey, don't take that the wrong way. Everybody loves marshmallows.
Hey, simmer down, father of the bride. Don't get your cummerbund in a knot. We can get back to it in just a few. I mean, wedding days are supposed to be a little bit crazy. This is just adding to the excitement, right? When I get back, we can get these kids all married and be done with it. But before we do that, I have to take this phone call.
I wouldn't take it if it weren't important. Like if it were my boss being all, "Hey, where the hell are you? It's 4:30, and I don't remember giving you the day off," I'd just let it go to voicemail. I wouldn't But this is way more important than that. It's HUGE. It's epic. It involves an investment opportunity.
But don't you kids worry. I'll be right back in 10 to 15 minutes, whenever I get done with this phone call. Then, you can toss the garter, throw the bouquet to some ugly chick, and we can all get outta here.
Oh, shit. He hung up. Well, I guess I'll just wait until he calls back. Carry on, Reverend Guy!
Oh, there he is again.
You know what? I'm just going to go out in the hall and take this. Don't do anything! I'll be right back.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
(Another post from the old blog, so I can have a night off. New stuff tomorrow, I promise. Enjoy!)
Following a surprising recent discovery, health officials warn that the words “obesity linked” may actually cause an increase in obesity.
Dr. Fatty McLipid of the National Alliance Against Acceptance of People Who May or May Not Be Big Boned said recently, “The words ‘linked’ and ‘obesity’ actually caused significant weight gain in several lab specimens when used in succession.”
The culprit, some say? The word “link.”
“‘Link’ is defined as a ‘causal, parallel, or reciprocal relationship,’ but many in our culture associate it with the popular breakfast comestible or ‘sausage link.’ Some just cannot resist the delicious temptation of a link of sausage. Put it alongside pancakes dripping with maple syrup or a cheddar cheese omelet and you’ve got a 1500-calorie reason to stop dieting,” said Dr. McLipid.
In a recent survey, 87 percent of those surveyed responded that their first thought upon hearing the word “link” was of sausages. Another 12 percent associated the word with chain link or fences. The final 1 percent died during the survey allegedly due to artery blockage associated with over-consumption of pork products.
While nothing is certain at this time, NAAAPWMMNBBB officials urge the significantly overweight to avoid any reports on obesity that use the word “link” repeatedly. They are also urged to stay away from establishments like Denny’s, Burger King, Pizza Hut, and IHOP.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Patrick Swayze passed away Monday at the age of 57. Michael Jackson died in June. Also dead recently: Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, Ricardo Montalban, James Whitmore, Natasha Richardson, Bea Arthur, and Dom Deluise. The list just goes on and on, and it's terrifying. In the words of Charlton Heston, who succumbed to death in 2008, "It's a mad house. A maaaaad house!"
So, what is causing these famous people to just stop breathing and lie there all lifeless? Is it because some of them were in advanced stages of cancer? Is it because some of them were involved in terrible accidents? Was it simply natural causes from being super old? No. It was something far...more...nefarious.
I've been investigating Hollywood Death Syndrome (as I've come to call it) for the last ten minutes, and I've concluded that Hollywood must have been built on an Indian burial ground, or if you're being PC, an Indian memorial park.
Yes. Hollywood was built right over an extremely large patch of land where a lot of deceased Native Americans were buried thousands of years before the first studio head pioneered his way to California in search of gold and platinum Visas. It was there before the great-great-great grandfather of Humphrey Bogart proposed on one knee to the great-great-great grandmother of Lauren Bacall. (She said no, and they went on to marry other people.)
And it is, after all, pretty understandable that the Native Americans would be angry, considering how they have been treated in films. In Dances With Wolves, which won the Oscar for Best Picture in 1990, Native American actors were subjected to Kevin Costner in the nude. Actors in the film Windtalkers were exposed to the acting of Nicolas Cage. So, now those ancient buried Native American souls are good and pissed. And they will stop at nothing to make sure that all the celebrities will pay for what their ancestors have done. Hence, celebrity death epidemic.
And this isn't the first time.
REMEMBER IF YOU WILL....1997.
Robert Mitchum, James Stewart, Princess Diana, Burgess Meredith, Red Skelton, John Denver, Chris Farley. The list goes on. (My god, they were dropping like flies that year. And the stench...the STENCH of people shouting, "Show me the money!" in the streets, even though it had stopped being funny.) Did these people die in horrible accidents, from old age, and because of drugs? Or was it because of pissed off Indian spirits, spending eternity being forced to watch Sylvester Stallone sunbathe?
So, what can we do to get rid of these spirits, send them to the great beyond, and stop these celebrity deaths from happening once and for all? We must exorcise Hollywood. (No, Madonna, get off that elliptical machine. I said EXORCISE.) And we have to do it before another celebrity shuffles off this mortal coil.
Everyone, grab your closest Scientologist/Kabbalah leader/Jedi Master, and let's do this thing...
Wait, what? Everybody dies, and I should just accept it? Well, way to rain on my parade, science.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
What would I do for a Klondike Bar? Well, I certainly wouldn't make out with someone unsavory. I definitely wouldn't sit through any Robin Williams movies or burrow into any badger dens.
But I would absolutely take some money out of my purse and buy a Klondike Bar if I were craving one. I do have money. And if I wanted a stupid Klondike bar, I would most likely just pay for it. It's way easier to just do that than run through a jungle filled with bears.
I mean, it's not like Klondike Bars are something rare that was lost in a shipwreck off the coast of Madagascar during the 15th century. They weren't buried with Jesus and resurrected on the third day. People didn't pan for Klondike Bars during the Klondike Bar Rush of 1849. So, why do the Klondike people act like I have to go to all this effort to have one?
They are just vanilla ice cream dipped in a thin layer of "chocolate-flavored coating" and wrapped in silver paper with a big, stupid polar bear on the side. You can find them at every single grocery store in the country and most convenience stores, except those really gross ones where they have cardboard on the floor covering the holes in the tile. (And nobody goes to those anyway, except desperate smokers, alcoholics, and late-night horny people.)
In a grocery store, the freezers tend to be all in one central location. All you have to do is find the frozen foods aisle and follow the Blue Bunny to the Klondike Bars. You don't even have to know how to read. Just look for items that don't have a stick, reach in, grab a package, retrieve your arm which is now holding the package, and then go to the cash registers. It's all pretty straightforward. Open that folding leather thingy, take out the green pieces of paper, and hand them to the person operating the thing that makes loud noises and spits out the drawer at the end. After you do that, you can have, not one, but an ENTIRE PACKAGE of Klondike Bars. And you didn't even have to do anything stupid to get them.
Now, if the makers of the Klondike Bar really wanted to give people a challenge, might I suggest some kind of obstacle course including an actual live polar bear? Then, if someone were asked "What would you do for a Klondike Bar?" the person could wave a handless stump around as proof that he or she really likes Klondike Bars that much. Then and only then can I fully appreciate the splendor of a Klondike Bar and perhaps consider having one. But for now, I'm just going to have a popsicle and wait for the Klondike people to make it worth my while.
Monday, September 14, 2009
What am I doing today? Well, how very nice of you to ask. As a matter of fact, I'm going to jury duty! Doesn't that sound like fun? I bet you wish you could go to jury duty too. But you can't come along. It's a journey I must go on alone.
Now, here are some things I'm looking forward to on my adventure to jury duty, so you can get good and jealous.
1. Everyone who is chosen for jury duty and doesn't postpone going gets to be a UNICORN in the afterlife! Unicorns can grant wishes with just a single touch of their horns. And they eat nothing but marshmallows for every meal. So, if you perform your civic duty at the time you are expected, and you can be a unicorn someday like me!
2. When you arrive at jury duty, you are required to dance at least three dances before any actual jury selection takes place. So you must keep your dance card full! I'm sure there will be no shortage of intelligent and handsome lawyers just dying to dance with a juror as gracious and becoming as me!
3. In the afternoon, someone will be elected the Queen of Jury Duty and will get to wear a crown and carry a sceptor! Everyone will agree that the Queen is the most beautiful jury duty-serving maiden in all the land. She will be loved by all and will serve her people well until 5 PM.
(This is actually Queen Victoria, but I'm sure she would be honored to serve on the jury.)
4. At the end of jury duty, you receive a lifetime supply of candy for being so lovely and generous with your time. All the kinds I like! No Necco Wafers or candy corn!
5. When you arrive home from jury duty, Javier Bardem will be at your house. He will make you spaghetti and eagerly await stories from your jury duty experience. This is non-negotiable. You can't swap him for Brad Pitt and linguini or Johnny Depp with a nice pot roast. It must be Javier Bardem, and he must make spaghetti. He is very adamant about this.
And so that concludes me telling you all about the fun I'm going to have today at jury duty. I hope that all of you can go someday too!
Friday, September 11, 2009
She tap-danced her way into our hearts in the most adorable stage production of Annie ever. She skipped her way up the red carpet to collect her Tony award in the most precious pink frock and tiara. She hopscotched her way into prime time as the host of the Sweet Adorable Precious Babydoll Show on NBC. And little girls everywhere dress up as her every Halloween and buy backpacks, T-shirts, and commemorative plates adorned with her face. Dimple-cheeked and blue-eyed adorable sprite Addysyn Price, 9, is truly "America's Sweetheart."
So, why is she such a little asshole?
Her parents and various people in her employ are baffled.
"I feed her cotton candy at every meal," said Addysyn's mother, who wanted to remain anonymous, but whose name is Barbara. "She should be as sweet as sugar and smell like gummy bears and fresh laundry, but instead, she is like a sour little pickle swimming in brine made of human tears."
"I used to bounce her up and down on my knee!" said her father, Frank, who has not seen his wife naked in almost four years. "Nowadays, she sticks her tongue out at me and runs away to the child-sized manor house I had built for her on our estate. I want to know what happened to my precious baby girl!"
Addysyn Price got her start modeling diapers at the age of 2. By 7, she was worth over $800,000,000,000,000 (and we're totally rounding down here). She and her twin sister Maddysyn built an empire together, selling items with their images on them and adorable dolls that said cute things like, "Look at me!" "Take my picture!" and "I'm so much prettier than you, it's not even funny!"
But Maddysyn's mysterious disappearance in 2006 left the entire fortune and burden of celebrity to Addysyn.
"The other one just disappeared one day," said Barbara Price, who has decided to go by her real name after all. "We looked for her in at least the east wing of the house before we decided she must have just run away to join the circus or something."
"For all we know, Maddysyn might just be living in a different part of the house from us, under the care of some nanny-type person," said Frank Price, who refused to put on pants to be interviewed.
Child psychologist to the stars Dr. Peter Woodwood thinks that Addysyn's asshole behavior might have something to do with the fact she hasn't won an Oscar yet.
"All child stars strive for that goal of being the youngest Oscar winner," said Woodwood. "I have advised Addysyn to win an Oscar as soon as she can by getting that part in The Cabaret of Anne Frank. It's a musical! It's a holocaust story! It's coming out in late 2010!" Dr. Woodwood is also Addysyn's publicist.
"Until Addysyn can receive her Oscar, people will just have to put up with her behavior, I suppose," said Barbara, putting salve on her hand where Addysyn bit her before running out to set the house on fire.
"We love our little girl in spite of everything," said Frank. "And the other one, wherever she is."
**The included photo is not actually Addysyn Price, but an artist's rendering. Our photographers found her too scary to photograph.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Despite what they tell you about turning 30, it's not as bad as you might think. I turned 30 three weeks ago, and while I am still in slight pain from being branded with my over-30 mark, things are slowly looking up. But for those of you who are still in your 20s, I think it's important that I tell you what to expect, so you won't be as surprised as I was.
On the day you turn 30, they come to your house in dark robes and sensible pumps and take away all your mini-skirts. Then, they issue you the standard black pantsuit you will be wearing for the rest of your life. Don't worry! You can still wear different colors of shoes, as long as they are either slate gray or pearl gray. Accessories are allowed, as long as necklaces do not draw attention to your no-longer-appropriate bosom. Ornate brooches are encouraged, but rings may only be worn if you are married or engaged to be married.
Lipstick colors of beige and taupe are issued, along with brown mascara, blusher, and your very own bottle of Oil of Olay. Don't be afraid to moisturize! Otherwise your skin will fall off!
You are welcome to go out on the night of your birthday for one last celebration of your twenties. But the next day, you are expected to be home by 7 PM at the lastest in order to feed your cats and eat pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream in your pajamas before settling in to watch reruns of Law and Order.
Now the one thing that makes being 30 difficult is the change to your diet. Special K and skim milk twice a day gets old rather quickly. And that Lean Cuisine that you have to eat every night for dinner stops being appetizing after the first few weeks.
Your sense of humor also changes. Before you turn thirty, it's all about fart jokes and Kate Hudson movies. After 30, it's all LOLcats all the time.
But once you make a place in your heart for your new troll doll collection and come to terms with the fact that you will never have sex again, being 30 is a-okay.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Paul Kelly, 34, who quit his job yesterday in order to find himself, sheepishly returned to his former place of employment this morning, after completing his novel and finding happiness in all he does.
In a whirlwind, caffeine-fueled, chain-smoking, writing frenzy, Kelly began his 873-page novel when he arrived home at 7 PM last night and finished it at 5 AM this morning, giving him just enough time to shower and get to the subway for work.
"I can safely say," said Kelly, "that having gotten that novel finished and only spending $10 of my savings to support myself during my foray into writing full time, I'm ready to go back to my 9-5 job with a smile on my face and a happy tune in my heart. Watch out, marketing department."
But Kelly is being secretive about the novel that he is sure will bring him success. "It's a book about love, ninjas, and a few dragons," he said, but refused to disclose further details, fearing rogue plagiarists and those seeking to ride his coattails to fame.
Kelly spent the 13 years since graduating from college unhappily bouncing from one dead-end job to the next, promising himself that one day he would just quit and go out and find himself. At first he considered moving to Thailand or taking up base jumping. But after enrolling in a writing class, Kelly finally saw his true destiny. Mission accomplished, he hopes to take up some new hobbies like whittling or telling quaint stories to the young people.
Kelly feels he is also ready, having found himself, to attempt to satisfy a woman, both physically and emotionally, by finally committing to a relationship after years of jumping from one woman to the next.
"I will no longer get involved with women, only to tell them that I'm not ready for a relationship after eight months of dating," said Kelly. Former girlfriends, who would find all of this very hilarious, could not be reached for comment.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Starting in early October, the first car of each subway will be reserved for first-class passengers.
The first-class fare of $89.95 will buy morning commuters a reclining massage chair, a glass of fine champagne, and a monocle and top hat to make them look extra fancy on their way to work. The evening commute will include a concert by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and a menu of saffron risotto with mussels.
MTA officials hope that this latest move will not only boost the economy, but also provide passengers with a more refined mode of transportation while offering them the opportunity to take public transit and congratulate themselves on being so eco-conscious.
The MTA will also be offering premium services to first-class passengers for an additional $199.95.
After the passenger leaves the subway, an MTA-employed butler will spend the day following the passenger around saying things like, "I endeavor to give satisfaction, sir," and commenting on the latest in the fledgeling romance between Madeline Bassett and Gussie Fink-Nottle. The premium first-class service will also provide opportunity for hijinx between the wittier MTA employees and their bumbling passengers. This includes--but is not limited to--accidental engagements, cases of mistaken identity, and wealthy aunts making unannounced visits.
MTA officials hope that the profit from the premium service will help them to fulfill a lifelong dream of being able to make the tracks out of solid gold and provide each of them with a summer villa.
Normal passengers will continue to ride in the other cars, which the MTA assures us will be as overcrowded and smelly as ever. They are also considering having the 6 train run once a day and be filled with baboons, while the G train will remain imaginary.
It should be noted that, in the case of a train delay, regular passengers will be expected to carry first-class passengers to their destinations.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Hey, fashion fans, fans of just making fun of people, and random star fuckers! It's time for more Celebrity Fashion Don'ts.
Who doesn't love Zac Efron? "Who?" you ask. That's exactly what I said. But apparently, this guy is all the rage. So, let's take a look at some of his fashion choices.
The tousled look is one that Zac Efron does often. But I think he went a little overboard here.
Zac Efron's face is practically made of bronzer here. Moderation, dude.
Unlike women's swimsuits, men's swimsuit styles never seem to evolve. But the man pasties are bold with just a hint of conservative. I give this a pass.
He's clearly trying to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T by stealing someone else's bold fashion choice. I'm not added to your chain, chain, chain of fools! You better think! Think!
Zach! You're Braffing up my Efron!
Wearing the late 80s/early 90s singing sensation the New Kids on the Block as a belt buckle is a bold move. Vintage is in. But the giant hairdos make them look like rogue pubes.
I actually find him attractive in this one. Is that weird?
Friday, September 4, 2009
Murray, 4, a 100-pound male pit bull, was injured on Saturday when a notoriously aggressive 2-year-old child attacked the dog near his home.
According to eyewitness testimony, the child leaped from the bushes, knocking the large canine to the ground. He then started gnawing on the dog’s back leg with his two prominent front teeth. Murray was initially confused and then began to howl in pain as the attack became more violent.
The attacker, identified as Evan Griffith, 2, has a history of this kind of behavior, according to one neighbor.
“Evan is a very naughty little boy,” said next door neighbor Marge Cutley. “I once saw him throw a cat into the wading pool. All the while he was laughing maniacally and screaming, ‘Kiggy, KIGGY!’ I was horrified. I immediately phoned the police.”
According to some, Evan’s misbehavior is not limited to animal abuse. Investigators are also looking into an alleged animal cracker throwing incident that left another child seriously cranky.
Evan’s mother, who could not be reached for comment, reprimanded the child following the attack, calling his behavior “unacceptable” and threatened further punishment “when [Evan’s] father gets home.”
Murray is resting comfortably at home, after relieving himself behind the neighbor’s hedges. He hopes to return to savaging local squirrels as early as tomorrow morning.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Well, I'm just going to come out and say it. I am so hurt. I came all the way here from the other side with this basket of homemade goodies, and you pretended to not be home. Well, isn't that just typical? A week ago I stop by and take the soul of your Aunt Dorothy, we have some laughs. And now I can't get the time of day.
But what do you expect in this day and age? People used to walk into the sweet arms of Death with their heads held high. Now, they just roll over and shit themselves without a word of thanks.
As Emily Post always says to me when we're sharing our morning Pop Tart, "Death," she says, "people just don't know how to be polite anymore." And I could not agree more.
A few weeks ago, I took the soul of this guy, and his wife was completely discourteous. On her cell phone! She didn't even hear me say, "Excuse me, madam, but I will be taking Charlie's soul now. Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss." She just stood there and continued to tell her sister Susan about the weird mole on her arm while Charlie lay on the ground bleeding from the head.
And the other day when that busload of frat boys on their way back from gang banging someone went off that cliff, all they could muster were several, "Duuuuuude"s. Emily Dickinson used to write me entire poems.
And then, today. My first day off in two centuries. I get up early, do some yoga with Gandhi, wrap up this shortbread, hop on the Death cycle, and pedal down here to deliver these treats. And what do I get? Screams of terror! Well, if you're going to be ungrateful, I'll take the cookies home and just give them to Scooter. He likes my baking.
What's that? Oh, Scooter? He's just your dead dog from childhood. Well, I guess he's my dead dog now. We have such fun together. I throw Woodrow Wilson. Scooter fetches him. Marie Antoinette lets him have cake. He loves it here. We curl up together every night in the chair, and your dad reads us Goodnight Moon.
Yep, it sure is nice around here these days. Too bad you had to be so curt when I stopped by today. Your grandma baked that shortbread.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
According to recent reports, pop star Madonna collapsed over the weekend during a concert in Sofia, Bulgaria. But under equally grueling work conditions, a normal guy from Cleveland named Shep Jones simply fell down.
While Madonna was immediately surrounded by back-up dancers and a team of physicians concerned with her well-being, Jones just sat there clutching his sore elbow with no regard for his co-workers who were still trying to unload the truck. One co-worker even remarked that Jones was "Laying down on the job," and asked if he wanted to call his mommy to come and kiss his boo-boo. While Jones declined his co-worker's suggestion, he did go inside for ten minutes and put ice on his wound.
Ironically, at the time of her collapse, Madonna was singing the lyrics, "If we took a holiday; Took some time to celebrate; Just one day out of life; It would be, it would be so nice." When Shep Jones fell down, he was listening to some guy bitch about his herniated disk and thinking how nice a vacation would be. It should be noted that neither followed through with these plans.
Some experts believe that both incidents are evidence that famous people are a highly advanced species of human, which allows them to do everything in a far more dramatic manner. Further experimentation is being done as pairs of contestants from Dancing With the Stars are being thrown from high places to see how they land. So far, both celebrities and normal people alike have simply crumpled.
After her collapse, Madonna went back to performing, and Jones went home and had a heart attack. He was 51.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Dear Mother and Father,
I apologize for not contacting you personally. This message has been dictated to my personal assistant, Megan. I felt it was in the best interests of my upcoming birth and celebrity status that I do a little PR from the womb beforehand, so I have a lunch meeting with my agent at 12:30. (Mom, if you could eat a couple of sandwiches from that nice deli on the corner around 12:15, that would be great. Keep in mind, I don't like mayo. And maybe a few bottles of Perrier. Dessert, no dessert. Your choice.) But I do have a few things we need to go over just to keep the next six months and my post-birth years running smoothly.
First of all, maintenance. If we could get a decorator in here stat, that would be great. These draperies are from at least ten babies ago. Also, we're going to need to get someone to do some dusting and take Jordyn-Grace's paperwork to basement storage. I'm going to need some of these file drawers cleared out to make room for my stuff. Also, it's pretty dark and dank in here, so some air fresheners and overhead lighting might be nice. You can leave the carpet as is for now.
Secondly, I've got some ideas on publicity going forward. I'd like to think outside the box on this one. I'm thinking womb cam. I'm thinking reality show with one of those Gosselin kids. I'm thinking endorsement deal with Fisher Price. I'm thinking hosting duties at the La Leche League Best of the Breast Awards. I'll set up a meeting for sometime during the second trimester for us to go over everything. If you guys could go ahead and get the ball rolling on some of this stuff, that would be great. We should probably do a photo shoot at four months. I should have some hair and teeth by then.
Thirdly, Dad, I'm going to need you to keep Dick Cheney out of my office, if you get my drift. His last "intrusion" interrupted an extremely important phone call. This is a place of business, and I need you to respect that. Mom, help me out here and stop vacuuming the living room in that flannel nightgown.
Finally, let me just go ahead and ask that you not name me like I was born in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. Let's go with something a little more corporate this time, so we can land more endorsements. I'm just going to blue sky it here and suggest JetBlue Duggar. The original suggestion of J.P. Morgan Duggar seems like it might be problematic. But I'll leave you guys to go over the numbers on which of those might be better. Get back to me sometime next week with that.
If you have any questions about my upcoming birth, don't hesitate to contact Megan or contact me personally via umbilicus. I'll kick the uterine wall if I need anything.
J-name Duggar, CEO
Duggar Womb Inc.
Do you enjoy writing short humor pieces? Doing zany Photoshop work? Thinking up fake news stories? Send your work to Welcome to Bethville!
If I post your work, you get a credit under whatever name/username you so choose and retain all rights to send it out for publication elsewhere. There's no money in it, but it's a great way to get your work out there to people who may be more likely to pay you for things.
A few guidelines:
--I'm looking for parody, fake horoscopes, satirical celebrity/fashion news, phony letters to the editor, "advice" columns, fake movie scripts, hilarious commentary on real life/historical events, and fun, crazy new ideas that just need a home. If you aren't sure if it fits, send it anyway!
--Keep pieces under 1,500 words.
--We keep it classy here in Bethville, so nothing you wouldn't want my momma to see.
--Political humor is okay, but no serious politics. (For example, if you Photoshopped Richard Nixon's eyebrows onto Ronald Reagan in the name of comedy (fig 1.1), I would laugh and laugh. If you sent me an essay on your thoughts on healthcare reform, I would reject it.)
--Be aware that any submissions I receive that contain racist/sexist humor will be returned to you with a big picture of me giving you the middle finger.
--It has to be your original work. No links.
Send your submissions in the body of an email, to email@example.com. Please allow two weeks for a reply.