Friday, December 24, 2010
And now, the long-awaited conclusion of the Baby Jesus vs. the Santanator! Happy holidays to all of my jolly readers!
The Baby Jesus vs. The Santanator 2: Judgment Night
The Santanator had two missions. The first was to find and destroy the baby Jesus. The second was to see what he wanted for Christmas. For while the Santanator was programed to do the bidding of the evil King Herod, inventor of the time machine and cyborgs, he still felt the need to spread holiday cheer and merriment everywhere he went. You see, under his titanium alloy exterior beat the heart of a jolly old elf.
The Santanator was making his list and checking it twice when suddenly he was knocked from his sleigh by a giant bazooka blast.
"You blew up my donkey," said the baby Jesus, leaping onto the Santanator's back. "Now, I will make you pay." With his holy screwdriver, the baby Jesus pried open the compartment on the Santanator's back that held his programming chip. With some quick work and the help of the Holy Spirit, the baby Jesus reprogrammed the Santanator so that he would be good.
"Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas," said the Santanator. "What do you want for Christmas, little boy?"
"That's more like it," said the baby Jesus. "Now, where are my wise men?"
"We three kings of Orient are....over here," came the voice of Balthasar.
"Good," said the baby Jesus. "Get on your camels. We have a treacherous king to destroy."
As you can imagine, the pint-sized Messiah, the reprogramed Santanator, and the three kings made quick work of destroying King Herod. It was actually really boring, so I'm not going to describe it. Just know that they came upon a midnight clear, slid down his chimney, and annihilated him.
So, what happened next to the Baby Jesus, his new robot friend, and his three wise men? The Baby Jesus eventually grew into an adult Jesus and they continued to kick a lot more ass for many Christmases to come.
Monday, December 6, 2010
You've likely noticed by now that Halloween came and went without a final Frightening Friday post. And now it's December, and I haven't posted for over a month and you suppose I've abandoned you for something more fun, like clubbing seals and turning them into Christmas ornaments.
I thank all of you for not sending me emails asking why I was such a lazy jerk and did I care nothing at all for your need for amusement? I've spent the last three and a half months buried under freelance work. Which, as you can imagine, is very dangerous indeed, as freelance work has been known to suffocate the elderly and many small children. So, in the unlikely event that you find yourself in a room that is slowly filling up with freelance work, do not take it lightly. Find a ventilation shaft as soon as possible and climb to safety. Or you may end up like me, sporting bloodshot eyes and a mild case of alcoholism.
On the up side of all of this, I will have two books coming out in the next year. On the down side, I have been forced to neglect "Welcome to Bethville!" which is my baby. So, I'm going to attempt to rectify that situation right now with a jolly, and completely idiotic, Christmas story.
The Baby Jesus vs. The Santanator
The baby Jesus was hiding in his manger, his tiny, holy hand gripping a bazooka in hopes that the Santanator soon would be there. So that he could destroy it once and for all. For the birth of the baby Jesus had been foretold by an angel, and the Santanator was sent back through time to destroy him.
The baby Jesus could take no chances. He sent his parents, Mary and Joseph, away to a bunker in Bethlehem for their own protection, for there was no room left at the inn that night. And the bunker was safer anyway. The baby Jesus knew that the Santanator's sleigh had been outfitted with eight tiny cruise missiles.
"Hey, are you the king of the Jews?" said a voice in the darkness of the stable.
"Yes," the baby Jesus replied.
"We saw your signal flare in the east and followed it here. You see, we're your sworn protectors." And out of the darkness stepped three dark figures.
We're the wise men," said another voice. "Our names are Melchoir, Gaspar, and Balthasar. And we come bearing gifts." With them the wise men carried gold, frankincense, and many frag grenades.
"Good," said the baby Jesus, "We'll need these." He then hitched up his holy diaper (because although the baby Jesus was the savior and a great warrior, he still suffered from newborn incontinence) and began loading up his donkey with an arsenal of weapons.
"Wait, baby Jesus," said Gaspar. "You can't ride on the front of that donkey. Don't you know that babies should always be strapped to the back of the donkey in case of an accident?"
"Are you kidding me?" said the baby Jesus. "I'm the baby Jesus. The son of God. Those rules don't apply to me."
"Yes, they do. And we were sworn to protect you no matter what," said Gaspar, and soon the baby Jesus was buckled into a safety seat and securely strapped to the rear of the donkey, which made him very cranky, even when one of the wise men jangled some keys in his face.
"I'm the wise man with the cleanest donkey riding record," said Melchoir, "so I'll be the one to ride with the baby Jesus."
"But I am the wise man with the night vision goggles," said Gaspar.
"I am the wise man carrying the assault rifle," said Balthasar. And so it was decided that Balthasar would escort the baby Jesus because he was the most badassed-looking of all the wise men.
The caravan had not gotten far when suddenly out in the distance there arose such a clatter that it could only mean one thing. The Santanator was near.
"Quick!" shouted the baby Jesus. "Cover our flanks. And unbuckle this safety seat so that I can properly wield this bazooka!"
"Bazooka?" said Melchoir, "What does a precious baby need with a bazooka? Tsk tsk." And much to the baby Jesus's annoyance, the bazooka was pried from his adorable hands and put on a high shelf so that he couldn't reach it until he was older.
"I can't believe the three of you," said the baby Jesus, rolling his eyes in the most precious manner as he dislocated his shoulder so that he could escape from the harness that held him to the safety seat on the back of his donkey. And he leaped to safety just in the nick of time, as just then the donkey exploded, laying waste all over the new-fallen snow.
To be continued...
**I borrowed this image from Futurama. And here's this.
Friday, October 22, 2010
SURPRISE! It's me again, back from my terrifying week of nonstop work to tell you another tale of horror that will chill you to your very bones. You will be so chilled, that you'll need to make yourself a cup of hot cocoa and read this under a down comforter. But you'll still be really chilled, so you'll light a fire in your fireplace. But then, after the fire is lit and you begin to warm your hands and feet, you'll remember that you don't have a fireplace. And as you stand there watching your apartment building burn to the ground, your only thought will be, "I am still chilled by that story, and I hope Mr. Whiskers gets out alive."
Which bring us to this Friday's frightening tale of fright. What are your plans for Halloween? Well, if you know what's good for you, you will dress up as an important historical figure and go out on the town for a very chaste evening of non-alcoholic daiquiris and square dancing. I really hope your plans don't include working as a counselor at a camp with questionable safety standards. Like the one in this story.
Camp of Questionable Safety Standards
Camp Trip was the most dangerous camp of all time. Not only was it located in the heart of Man-Eating Grizzly Bear Woods, which, as you've likely guessed, was filled with man-eating grizzlies, you had to drive down a long pot hole-filled road to get to it, as the camp's owner was too cheap to have the road repaired. And when you finally got there, you were faced with the worst safety standards of all time. There were jagged tree stumps near all the paths and frequent food poisoning in the dining hall. Cabin walls and floors were filled with rusty nails. On the first day of camp, each camper was given a hammer and an ax and told, "If you see a rusty nail, use your hammer to fix it. Also, you're going to be chopping your own firewood. Good luck!"
It was these poor safety standards that resulted in the death of a camper at Camp Trip many, many years before when the tarp that was used in place of a cabin roof fell onto his bunk and suffocated him to death. To make things even more dangerous at camp, despite being dead, that dead camper was hell bent on revenge and ran around camp every night after dark slaughtering campers and camp counselors willy-nilly with his wood chopping ax, rather than seeking the therapy he clearly needed.
As darkness fell on the first night of camp, everyone was digging into their evening meal of undercooked chicken and potato salad that had sat out in the sun all day. The campers were all talking about how much fun they had had at the grenade throwing range that afternoon and how they couldn't wait to go horseback riding the next day because they heard that rather than buying and training horses, the camp owner just put out oats and opened the stable doors, letting in whatever horses might be interested in a meal that night. But unbeknownst to those excited campers, none of them would live to see the next day.
As the first camper began to feel the first grumblings of food poisoning in her stomach, the lights in the dining hall suddenly went out.
"Oh, no!" you're thinking, "The evil undead camper has come to the dining hall with his ax to slaughter everyone!" But you are wrong. It was just the faulty electrical wiring.
"Someone call somebody to fix this!" called one camp counselor.
"The phone lines are down!" said another counselor.
"The undead camper cut the lines!" you're thinking. But no, it was because the camp owner didn't pay the phone bill that month.
"Does anyone else see that menacing ax-wielding shadow outside the dining hall window?" asked one of the campers.
"Just the shadow of a tree, I suppose?" you say, but you would be wrong. It was actually the undead and revenge-seeking camper this time.
"AAAAAAAAAAA! We're doomed!"
"We must barricade the doors!"
Working quickly, the campers and counselors moved the tables over to block the doors and windows.
"What if he tries to come down the chimney?" called a terrified camper into the darkness.
"Quick! Light a fire in the fireplace!" said one of the counselors, handing a box of matches and a can of gas to a camper who was wearing an eye patch after falling face first onto a jagged tree stump.
"But we don't have a fireplace!" said the eye-patched camper.
"Then, light the fire over there in the corner!" cried a terrified camper with only one arm, who had unfortunately discovered that afternoon that his horse was a man-eating grizzly.
"Hey," you're saying, "Why are they afraid of the murderer coming down the chimney if there's no fireplace?" Because they were not trained properly on what to do in case of an emergency. Let that be a lesson to you. Read on.
Now, as any good camper knows, you should never, ever light a fire indoors if you don't have a proper fireplace. For one thing, you could light the whole dining hall on fire. Secondly, you could be asphyxiated. Thirdly, running away from flames causes you to metabolize the salmonella in your system more quickly, causing instant projectile vomiting. And nothing creates more dangerous safety standards than vomit-covered floors and a blazing inferno. As you've likely guessed, the campers who didn't die of food poisoning were asphyxiated or unable to escape the blaze because large dining tables were blocking all the exits, which anyone trained properly in safety standards would know never to do.
The ax-wielding undead camper just stood and watched the drama unfold from outside where the air was rich with oxygen and thoroughly cooked meals. And as he stood there, he thought, "I should really seek therapy. It's obvious that I'm still upset by that tarp suffocating incident. And, hey, why am I alive right now if I died?" So, he dropped his ax and stalked away into the woods to seek medical attention and therapy for his problems. You'll be pleased to hear that he eventually found closure. You'll also be pleased to know that the fire that consumed the dining hall also helped to cook the chicken properly at last, killing all of the bacteria swimming around on it. Unfortunately, no one was left alive to eat it.
Friday, October 15, 2010
You are probably wondering what has taken me so long in posting today's terrifying edition of Frightening Friday. And the short answer is deadlines. The longer answer is "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! SO MANY DEADLINES!" Which brings me to the fact that deadlines are pretty terrifying. I mean, just look at the word "deadlines." First, you have "dead" which requires no explanation. Then, you have "lines," which are one of the most frightening things I can think of. Have you ever stood admiring a waterfall while drinking an extra large Mountain Dew and had a sudden serious urge to take a leak? So you sprint all the way to the bathroom, bladder sloshing, and discover, to your absolute horror, a long line of people waiting to go? Scary. So, anyway, luckily for you guys I knew this would inevitably happen and had a back-up Frightening Friday post ready to go just in case my terrifying deadlines caught up to me. I hope you get as scared as I was when I wrote it.
Dracula’s Terrible Houseguests
Once upon a time in a castle in Transylvania lived a vampire named Count Dracula. Now, if you know anything at all about vampires, you are probably aware that vampires thrive on the blood of human beings. They think it’s really delicious, much like you and a ham sandwich with lettuce and plenty of mayonnaise. (Unless you are vegetarian, in which case you might enjoy a nice salad with chickpeas and carrot slivers instead.)
But the fact that Dracula was a vampire has little or nothing to do with this story. Dracula, in addition to being a bloodsucking menace, very much enjoyed entertaining guests at his castle. Dracula loved to prepare his guest suite when he knew that someone was coming to visit. He left mints on pillows and put out his hand-molded decorative soaps and fancy towels. Most people—-before they were drained of blood or added to Dracula’s vampire minion—-were sure to thank Dracula heartily for the wonderful meal and wine that he served. No one could ever say that Dracula was a bad host.
But then a large group of gentlemen came for a visit quite unannounced.
Dracula had only just returned from a trip to England and was very sleepy. So, he had gone downstairs to his coffin to sleep off his boat lag.
Now, you should never drop in on someone unannounced because it gives your host absolutely no time to go to the grocery store or do any vacuuming. Not only did they not call ahead, but the large group of men in question barged right into Dracula’s castle in an extremely rude manner. Dracula was sound asleep by then and had absolutely no time to put out any decorative soap or make a single canapé for his guests to snack on.
And even though they must have been very tired from their travels, instead of sitting down in Dracula’s parlor for a nice cup of tea and waiting patiently for their host to greet them, the rude gentlemen headed straight downstairs to Dracula’s coffin chamber to say hello.
Now, it’s another rule of being a houseguest that you should never, ever barge right in while your host is sleeping. First of all, people who are sleeping tend to have horrible breath and might want to brush their teeth before they see you. Secondly, they might like to comb their hair or whiskers to make them a bit less unruly. Thirdly, you might wake them from a delightful dream.
But the group of men cared about none of those things. In fact, they walked right in and lifted up the lid on Dracula’s coffin. And then, they proceeded to stab him through the heart with a wooden stake. The whole thing was just rude.
If you know anything about vampires, you are aware that if you stab a vampire through the heart with a stake, he will cease to be undead. In fact, he will turn into the most unpleasant dusty mess. Which is what Dracula did. It was a very sad day indeed, not only because Dracula shuffled off that immortal coil, but also because he never got to fulfill his deathlong dream of opening a bed and breakfast.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Hey, where do you live? Yeah, you! Because it's haunted. That's right. Your house is haunted. How do I know? Because a one-eyed shaman told me so. Someone totally died there. So, if you are at home right now sitting upon that massive collection of pizza boxes you call furniture reading this and thinking, "Whew! It's good that I'm safe here where I live," then you're wrong. WRONG! Right now, something is lurking very close to you and ready to pounce. I only hope you can get to the end of today's edition of Frightening Friday before you meet your end. You'd better read quickly.
Hotel Room Showers Are Scary
It's weird enough showering in hotel rooms. You start thinking, as you carefully soap up your genitals, about all of the weird people who probably soaped up their genitals in there before you. And enjoyed it. Serial killers, investment bankers, people who throw unwanted pets into trash cans. All with soapy genitals. Then, you discover that while all you wanted was a hot shower when you got to that hotel room after a long day of traveling, now you want nothing more than dip yourself in bleach in the comfort of your own home. So, when you're in the shower at that hotel thinking about all those things and someone dressed up as his own mother comes into the bathroom without knocking carrying a razor sharp knife, it's likely to put you off of hotel showering forever.
Now, let it be noted that you should never, enter a bathroom without knocking. Mostly because you could find yourself in an awkward situation. Like discovering your grandfather with his pants around his ankles doing crossword puzzles on the toilet. But also because the person in the bathroom might react poorly to being interrupted by throwing a full bottle of shampoo at your head.
Secondly, you should never, ever go into a bathroom carrying a razor sharp knife. The floor can get very, very slippery when someone is in the shower. You could slip on a puddle of water and impale yourself in a very distasteful manner. Or accidentally cut a hole in the shower curtain and be forced to see a relative in the nude.
Thirdly, you should never dress up as your own mother. Because people will inevitably think you are your own mother. And when you are in a hurry to get to the pharmacy to buy some PreparationH for your hemorrhoids, you will have to spend 30 minutes talking to her friend Marcy. Even though Marcy should know better because your mother has been dead for 10 years. And you clearly have a penis under that dress.
To get to the point, and I have one, if you decide to cast aside this excellent advice and dress up as your own mother and enter a bathroom without knocking while carrying a razor sharp knife, just be really careful.
Now, getting back to the story, on one dark and rainy night not too long ago, after a long day of traveling, a person got into a shower in her hotel room. It had been a long day, and she was tired. After several enjoyable minutes of soaping up her genitals, the door to the bathroom opened and a person entered carrying a razor sharp knife. Now I know that you're all thinking, based on the warnings I provided above, that the person in question was dressed as his own mother and slipped around dangerously on the damp floor. But, no, it was the hotel maintenance man and he brought a knife into the bathroom to fix the toilet because he couldn't find his screwdriver that day. And, because he was a maintenance man and had fixed toilets on slippery tile floors before, he was careful to step around the puddles. But he was not used to carrying a razor sharp knife, so the maintenance man accidentally cut a sizable hole in the shower curtain. The person in the shower screamed in terror and threw a full shampoo bottle at his head, and rightly so because who enters without knocking? The maintenance man, seeing that the woman in the shower was his great-aunt Gloria and she was soaping up her genitals, had a heart attack and died right there.
Years later, they converted that hotel into apartments. Really wonderful apartments...like the one you're sitting in now reading this from atop the stack of pizza boxes you call furniture. And sometimes on dark nights, you can hear a shower running and the moans of a maintenance man who wasn't careful with his knife.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Arghhhhh! Welcome once again to Frightening Fridays. This is your pirate captain speaking. We be weighing anchor in Absolute Terror Cove, while I prepare to tell you the most chillifying tale to ever sail the Seven Seas. So, grab your peg legs and your eye patches and get ready to be super scared while I sit here in the complete safety of my brightly-lit living room and think about how scared you're soon going to be. Because I mean you're going to be so scared. Scareder than the time I told you a story about evil sewer clowns. And scareder than the time I told you a story about a depressed pumpkin. And a whole lot scareder than the time I told you a story about gourmet zombies. Maybe a bit less scared than the time I told you about a babysitter and a hook-handed murderer. But certainly more scared than the time we talked about some very nice witches who did not at all deserve to be burned at the stake. See what I did there? I linked back to all of the Frightening Friday posts from last October, so that you could go back, read them, and pee your pants in fear all over again. Mwahahahaha! So, with no further self-promotion or prattling on about how much I'm going to scare you, here is the first tale of terror.
The Flying Dutchman: 2010
It's hard to be a ghost pirate ship captain. For one thing, your ghostly hands go right through the helm of the ship, winds blow right through the mizzen mast with no effect on the direction of the ship, and your crew forgets that making you walk the plank in some feeble attempt at mutiny is only going to get your corporeal form all wet. So, what happens when you become a ghost pirate ship captain is that it's fun for about twenty years, but later on when you're drifting around, unable to control the direction of your ship, and being forced to spend an eternity with your annoying ghostly crew, you get pretty tired of the whole situation and wish you had just gone down to Davy Jones's locker like a normal dead pirate.
This was the case for Captain Strangebeard. Why was he called Captain Strangebeard? Because he had accidentally shaved off half his beard. When the actual ship sank the next day and the captain drowned, his ghost was forever cursed with half a beard. So, he was Captain Strangebeard.
The year was 2010. The day was Halloween. The sky was dark. The sea was rough, and the pirates were fresh out of ghost grapefruits, so they were all suffering from ghost scurvy.
"I have an idea!" shouted Peg Face the Pirate, who was first mate of this very salty, very dead crew, "Let's make the captain walk the plank!"
"It be a mutiny!" cried Parrot Face the pirate, who was a dead parrot pirate who frequently said parroty pirate things.
"OH MY GOD!" said Captain Strangebeard, "I explained this to you two centuries ago. You can't mutiny me. I'm dead."
"Shiver me timbers!" said Dead Fish Breath the pirate, who was the ship's cook. "We be dead?"
"Arggggghhhhhh!" said Captain Strangebeard. (It was, as you are likely aware, a very piratey thing to say, but Captain Strangebeard was actually just venting his frustration.)
"We have been floating around the Seven Seas for almost five centuries. How could we be alive at this point?" said Captain Strangebeard for the twenty-third time that week.
"I thought that be a bit weird," said Peg Face the Pirate.
"I want my mommy!" said Crybaby the Pirate.
"You can't have your mommy! She's been dead for hundreds of years!" said Strangebeard.
"When we be getting our share of the treasure?" asked Moneybags the Pirate.
"Are you a complete and utter moron? Have any of you listened to one word I've said in three centuries?" asked Captain Strangebeard. "The treasure is in Davy Jones's locker. It's gone. The ship sank. This is a ghost ship."
"Like, ghosts?! Where?" said Shaggy Beard the Pirate.
"Rhosts! Raggy!" said Scooby the Pirate, who dove under a rug to hide.
"Okay, seriously, you guys?" said Captain Strangebeard. He finally retreated to his ghostly captain's quarters to get away from his utterly stupid crew and write in his ghostly ship log.
Day 167,926. Crew threatening mutiny again. They are so, so stupid. I mean, so incredibly stupid. Will this voyage ever end?
Suddenly, someone knocked at the door of the captain's quarters. "Captain! Captain! Make haste! There be a ship on the horizon!"
Captain Strangebeard rolled his ghostly eyes. Not again.
"Captain! There be people on board drinking rum and dancing strangely!"
"You brought me up here to look at another Carnival Cruise Ship, Peg Face. I told you last time, those people are on vacation," said Strangebeard.
"Maybe they have treasurrrrre!" said Peg Face.
"Probably," Strangebeard replied, "But what are we going to do? Shoot them with our ghost cannon?"
"We pillage and plunder and take no man alive!" cried Peg Face.
"Okay, let me know how that goes for you. I'll be in my quarters holding my ghostly flintlock to my head and praying for release from you idiots," said Captain Strangebeard. He went back to his quarters.
"Argh! Take no man alive!" cried Peg Face. And the pirate crew prepared the ghost cannon and fired it many, many times into the side of the Carnival Cruise ship and were baffled that it never made a dent. Eventually they gave up and went back to planning their mutiny of Captain Strangebeard. The Flying Dutchman sailed on for an eternity, which it was eternally annoying for the captain.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
I know you have all been waiting in anticipation for another month of terrifying Friday story time. So, starting Friday, October 1, be prepared for the return of Frightening Fridays, when I tell you a blood-curdling tale of fear so terrifying that you will cling to your teddy bear every night and hope that you do not slip into a dark abyss filled with nightmare bats, fear spiders, and people without working flashlights.
Terror! Fear! Scary things! October 1 and every Friday until Halloween! Be there!
Your Evil Cruise Director on This Boat Going Straight to Scary Town
The Mayor of Bethville
Monday, September 13, 2010
Well, I hope you got some sleep and didn't stay awake for the last two days waiting to hear the rest of the story of Boobsweaterella.
If you did, I would hate to keep you waiting any longer. So, read on.
The Continued Tale of Boobsweaterella
If you recall, Boobsweaterella's stepsisters had left for the ball. And Boobsweaterella was fanning her stepmother so that she wouldn't get dehydrated.
"AAAAAA! You're dripping sweat all over me!" cried the stepmother.
"Sorry," said Boobsweaterella.
"Never mind," said the stepmother. "Go inside and get me a popsicle."
In the kitchen, Boobsweaterella was met by her very sweaty fairy godmother wearing her favorite hot weather muumuu.
"Let's cut to the chase," said the fairy godmother, "because it is seriously hot up in this piece. I'm your fairy godmother, and you want to go to the ball, right?"
"Nah, not really," said Boobsweaterella.
"Sure you do," said the fairy godmother.
"No, I really don't," Boobsweaterella replied.
"Well, okay then. Do you want to just take off our bras and make margaritas?"
And so they did.
You: Hey! What about the other characters in the story?
You: You know, the stepmother waiting for her popsicle. The stepsisters? The handsome prince? The ball?
Me: Oh, right right right.
The actual end of the story:
Boobsweaterella finally agreed to go to the ball after much chiding from her fairy godmother. She put on her best cotton sundress and gave her armpits an extra swipe of Speed Stick. With a wave of her magic wand, the fairy godmother produced a bicycle out of thin air. "Have a good time!" she called as Boobsweaterella pedaled off down the road. Any other mode of transportation would have been suffocating on such a hot night, so she was pleased with the bicycle.
Boobsweaterella finally arrived at the ball. You already know what happened next. The prince saw her amazing knockers and fell instantly in love, completely unafraid of being turned into a skin coat. They danced and danced and sweated all over each other.
But suddenly, at the stroke of midnight, Boobsweaterella remembered that her stepmother was still sitting out on the patio unfanned and probably quite dehydrated.
"Oh, no!" she cried. "I have to go!"
"Stop!" the prince cried, panting after her.
But Boobsweaterella ran out the castle gates and pedaled off on her waiting bicycle, leaving only a trail of perspiration behind her for the prince to remember her by.
Now, you're probably thinking, "Great! Now the prince will have to go all around the kingdom and find the mysterious woman who left that trail of sweat behind!" And you would be wrong. He used the phone book. There weren't many listings for "Boobsweaterella" in that kingdom, let me tell you.
Early the next morning after changing into a less sweaty pair of boxer shorts, the handsome prince set off in search of his love.
Five minutes later, the prince found Boobsweaterella's house and knocked on the door.
When she opened the door, and the prince recognized the sweatiest, most bountiful rack he had ever seen, he instantly proposed marriage.
But Boobsweaterella, who was a cynic and was pretty sure the prince had not once looked at her face, told him no and went back to fanning her stupid stepsisters.
Eventually, she went to college, became a scientist, and invented a special antiperspirant for the below-boob area. She made millions.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Dearest Welcome to Bethville readers. I apologize once again for the many delays between posts. I have been truly busy. First, I went on vacation. Then, the second I got back, I was sidelined by a big writing project, which will definitely be causing more delays. Thirdly, I am helping a very old, and quite undead friend out with his new blogging project. I hope you will check out Questions for Dracula and ask him many, many questions. Or he may come to your house and drink your blood. Just warning you.
Excuses out of the way, I would like to discuss something of dire importance with you.
"What is it?" you ask, leaning closer so you don't miss anything important. "Is she going to talk about the economy? Civil Rights? Abortion? Or the dangers hamsters face on a daily basis when one of them is using the hamster wheel going in one direction and another one is going in the opposite direction and inevitably one of them is flung off in a very disgraceful manner?"
No! It's none of these things. It's boob sweat.
"Gross!" you say and stomp away from your computer.
Fine. Be that way, Stompy McStomperson. I'll tell the people who are still reading a most gripping tale of sweatiness. So get out your moist towelettes and read on.
The Very Sweaty Tale of Boobsweaterella
Boobsweaterella lived with her stepmother and two stepsisters in one of the most humid kingdoms in the history of time. And because this was a very humid fairy tale kingdom, Willis Haviland Carrier did not exist. Hence, there was no air conditioning anywhere. Everyone was very, very, sweaty.
So, it was Boobsweaterella's job to fan her stepmother and two stepsisters with an enormous fan while they sat in the shade and sipped lemonade.
"Fan harder, Boobsweaterella!" cried the stepmother dabbing her forehead with a tissue.
Ironically, no one in the family was as hot as Boobsweaterella because while they were all rather small-chested, Boobsweaterella was rocking a pair of D-cups. And as anyone with D-cups knows, in the summer, it's like having a pair of sweat cannons strapped to your chest.
"I'm trying!" said Boobsweaterella, fanning like mad and self-consciously tugging at her dress, which had developed a very unseemly stripe of sweat in the lower bosom region.
"Gross!" said one of the stepsisters, noticing and pointing because she clearly thought, as many do, that people who are sweating are completely unaware of their sweatiness and need to be reminded.
"I can't help it," said Boobsweaterella. "It's so humid outside."
"You're disgusting, Boobsweaterella," said the stepmother. "Go inside and change into something less sweaty."
And Boobsweaterella did.
Meanwhile, across the kingdom a very sweaty handsome prince was preparing to embark on the very annoying and cliched mission of finding a wife.
"We'll throw a ball," said his father, the king, rubbing his forehead with an ice cube. "And we'll invite all the women in the land. You'll dance with all of them, and at the end of the night, you'll choose your favorite."
Which seems totally logical because you can learn everything you need to know about someone in a single night. Like whether or not she is a serial killer who likes to attend balls, seduce handsome princes, and then lure them to dark bedchambers and make handsome prince skin coats from their hot flesh.
"Okay, father," said the prince, who was far to hot to argue.
So, the date of the ball was set, and everywhere around the kingdom people were preparing. And the women at Boobsweaterella's house were no exception. Then, the night finally arrived.
Unfortunately, not one outfit in their closets was suitable for wearing on a humid night. So, one of the stepsisters put on a pair of gym shorts and tore off the sleeves of a T-shirt. The other stepsister put on a bikini top and a pair of cutoffs.
"You look beautiful!" gushed their mother. "The prince will love you for sure."
"What shall I wear?" asked Boobsweaterella.
"You're not going!" said the stepmother. "You must stay at home and fan me or I will get dehydrated."
Boobsweaterella, who was secretly happy that she got to stay home because it was too hot to be in a crowded ballroom, set to work fanning her stepmother while the two stepsisters headed for the ball.
Now, you're probably waiting for Boobsweaterella's fairy godmother to arrive. And she will, but right now it's almost 2:00 AM and I am very sleepy. So I will get to her tomorrow.
To be continued....
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Here is a tidbit of information from my life that you might not know. For the past two years, I have lived half a block from a mosque. "What?" you say. "Do you spend all your time at home doing an inventory of your munitions closet? Are you stocked up on Kevlar vests? What happens if the Muslims come and you aren't ready?"
To which I respond, "What is wrong with you?"
Yes, there is a mosque on my street, and you might be surprised to know that NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. There aren't any neighborhood holy wars going on. We all go to the same grocery stores and laundromats. Women walk around wearing burqas, and I haven't once thought to myself, "Oh my god, lady terrorist at 10 o'clock, and here I am without my pistols." Because I know she is just running errands like I am. (The scariest thing that ever happens in my neighborhood is when the ice cream man parks in front of my building and I don't have any money.)
If there is an army of terrorists being trained at the Islamic center, it consists of four old guys who like to chat every night out front before they lock up and go home. If they are planning some kind of violent jihad, they are reeeeally procrastinating.
After two years of living near this mosque, I might also venture to say that I don't think that God is all that worried either (if you subscribe to the belief thing). I'm talking about the god that Christians believe in and credit with Jesus and such. The same god who some Christians insist would oppose the building of mosques. I have yet to see him smite the mosque in my neighborhood or the people who go there, despite the fact that it is less than a block away from a Baptist church, where every Sunday, a lot of non-Muslim people rattle the windows with their love for Jesus. And that is across the street from a Methodist church where the service is delivered in Spanish. (For the record, God hasn't smote any of those people for not speaking English.) There seems to be no Christian to Islam religion transference or vice versa, despite the close proximity.
People go into the Islamic center. People come out. God is like, "Ho hum. No smiting for me today."
My point is that there are dicks of every single religion on the planet. There are Methodist dicks, Lutheran dicks, and Catholic dicks; Jewish dicks, Atheist dicks, and Wiccan dicks, There are probably even some Quaker dicks. And, yes, there are Muslim dicks and a small percentage of them are terrorists. But it does not make all of them terrorists. I repeat: That does not make all of them terrorists. So, for those people in Wisconsin, California, and Tennessee (and anywhere else with a Muslim population) where someone wants to build a mosque and you feel you just gotta protest, go get yourself a falafel and a hookah and relax. Life is beautiful in my neighborhood. There is no reason it shouldn't be in yours as well.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
You've seen Cats Dressed as Sharks for Shark Week, but have you seen a shark dressed as a cat? Awwwwww....I just want to pinch his little gills.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
***Hungry grizzly preparing to eat Grizzly Adams, who was not hungry at the time.
Well, yesterday we learned that laughing at starving people is not nice. And we learned that if you skip meals in anticipation of something that could potentially be a month away, you will likely die. We also learned about the pre-hibernation habits of bears. One thing we didn't learn, however, is just how far a starving Antarctican person would have to travel to find a KFC. So I did some fast Googling, and I think that currently their best chance of having a delicious chicken dinner is this one. So, if you see or speak to any Antarcticans on the search for food, kindly direct them to Sydney, Australia. And recommend that in the future they just try harpooning something.
All of that aside, I know you came here to read the rest of the thrilling tale of anthropomorphic bears, girls with low blood sugar, and terrible parenting. And so I will continue with that with no further ado.
Goldilocks and the Low Blood Sugar Crisis: The Conclusion
Goldilocks smelled chicken. And as everyone knows, if you are suffering from low blood sugar and smell chicken, no one had better stand between you and that chicken. As many unfortunate people have learned, acting as a barricade between a hungry person and his nosh may result in accidental cannibalism.
As you will likely remember, the tantalizing chicken fragrance was coming from a cabin owned by a family of anthropomorphic grizzly bears who were preparing for their winter hibernation. Specifically, it was coming from a half-eaten bucket of chicken sitting in the lap of a 500 pound grizzly. This information might deter most people, but not Goldilocks. She stormed right into that cabin, tore the bucket of chicken from the bear's lap, and ate it in three bites. And then she ate the grizzly. And his armchair. And because I'm feeling charitable and just had a delicious lunch that cured my low blood sugar, the mother grizzly and cub escaped unharmed.
The moral of this story is that 1) You should always have a snack handy 2) Don't stand between a hungry person and her food 3) Don't be an anthropomorphic bear in a story that I am writing because I will discard that whole porridge thing and leave you dead, bloody, and in the stomach of a hungry tween and 4) Always cook your meat before you eat it, or you may get a tapeworm like Goldilocks did.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Well...it has been a month since my last post. And while I am positive that if any of you were missing meals waiting for me to post something, you are most assuredly dead by now and not reading this. And while this advice will go unread by those who did starve to death, I'm going to say it anyway. You really should have known better.
That said, starvation is no laughing matter. I feel strange even smirking at the idea of starvation. And if you are currently giggling over the demise of those who died waiting for me to write this, you should be ashamed of yourself. Think of all those starving people in Antarctica right now, waiting around the ice floe for that apple tree that will never take root or those $5.99 chicken dinners that will never be delivered because there is no KFC within several hundred miles. Next time you find yourself chuckling over the idea of hunger, I hope you will think of those people and frown accordingly.
And now, those of you who did not starve to death while waiting for this blog post can read this thrilling tale of how if you don't eat something when your blood sugar is low, you will definitely die.
Goldilocks and the Low Blood Sugar Crisis
Before bears go into hibernation for the winter, they eat a lot of extra food. That way, while they are sleeping the cold winter months away, they can survive on their extra body fat. In fact, if you spy through the window of a cabin that belongs to an inexplicably anthropomorphized grizzly during the fall months, you will likely see him sitting in his armchair with his paw in a bucket of chicken. You might even see his charming grizzly wife slaving over a hot stove and grumbling about the lazy, fat son of a bitch she common law married and how he never helps out in the kitchen, just sits in his armchair all day with his paw in a bucket of chicken. Furthermore, you may see the grizzly family's adorable cub playing on the rug next to his father's chair wishing he had opposable thumbs so he could play with Legos.
But before you go spying in any grizzly cabin windows, I would like to remind you that 1) Grizzlies are dangerous animals and 2) It is rude to spy in windows. So if you see a cabin owned by some inexplicably anthropomorphized grizzly bears, it would be best to tiptoe on by and just assume that they are in there preparing for hibernation by eating lots of things.
Unless you are rude and unafraid of grizzlies. Or suffer from low blood sugar. Like Goldilocks.
Personally, I think the name Goldilocks is stupid. But when compared to the names of her siblings, Brownhead, Baldie, and Combover, I suppose it might be the preferable name given to the Hairhead children.
Goldilocks was wandering around alone in the woods one day because, in addition to giving their children terrible names, her parents were always telling her to go outside and have an adventure, secretly hoping that she would be eaten by bears because they regretted allowing themselves to be coerced into reproducing by their meddling parents and religious leader.
And so Goldilocks was skipping through the woods alone, when she suddenly realized that her blood sugar was low. Now, most people who frequently suffer from low blood sugar would be smart enough to keep a snack handy. But not Goldilocks. Because as every girl Goldilocks's age knows, if boys catch you eating food, they will think you are a fat cow person made of snacks. And so, Goldilocks dizzily skipped on wishing for a few crackers or an apple so she wouldn't pass out. And that was when she passed a cabin owned by inexplicably anthropomorphized bears and smelled chicken in the air.
To be continued....
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Sometimes when I lie awake at night contemplating my life choices, I like to play out scenes from my imaginary cooking show. You know...that cooking show that you fantasize about having after you make a particularly tasty meal and are still secretly congratulating yourself on how well it went over? Well, I would like to share a bit of it with you. So, with no further ado, here is my imaginary cooking show.
Hi, everybody, and welcome to my cooking show. As you can see, I have some bowls here for mixing things in and some spoons. This is the stove, and in here is the oven. I'll be using all of them today to make a meal perfect for entertaining.
Okay, so first we should make a nice appetizer. I like to make something French so that my guests can be reminded of the time they spent in France. And what do people think of when they think of France? Baguette and fromage, which is French for bread and cheese. So for a tasty French appetizer, let's take these bread slices and cook them in the toaster. Yeeeees, that's nice. Look at those getting nice and golden. Then we'll put some cheese slices on top and then pop them right in in the microwave for melting. Serve immediately or when your guests finally arrive with that bottle of Pepsi you asked them to bring. You know, when they gave you a weird look and said, "How about a bottle of French wine?" And you said, "No, I said Pepsi. Who's the gourmet here?" (If you are forced to wait for your guests to finally arrive, put the plate of appetizers on top of the radiator to keep them warm and ready to serve.)
And now, because the theme is French cooking, I'm going to stick with that theme and make a delicious French entree. Now, I've never been to France, but I hear it is lovely. And you know what else is lovely? A big pile of bacon like this one here. So we're going to make a quiche Lorraine. Who is Lorraine, you ask? Your mom is Lorraine. Hahahaha. Oh, I am so funny sometimes. Okay, now I like to make quiche Your Mom in the easiest manner possible. So buy a pie crust that is pre-made. You'll want to crumble the cooked bacon into tiny pieces. Then, crack the eggs, add this milk, sprinkle in these spices, and pour the mixture into the crust. Then pop into the the oven at 350 degrees until the top is firm and cooked through. If your guests still haven't arrived, you can put it back in the oven on the warm setting and then stare listlessly out the window like I hear they do in France.
Dessert is next on the agenda. And if you're like me, you want to make that dessert as decadent as possible. So we're going to make creme brulees. Yep, a rich custard with a layer of hard caramel on top. Mmmmmm....very French! Your guests are going to think they never left France last weekend. They'll be like, "Que c'est délicieux!" And you'll be like, "I don't know French and I've never been to France because when I suggested taking a trip there, you guys were all, 'Let's go next weekend!' and I was all, 'I need to save up for a month or two first," and you guys were all, 'Well, why don't we go this time and you can go later when you can actually afford it?' BUT I do know that 'délicieux' must mean something good!" Creme brulee is very easy. As you can see here, I already made these ones using some cream, vanilla, eggs, and some other stuff. Sprinkle the tops with sugar and melt with this cooking torch. Don't singe off your eyebrows! Hahahahaha...
Oh, look! Your guests are arriving. And they brought you a tiny replica of the Eiffel Tower. Isn't that thoughtful? I hope they like warm Pepsi and the diarrhea you gave them with all that cream and cheese! This has been Bethany's cooking show. See you next time!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Well, in the words of Michael Bluth, "I have made a huge mistake." And, per usual, my pain and suffering is your entertainment. Because if I don't talk about it in the most shameless manner possible, it's just sad.
But first, a confession.
I have chin hairs. Yes, you heard it here first. My chin is not smooth and hairless as a drag queen's butt. Normally I just pluck these hairs, which I was doing on Monday morning when I suddenly had a brilliant idea: wax strips.
Every few years or so I forget about the pain and suffering involved with hair removal products and purchase some. I have used the microwavable wax, Nair, and razors with one, two, three, four, and five blades. And I like to think that at 30 years of age I know what works for me and what doesn't. I have been burned, cut, bloodied, and maimed by hair removal products. And at this point I'm happy with razors and plucking in the necessary areas, thankyouverymuch.
But a few months ago I thought I would give the wax strips a whirl because I also have hair on my upper lip and plucking that area hurts like a motherfucker. So why not tear off the entire patch of hair in one go, am I right?
So, on Monday I thought to myself, "I've got these lip hairs. I've got these chin hairs. Why not just use wax strips on everything?" And so I did. But Monday was a very warm and humid day, and as I was soon to discover, wax strips leave sticky residue on your face when the weather is warm and humid.
Long story short, I scrubbed and I scrubbed and I scrubbed my face. And as hairless and beautiful as I was at that point, I just couldn't get the wax to come off. Twenty-four hours later my face was still sticky.
Which brings us to this morning. I apparently rubbed my face so raw that my chin has decided to scab over. I look like Vincent Price in House of Wax. And if just now you said, "Vincent who? I thought Paris Hilton was in that," then know that I secretly think you're an idiot, although I would never say it to your face.
I applied lotion and aloe liberally and then I attempted to cover it all up with makeup. But I still look a mess. And on the wild carousel that is my beautification process, I have reached that point again where I'm climbing down from the horse feeling a bit queasy and wondering why the hell I did that. And thinking is it really that bad to have a few chin hairs? At this point, should I just let my chin grow wild like the prairie?
"Yes!" part of me says. "It's not worth the pain! You look like an orc of Mordor today. I hope that you learned your lesson and next time don't try anything stupid."
But I know that in a few short months when I have recovered from my horrible disfigurement, I'll find a hair. And it will drive me nuts. And I'll think, "What was that important lesson I learned a few months ago? Something about wax strips....OH LOOK! A carousel! Pretty horses!" And, yeah, I'll do this stupid shit again.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Need a vacation? Why not visit beautiful Bethany's Apartment Luxury Hotel and Casino?!
Amenities include a couch that sleeps one comfortably, a shared bathroom with a sparkling clean toilet, and beautiful views of my neighbors across the street who the other day roasted hot dogs over a burning trash can.
Explore the expansive 20 square foot grounds on foot. You might even spot some local wildlife! Just don't feed her. She bites.
Do you like water sports? The Bethany's Apartment Luxury Hotel and Casino is just steps from the East River. I hope you brought your biohazard suit and snorkel!
Hungry? Enjoy a luxurious meal courtesy of my refrigerator! How does gourmet dry pasta and croutons sound? I also have yogurt! And for dessert, popsicles!
Want to do some gambling? Visit the all-night Crazy Eights table. Or, for the more serious gambler, Go Fish!
Enjoy the night life? Why not drop in at Downstairs Neighbor Night Club and join in on the dance party that goes all night? No cover charge if you sneak in after dark with chloroform!
Need entertainment for the kids? Too bad! They can't come, and I have the poison darts to prove it.
Call for your reservation today at 718-***-****.
AAA discounts are available through bribery.
***Luxury hotel pictured above was used for illustrative purposes only. Bethany's Apartment Luxury Hotel and Casino is far more awesome.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Well, I am sure that whether you are a frequent or infrequent reader of Welcome to Bethville! you have probably noticed that I haven't done a lot of posting lately. This is because I am suffering from what the experts like to call "writer's block." Now, you're probably thinking "What is this writer's block? And can I catch it if you bleed on me? And if I do catch it, can it be cured or will I spend the rest of my life bedridden, suffering from a very high fever, and unable to think of things?" And the answer to all of these questions is "Spoon, yes, democracy, and tartar sauce" if this is the correct answer key on my desk.
That being said, my college creative writing instructor once said that there is no such thing as writer's block, only writer's laziness. So, not only can I not let the words of a man who fancied himself a bit of a J.D. Salinger but was really more of a P.D. Eastman get to me, I must also forge onward and prove that I am neither lazy nor blocked.
And so, for the sake of getting through my writer's block, here is a story that you may or may not enjoy very much. I call it Uni-kittens 2: The Rise of the Hairballs. And before you say, "Oh, not another sequel," I can assure you that it is brilliant. So read on, or my feelings will get hurt.
Uni-Kittens 2: The Rise of the Hairballs
Once upon a time in the Sparkledarkle Forest, there was a uni-kitten named Uglyface. Now, you're probably thinking that a story involving a place with a name like Sparkledarkle Forest and a protagonist who looks like an adorable kitten sporting the horn of a unicorn will likely end with dancing faeries and a magical wizard saving the day. But you would be wrong. Because Uglyface the uni-kitten was the owner and operator of the Sparkledarkle Forest meat processing plant. And as you likely know, meat processing plants are places where many creatures are harvested of their meat in an often very gruesome manner.
But despite how gross it all was, someone in the forest had to run the meat processing plant because, as you know, uni-kittens are voracious carnivores. And the someone with that job happened to be Uglyface because he was the only uni-kitten with the balls for it. And when I say "balls," I am not referring to Uglyface's testicles but to his vast collection of magical yarn balls which were used to tie up the uni-oxen before the slaughter so they wouldn't get away.
Now, you may or may not remember from the first story a charming uni-kitten named Snugglebottom who went on to become president of Sparkledarkle Forest. Well, he is in this story as well because part of his reelection campaign involved promises of cleaning up the meat processing industry. (He only did it to annoy Uglyface, not because he valued cleanliness.) Snugglebottom is our antagonist, a big jerk, and I hope you all hate him as much as I do.
One day, while Uglyface was hosing down the hoof grinder with some antibacterial faery water, Snugglebottom showed up unannounced with a large group of very important looking uni-kittens in tow.
"And over here," said Snugglebottom to the VIPs, "you'll see how stinky and disgusting this dead thing is as it lies there in the corner rotting."
Uglyface gave him a mean look.
"Oh, that's YOU, Uglyface," said Snugglebottom, pretending to be embarrassed. "I mistook you for a rotting carcass. How droll!"
"What do you want, Snugglebottom? I've got 300 more head of uni-oxen to slaughter before the end of the day," said Uglyface.
"I am here to shut this place down!" proclaimed Snugglebottom.
"Oh my god, I hate you so much," said Uglyface.
And with a snap of Snugglebottom's precious little uni-kitten paws, the plant was shut down.
Now, at this point, I should probably remind you that uni-kittens are carnivorous, which means that they eat nothing but meat So, as you may have expected, two weeks later everyone was starving, and there was not a scrap of meat to be found anywhere. And the Sparkledarkle Forest was seriously overrun with uni-oxen who pooped everywhere and didn't feel the least bit sorry for anyone who stepped in it.
Even Snugglebottom began to look pale and gaunt during his annual "State of the Sparkledarkle Forest" speech.
Everyone was totally mad at him too.
Now, I know you are waiting for Uglyface to save the day by running against his stupid ex-friend Snugglebottom using a campaign slogan like, "The forest is full of shit, and so is Snugglebottom!" But Uglyface was not the type of uni-kitten for saving of anyone's day. He was all about self-preservation. And so he relocated to the nearby Tipsywhipsy Forest, which has relaxed hunting laws, and ate all the uni-oxen he wanted.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Over Memorial Day weekend I used a public bathroom that will surely give me nightmares for many years to come. All I could think as I crouched there balancing myself on the edge of the seat trying to avoid other people's old pee droplets was that during the 18 years I spent living on a farm being forced sometimes to drop trou and take a piss where cows do it, I was never as disgusted with cows as I am with humans. And cows will lift their tails and piss upwind of you on a day with 40 mile per hour wind gusts. Which leads me to the conclusion that people are actually more disgusting than farm animals, and public bathrooms are proof.
1. No toilet paper. Now, when I say that there is no toilet paper, I mean there is toilet paper, but it is in a big wad on the floor soaking up some puddle of piss someone left. Perhaps there weren't any empty stalls, and after twelve seconds of waiting, the pee-er couldn't take it anymore and decided to crouch over a non-functioning floor drain. She then threw a whole roll of paper on the mess and skipped merrily out to continue her day. It was the last roll.
2. Piss sprinklets all over the seat. I know. I know. You don't want to get your ass dirty, so you hover over the seat and let it all out. Well, congratulations, you left a big fucking mess for the next person, you sick whore. (Mark my words. I will pee on your grave one day.)
3. Clogged toilets. It happens. What's gross is that no one ever comes along to fix it, so it all just kind of sits there making a nice stinky toilet stew. And that's all I'm going to say about that because if I go on, I will definitely throw up all over myself.
4. Locks that don't work. We've all taken a pee with one foot up on the stall door to keep it from flying open. Or to keep out those people who don't check for feet before shoving their way into the stall only to realize you are already in their with your pants down, awkwardly mumble an apology, and move on to watch someone else take a dump.
5. Children. No, I refuse to take it back, and you can't make me. Children are germ factories. They other day, I saw one come out of the bathroom carrying the same ice cream cone she had in her hand when she went in. She kept right on eating it.
Taking all of this into consideration, I can come to only one conclusion. From now on I'm just going to find a quiet spot behind a tree. Because someone may have pissed there before, but at least nature took care of the mess.
***I was going to use a picture of a public bathroom, but the Google image search made me hork. So, you get a cow. I hope you like it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
You know what's terrible?
Besides famine, flooding, earthquakes, tsunamis, avalanches, rockslides, forest fires, house fires, barn fires, wildfires, zeppelin crashes, plane crashes, hot air balloon crashes, car crashes, bridge collapses, terrorists threats, terrorists following through with their threats, terrorists getting away with what they just did and giggling about it, domestic violence, diabetes, AIDS, cancer, glaucoma, accidental electrocution, purposeful electrocution, scalding yourself in the shower, second degree burns, being out of AD Ointment, having to run to the pharmacy to get more, the pharmacy being out of it, the pharmacist recommending that you just rub a little butter on it, trying that, wondering if your pharmacist was mistaken about this being a good idea, trying to get into the bathtub to wash off the butter while covered in butter, falling down, head injuries, lying in a pool of your own blood for three days, being discovered naked by your landlord, him telling everyone it must have been some kind of depraved sex act involving butter that led to your injury since you fell backwards directly onto your shampoo bottle, extraction surgery, a long and painful recovery, Oxycontin addiction, using the litter box at your parents' house because someone is in the bathroom, alienating your family and friends, intervention, rehab, seeing your pharmacist there, being like "What are you doing here, pharmacist?" your pharmacist giggling maniacally, realizing he's just a crackhead in a white coat, and crying into your pillow every night for the rest of your life?
When you find a raisin in something that's not supposed to have raisins. Like a Caesar salad. Or lasagna. Or beef stew. Gross! Where did it come from?
And that is what is terrible. *curtseys*
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Well, again I have let a lot of time slip by between posts. What excuse can I offer this time except that have been feeling particularly uninspired for the last week AND I've been toiling away at a new Fashion Don'ts post, which is haaaard work.
Therefore, I give you this tale of mild sexual debauchery to tide you over until my next post.
A Mildly Sexual Romance Between Two Consenting Partners
Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince. Which is how many mildly sexual stories begin because inevitably the handsome prince's shirt will come unbuttoned, and we will see his manly pectoral muscles. Therefore, to save time, the handsome prince's shirt was already unbuttoned. And, yes, his pectoral muscles were very becoming. And sweaty.
The prince in question was doing something very unsensual at the time, however. He was sitting on the royal toilet reading about gold futures.
At the same time in a kingdom 15 miles away, there was an equally attractive princess. She had long, golden locks and a very nice face. But at the time this story begins, she was shaving her armpits.
These two lookers were betrothed to one another as they had been since birth. They hated each other.
The prince, whose name was Prince Beckforth III, hated the princess because all she ever did was show him vacation pictures on her camera phone and talk about her cat who died. The princess, whose name was Princess Mandy, hated the prince because he was always walking around with his shirt unbuttoned and talking about the stock market.
So, right about now you're thinking that there is nothing mildly sexual at all about this story, and you are right. And there is a very simple explanation for that. And the explanation is that it makes me very uncomfortable to talk about mildly sexual things. It makes me feel a bit woozy, as I sit here at my desk typing this story and deep throating this popsicle, to write about the rippling pec muscles of a handsome prince. So uncomfortable that I will leave the rest of the story up to you.
If sexual content also makes you nervous, and you just want it to be over, scroll to section 1A.
If you would like the end of the story to finally evolve into hot and feverish touching, scroll to section 1B.
If you would like to read more about popsicles, scroll to section 1C.
There, there. Shhhhhhhhhh....it will all be over soon.
If you take the cyanide capsule, scroll to section 2A.
If you prefer me to stop trying to force you to swallow the cyanide capsule, scroll to section 2B.
Princess Mandy had a horrible fever from the tetanus she contracted from stepping on a rusty nail. And as most people do when they are suffering from a high fever, she touched everyone and everything with her hot, sweaty hands. It was very hot and very sweaty, and everyone involved definitely needed to eat a popsicle in order to cool off.
Popsicles were invented by Fred Flintstone of Bedrock during the Mesolithic Age, 10,000 years ago. They were later improved by Jello enthusiast and humanitarian Bill Cosby, who thought to add pudding. Today, you can find popsicles in almost any flavor in the freezer section of your local supermarket. Except potato. I've looked, and they just don't have it.
Here, wash it down with this Kool-Aid. Mmmmmmm...fruity.
Well, this is awkward. Now I'm going to have to finish the story.
If you would like me to finish the story, scroll to section 3A.
If you are bored and would like to visit another website, click here.
Eventually, Prince Beckforth III and Princess Mandy realized that for the good of their respective kingdoms, they needed to just shut up and get married already because if you aren't married to someone of the opposite sex by the time you are 40, you will dry up and die.
This post has been brought to you by Focus on the Family and me eating popsicles.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
You know when you look into your closet in the morning and take out an item of clothing, examine it, and wonder why you don't wear it more often because it's soooooo cute? And then, as the day progresses and you repeatedly have to remove said item of clothing from your buttcrack, and then you finally remember? Yeah, I hear you. Me and my red skirt.
I have one of those body types that doesn't do well with things that fasten at the waist. Why? Because my waist is like three inches below my boobs. And rather than just going with it and dressing like Fred Mertz, I try to find items of clothing that fall right above my hips. You know...where my waist should be?
Long story short, today I'm wearing a red skirt. And every time I sit down, it rides up to my waist and I feel like I'm wearing it right under my armpits.
Now, I know right now you're all wondering why I'm telling you this story because, clearly, it's not very interesting unless you are a drunken skirt enthusiast who loves Fred Mertz. But it does help me segue into the following tale of debauchery and poorly made clothing.
The Story of Little Red Riding Skirt
Once upon a time in the woods lived a little girl named Little Red Riding Skirt. Now, no one knew why her parents named her Little Red Riding Skirt. Because, clearly, it was a stupid, stupid name. But luckily, when Little Red Riding Skirt was about 12 years old, her grandmother made her a red skirt. And since Grandmother was a terrible seamstress, the skirt rode up so that the waist was right below Little Red Riding Skirt's armpits. And even though Little Red Riding Skirt hid the horrible piece of clothing in the back of the closet, she sometimes pulled it out anyway when she didn't have any clean laundry. And for the rest of the day, she would walk around with her red skirt riding up and making her generally cranky. Therefore, the name ended up being quite fitting, although Little Red Riding Skirt would have preferred to be called Margaret or Helen or Cashmere Sweater.
One day in September, Little Red Riding Skirt's father said, "Little Red Riding Skirt, your grandmother is quite ill. Why don't you take her this picnic basket filled with Xanax and whiskey?" And because she was a nice person, Little Red Riding Skirt agreed. And because it was laundry day, she was unfortunately forced to wear her horrible red riding skirt.
The walk to Grandmother's house took several hours because Little Red Riding Skirt kept having to stop and pull the skirt back down so that she didn't look like a walking circus tent. Unluckily, she was being closely followed by a Big, Bad Wolf who was 1) drunken 2) a skirt enthusiast and 3) a fan of Fred Mertz. He also liked large baskets of Xanax and whiskey, as we all do.
"Ah ha," thought the wolf, "I will run ahead to Grandmother's house and disguise myself in her clothing. And then, when Little Red Riding Skirt arrives, she'll think that I am the grandmother and give me that whiskey and Xanax." And so he did just that.
Several more hours passed.
And finally, Little Red Riding Skirt arrived at her grandmother's house, very, very cranky and looking quite similar to a walking circus tent.
"Grandmother! I am here!" said Little Red Riding Skirt, tugging down her ill-fitting garment.
"I am in the bedroom, darling!" said a voice from Grandmother's bedchamber.
Little Red Riding Skirt entered the room where her grandmother slept.
Now, it's important that you remember that the Big, Bad Wolf has been hanging out in Grandma's bed for several hours wearing Grandma's clothing. And you must also recall that Grandmother is a terrible seamstress, so everything the wolf has been wearing is uncomfortable and ill-fitting and he's getting quite cranky.
Little Red Riding Skirt looked at her grandmother.
"Grandmother, what ill-fitting stockings you have on," she said.
"The better to prevent deep vein thrombosis, my dear," replied the faux Wolf Granny.
"But, Grandmother, what an uncomfortable looking sweater you have on," said Little Red Riding Skirt.
"The better to keep the electricity bill low, my dear," said the imposter Grandmother.
"But, Grandmother, what a poorly made skirt you have on that has hiked up and I can clearly see your wolf balls!" said Little Red Riding Skirt.
The wolf was embarrassed, of course, and quickly tried to pull the skirt back down to hide his genitalia. And then he launched himself toward Little Red Riding Skirt, fangs bared in preparation of eating her, the whiskey, and the Xanax all in one gulp.
But, as you have probably already guessed was going to happen, he became tangled in the ill-fitting, poorly made bathrobe he was wearing and launched himself into the fireplace instead.
Little Red Riding Skirt took off the horrible red riding skirt, threw it into the fire, and skipped home in her underwear.
You're wondering what happened to the grandmother, aren't you? Well, she popped a few Xanax and went to the casino.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
*Pictured (from left to right): Tiger Woods, MONSTER GOLF CART, my face, Catherine Bach's body, Jesse James.
I know you have all been waiting for me to weigh in on the Tiger Woods/Jesse James scandals. Because, after all, I am a HUGE golf enthusiast and an even bigger monster car thingy building enthusiast. But most importantly, I am an enthusiast of unfaithfulness when it is done on the seat of a monster golf cart.
Yes, I love to get it on with someone who isn't my boyfriend while riding along merrily on a golf cart that has been affixed with oversized wheels. Therefore, all of this Jesse James/Tiger Woods news and comparisons of the two excite me greatly.
Of course, the opportunity to get sweaty parked on the fairway of the seventh hole straddling the seat of a diesel-powered golf cart with a pair of pincers that can be used to pick up stray golf balls with a guy who isn't my regular lover doesn't come along very often. So, I have to get it while I can.
As you can imagine, when this Tiger Woods unfaithfulness thing happened, I was pretty much overjoyed. But then with the added bonus of Jesse James's cheating, well, I thought that all of my dreams had come true. Golf! Monster cars! Monster golf carts! Men who aren't my usual gentleman caller! Be still my slutty heart!
So, the time has come at last for me, an expert in all things cheating while in the third seat of a stretch limo golf cart that can also be used to mow the fairway, to speak my peace on the matter of Tiger Woods and Jesse James cheating on their wives. And I guess I will just address them both on a personal level. Here goes.
Jesse James, Tiger Woods? I'm no expert on sleeping with ordinary star fuckers. I like to broaden my horizons and sleep only with men who like it on monster golf carts and nowhere else. Particularly men who are not my current paramour. But when I do go out on the green late at night in my golf cart Transformer with laser putting technology, I do use one thing besides protection, and that thing is discretion. I don't want everyone to know how much I enjoy the combination of clandestine late-night meetings and golf carts with rotating gun turrets. Therefore, rather than sending poorly-spelled text messages to said late-night clandestine "meeting partners," I recommend driving directly through their living room walls to pick them up. That way, nobody gets hurt. Or just keeping it in your pants and not being a total dickface. We can't all be as careful at cheating as I am.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Now, I know what you're all thinking. Why hasn't Bethany posted anything since April 1? Well, there is a very good explanation for that, and it goes something like this.
Once upon a time, I was working on a very good blog post that would make all of you laugh uproariously when suddenly I was interrupted by the ringing of a telephone.
"Hello?" I said into the phone after finding it under my sofa cushion, turning it on, and holding it up to my ear.
"Hello to you," said a voice on the other end.
"Is this....Michael Douglas?" I asked the caller.
"Why, yes. Yes, it is," said the voice, who was indeed Michael Douglas.
"Well, hi, Michael Douglas. How are you?" I said.
"I am fine," said Michael Douglas.
"That's good to know. How is Catherine Zeta-Jones?" I queried.
"She's good," he replied.
"That's nice," I said, beginning to feel awkward.
There was silence on the other end, so I said, "Michael Douglas, why are you calling me? I am currently in the middle of writing this blog post."
"Well, that's a very, very, very interesting story," said Michael Douglas, "and it goes like, this. Once upon a time, I was at the fish market trying to pick out some quality shrimp in order to make a nice shrimp salad for lunch when suddenly my telephone rang. 'Hello?' I said into the phone after taking it out of my satchel, turning it on, holding it up to my ear, realizing it was upside down, and turning it over so that I was speaking into the correct end. 'Is this Michael Douglas?' said a voice on the other end. 'Yes, yes, it is,' I said, surprised to hear from this person. And you'll never guess who that person was."
"I give up," I said, "Who was it?"
"You didn't even guess," Michael Douglas said, pouting.
"Uh, Vice President Hannibal Hamlin," I replied.
"Very funny," said Michael Douglas, who knows his vice presidents and knew that Hannibal Hamlin is dead. "Guess again."
Well, as you can imagine, Michael Douglas was totally annoying me at this point.
And because he could tell that he was irritating me very much, Michael Douglas finally decided to tell me who the caller was.
"It was SHARON STONE. Can you believe it?" said Michael Douglas.
To which I replied, "And why did you feel like you had to call and interrupt me to share this?"
And Michael Douglas, who is very sensitive said, "Well, if you're going to be snotty about it, I'm not going to tell you after all."
"Okay, talk to you later then!" I said and went to hang up and get back to work.
"WAIT!" said Michael Douglas, "Look, I'll tell you, but you have to promise to not tell anyone."
Now, I should probably tell you at this point that Michael Douglas is a total drama queen. The last time he called me, he talked for 45 minutes about how Ed Begley Jr. ignored him one time at the Daytime Emmys.
"Okay, Michael Douglas. You can tell me your riveting Sharon Stone story, and then I have to get back to work," I said.
"Well......" said Michael Douglas, who LOVES to allow suspense to build before he begins a story, particularly one involving Sharon Stone.
"I'm waiting," I said.
"I'm getting to it!" snapped Michael Douglas.
There was another pause.
"Okay, here goes," said Michael Douglas. "So, Sharon Stone called me."
"And...?" I said.
"And she said that she was sorry to call me when I was clearly in the middle of a seafood shop looking for shrimp for a shrimp salad, but she had to tell me something very interesting," said Michael Douglas.
"What did she tell you?" I asked.
So, then Michael Douglas said, "She said, 'You'll never guess who called me, Michael Douglas.' And I said, 'Who, Sharon Stone?' And she said, 'Guess.' And I said, 'I hate guessing. Why don't you just tell me?' And she said no. So, I guessed several times. And none of them were right. It wasn't Meryl Streep, and it wasn't Vice President George Clinton, who is dead. Nor was it funk innovator George Clinton, who is alive."
"Who was it, Michael Douglas?" I asked, bored.
"It was Charlton Hesston!" said Michael Douglas, doing his best Sharon Stone impression.
"Charlton Hesston is dead," I said.
"That's what I told Sharon Stone," Michael Douglas replied. "But then she said to me, 'No, Michael Douglas, not THAT Charlton Hesston. Charlton Hesston, the plumber I called to look at my toilet.' Apparently, Sharon Stone's toilet has been backed up for weeks and weeks, so she's been living in her pool house so she can use that bathroom instead."
"And this has what to do with me?" I queried.
"Well, Sharon Stone wanted to know if your toilet was working," replied Michael Douglas.
"Uh, yeah, it's working fine. Why?" I said, so ready to hang up on him.
"Well, I hope you are paying it a good wage and providing it with insurance. Hahahahahahahaha!" chortled Michael Douglas, and then he hung up.
And that is why I hate Michael Douglas and his stupid face. He takes the longest time to get to the point.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I work at home three days per week. And while you're thinking that this sounds delightful and are currently picturing me hanging out in my pajamas all day, that would be quite inaccurate because I don't own any pajamas.
It's also difficult when April rolls around and you want to play hilarious April Fools' Day pranks on your co-workers and wake up and realize that your co-workers are all miles away. So, here are some pranks that you can play when you work at home by yourself with only your cat for company.
1. Put water in your cat's food dish and food in her water dish. April Fool's, cat! Hahahahahahahahahahaha! Your Meow Mix is water, and your water is Meow Mix! That's hilarious!
2. Turn the shower on and then close the curtain so that your cat thinks you're in the shower, while you are really hiding behind the bathroom door. When she comes into the bathroom to sit on the side of the tub and wait for you to emerge so that she can see you in the nude, pop out from behind the door and shout, "April Fools', cat! I was behind the door the WHOLE TIME! And I'm wearing clothes, pervert!"
3. Leave the door to to the cabinet under your kitchen sink open and wait until your cat goes in to do her daily rummaging with your trash bag collection. Then, close it behind her! April Fools', cat! You're trapped in that cabinet until I decide to let you out! Hahahahahaha!
4. Open several cans, and every time your cat comes to see if you finally sprang for the wet food, show her that it's actually pineapple and shout, "April Fools', cat! It's only fruit, and you're a carnivore! Hahahahahahahaha!"
5. Pour beer on your cereal, and when your cat gets all up in your face wanting your leftover cereal milk, give it to her and be all, "Hahahahahaha, cat! It's beer! April Fools'!"
6. Get a big empty box. Tape it shut. And put it in the middle of your living room. As your cat tries to figure out a way to get into the box to no avail, shout, "Hahahahaha, cat! April Fools'! It's taped shut! No playing in that empty box for you!"
7. Put a stupid hat on your cat's head while it is sleeping and then take a picture and post it on Facebook. Hahahahaha, cat! April Fools' to you! Now everyone is going to laugh at how stupid you look in that hat!
Your cat will think these pranks are totally hilarious and will definitely not try to remove your face with her claws later when you are sound asleep. Have fun!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Harry Connick Jr.: It had to be youuuuuuuu...It had to be youuuuuuuu....I wandered around and finally found...somebody whooooo....could make me be truuuuue. And then she died because she was cleaning her closet, and a pickax fell from a high shelf and pierced her brain. She lived for a short time in a coma. And then I pulled the plug. *sniffle*
Old Married Couple Testimonial #1
Old Man: I would tell you about how my wife and I met, but she died in a recent inexplicable forest fire because someone was playing with matches. And she couldn't be here today. So I'll read to you from the letters we wrote back and forth during the war and cry silent but brave tears.
Harry Burns: I need to get to New York for the funeral of my first love, who died because she left some candles burning in her house made entirely out of silk curtains.
Sally Albright: I'll give you a ride. I'm on my way to New York anyway to go to the funeral of my ex-boyfriend who died because he ate some poisonous mushrooms.
Harry Burns: Life is so depressing. Sometimes I read the end of a book to see how it ends just in case I die.
Sally: And I? Like to write letters to those who have died and then tie them to birds in hopes that they will carry them to heaven for me.
Harry: That is touching and beautiful. But now I must marry another.
Sally: I am saddened, but I can only hold my hand out in a manner of longing and scream "Harryyyyyyyyy!" as you drive off into the night.
Old Couple Testimonial #2
Old Woman: It is amazing that we are still together after all these years.
Old Man: *dies*
Old Woman: Noooooo! *dies*
Sally: Being single reminds me of the days when I had love in my life. Before he died in that romantically fatal boating accident.
Marie: Before my married boyfriend died because his necktie was caught in that Kitchenaid mixer, I felt just like you. We won't be single forever.
Sally: No one thought your married boyfriend could live through such a tragedy.
Marie: You're right. You're right. I know you're right.
Harry: I've returned, Sally. I'm not married anymore. She drowned bobbing for apples. I told her that apple was too difficult to get. She didn't listen...she didn't listen.
Sally: Okay, let's be in love then.
45 minute love montage including the following: having a picnic, running through a meadow, holding hands on a beach, kissing in a rainstorm, riding horses, wearing lightning rods as hats, brushing the teeth of rabid pit bulls, participating in a balance beam knife sharpening contest, walking down a dark alley wearing suits made of money, and eating large poorly chewed chunks of meat while not being trained in the Heimlich maneuver.
Harry: This is the best love of my life. Can anything go wrong now?
Sally: Never, my darling!
Harry: Then, I am going to go for a drive in my car with no headlights at night over by Certain Death Canyon.
Sally: Good-bye, my love!
Sally: Boo hoo! Harry was my love. And now he is dead.
Harry Connick Jr.: You like tomato. And I like tomahto. You like potato. And I like potahto. Tomato. Tomahto. Potato. Potahto. Let's call the whole thing off. *falls from his piano bench onto a very sharp metronome, dies*