Thursday, December 5, 2013

Romance Advice from the Stock Photo Feet Couple







Dear Stock Photo Feet Couple,

How can you tell if your significant other is cheating? 

Sincerely,
Alice in Washington


Dear Alice,

Stock Photo Feet Couple here. Okay, we're going to have to ask you for some clarification on this "cheating" thing. Is he, like, putting on socks or something? We've discussed it intimately for the past fifteen minutes, and we are both baffled by anything that's not lying directly on top of each other for the entire day,  getting out of bed only for making pee-pees and poopies and ordering takeout Chinese (it's the only place in our area that will deliver directly to our bedroom). But we have some advice for you anyway. Tonight, when you are looking deep into your significant other's eyes as you lie directly on top of him, ask him, "Howard, are you cheating?" We can only assume that his answer will be no because there are no secrets between couples.

Sincerely,
Stock Photo Feet Couple 



Dear Stock Photo Feet Couple,

I've recently decided to divorce my wife. How do I tell her it's over without hurting her too much?
Sincerely,

Doug in Buenos Aires


Dear Doug,

Mmmmmmmppppphhhhh! Mmmmph! Ummmmmmmm….um…..

Oh, sorry. Has questions time started? We were just making passionate love to each other with our legs firmly closed. We do that at least six times a day, as there is not much else to do while lying on top of each other with our legs firmly closed. What was your question again? Divorce? We've heard of this because our neighbors are always shouting about it. We can only assume that it has to do with a decision to no longer lie on top of your partner on a constant basis. Is that correct? Yes?

While we cannot condone not lying directly on top of your partner for 99 percent of your day, if you need a break from it for the sake of your children or physical health, we suggest trying to maintain a strict lying on top of each other schedule that will allow for a minimum of 95 percent of lying on top of each other time per day. Remember that old proverb, "The couple who lies on top of each other all day stays together."

Sincerely,

Stock Photo Feet Couple



Dear Stock Photo Feet Couple,

How do you know if you've met "the one"?

Sincerely,

Mavis in Iceland


Dear Mavis,

Welcome to the soul mate club! We're happy you've taken time out of your busy schedule of lying on top of your new partner to write to us. But now, your question.

You know you've met the one when you wake up one morning and there is a person either lying directly on top of or underneath you. Say hello. Introduce yourself and get ready for the most awesome time of your life as you embark on your life as half of a couple sandwich.

Sincerely,

Stock Photo Feet Couple

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

My Wisdom Tooth Has Become Sentient and All of Its Thoughts Are Murder

MURDER.


















Things have been pretty lame recently. Like, super lame. Lame like your game freezing right before you hit a save point, but lamer.

For starters, doing my day [rhymes with knob] is like being stung by a thousand bees all over my body every single day. Every morning I wake up and think, "Is it time for the nightmare scorpions again?" and then I cry for two hours and think about death. I just wanted to clear that up in case my enjoyment levels of my [also rhymes with sob] were in question.

Secondly, one of my wisdom teeth is coming in. But if my mouth is a party, this tooth is like that guy who shows up three hours late with an open bag of Sun Chips and then drinks the last of the vodka before falling asleep someplace weird, like the hall closet. In other words, it's impacted. There is no room for it to come in. The pressure in my other teeth is causing headaches every single day. I'm in paaaain! This is what pain feels like.

But the far worse part of this story is that the wisdom tooth has become sentient and all of its thoughts have turned to murder. 

On the subway platform this morning, I was waiting for an elderly woman to get off the train, and the woman standing behind me on the platform looked at me like, "Well, what are you waiting for?" and then shoved past me to get on the train. My tooth said, "KILL HER." But I told it to shut up and go back to putting pressure on my incisors like a good asshole tooth.

I was supposed to have the tooth taken out on Saturday. I made the appointment over a month ago. But when I called the dentist to find out the details earlier this week, they told me they had canceled my appointment. My tooth said, "KILL THEM. KILL THEM ALL." 

I know its thoughts because the tooth has grown into my brain and tapped into my cerebral cortex. This is what happens when your dentist makes you wait a month to get your tooth pulled and then postpones your appointment for another month, even though you told him that the tooth is giving you terrible headaches. The tooth turns into a giant dentist-sized asshole. This happens all the time, according to the Internet.

How do I know that I'm hearing my tooth's thoughts and not my own? Because my tooth's favorite movie is The Neverending Story. It hates flip-flops and raspberry jam. It loves Christmas songs and doesn't mind when a place has a drink minimum. These are not my thoughts. I would never think those things. And I never, ever think of murder. Not little old me.

It wasn't me who thought, "SET THEM ON FIRE," when my doctor's office tried to slip me a $45 invoice for a test that came out "inconclusive" because they made a mistake and I had to repeat anyway. "But we performed a service for you," the woman in billing said. "You have to pay for it." My tooth replied, "MURDER."

And it certainly wasn't me thinking, "I KILL YOU AND YOUR FACE," when a cab blasted through an intersection and almost ran me over yesterday.

It was my wisdom tooth.

I've somehow managed to schedule an appointment for next Tuesday to finally have this tooth pulled, but until then, maybe just be really cautious around me. My tooth thinks of nothing but murder. And dogs barking "Jingle Bells."

Friday, October 25, 2013

Frightening Friday: A Fancy Dinner Party Where Someone Dies

You're inviting us to what? We're busy that night.









DINNER. For some, it's a word that induces extreme hunger pangs. For others, a sense of warmth and togetherness. But for a few unlucky souls, it is a word that brings terror.

I hope you are prepared for a dinner that is the last kind. Our final Frightening Friday story for this October is not for those of you who are sitting in your supper nooks licking your lips as you dream about a nice risotto dinner. And it is definitely not for those of you lounging in your remembering nooks, thinking about dinners with your grandmother that didn't involve her dying in her soup. It is for those of you trembling in your dark and spooky closet nooks, clutching your childhood teddy bears as you await today's story. I hope you have your best dinner attire on for...


A Fancy Dinner Party Where Someone Dies

It was a dinner party unlike any other dinner party.

I mean...there were similarities, of course. For instance, there were guests who arrived with empty stomachs. There were cocktails. There was a grand silver tray of pickles, sausages, and cheese cubes all poked on tiny sticks. There was a host who shouted, "Make yourself at home!" and a guest who did by taking a nap on the parlor sofa next to the fireplace. But this dinner party had something that most fancy dinner parties don't have. And that thing was villainy.

But who or what the villain was remained a mystery throughout the first course of the dinner. Everyone ate their salads completely oblivious to the villainy that was to come. They dabbed their faces with fancy cloth napkins, not understanding that soon....very soon....someone at that very table would be murdered.

I suppose I should introduce you to the guests now. There were seven of them. Pay close attention to any signs of villainy, or you may soon live to regret it.

At the head of the table sat the host of the party, Sir James John Upton-Starbucks. Upon sitting down at the head of the table, he shouted, "MY SEAT! MY SEAT! HOST SEAT! I CALLED IT." For Sir James John Upton-Starbucks, despite being a prestigious duke, was often quite childish. It might interest you to know that this childishness drove him to two things: collecting trampolines and extreme jealousy of anyone who bounced on them for too long. Did this jealousy and childishness drive the duke to murder? Perhaps. I'll go on.

Sitting next to the duke on his right was the Lady Milicent Upton-Starbucks, his wife. Upon sitting down at the table, and rolling her eyes at the duke's loud claims to the head seat, Lady Milicent said, "Everyone, don your bibs now!" For her ladyship hated it when people got crumbs and mustard stains on the collars of their fancy dinner attire. Was it this particular disdain for crumbs and mustard stains the cause of the death of one of the guests later during the meal? We shall find out very soon.

Next to her ladyship was an extremely mysterious and extremely veiled woman. "Hmmmmrrrrfffff mrrrrffff," she said as everyone took their seats at the dinner table. This was because the heavy veil made it difficult for her to understand. Was she saying, "I shall sit here next to the hostess because she is so beautiful and kind and delightful at conversation," or was the mysteriously veiled woman saying something like, "I will murder one of you very soon"? Perhaps you should read on while you ponder that mystery.

To the right of the mysterious, veiled, and muffle-voiced woman sat a gentleman of very high regard, Sir Tottenham-Smith-Facebook. He was a gentleman for two reasons. The first was that he was a viscount. The second was because, as everyone was seated at the dinner table, he ran around and politely pulled out everyone's chairs. "Mother always said that a gentleman does gentlemanly things," he said as he took his own seat. But perhaps his gentlemanly title and gentlemanly behavior was a cover for something else: something like MURDER.

The far end of the table, opposite the host, was reserved for Sir James John Upton-Starbucks's younger brother, Stuart. "Does everyone have enough room?" he asked, pulling his place setting far to the corner of the table so that it almost toppled onto the rug. "I don't want to be in anyone's way." He wasn't, but Stuart suffered from a terrible ailment that made him believe he was a giant, even though in reality he could hardly see over the table. "I'm so hungry, I could eat a village," Stuart said quietly, licking his lips. Did a giant hunger drive the duke's brother to dispatching a fellow dinner guest? We shall soon see.

The last two guests, sitting side by side to the left of the duke, were a very handsome couple. The man had a strong chin and jawline, a marvelous head of hair, and a winning smile. The lady also had a strong chin and jawline, a marvelous head of hair, and a winning smile. Seeing themselves and their own handsomeness in each other, the couple was soppily in love. As everyone was getting seated at the table, Lord and Lady Pembrooke-Jones-DiCaprio were looking into each other's eyes and sighing the deep sighs of two people in love. Was their love so great that it led to murder? How would I know...yet?

Of course, no dinner party at the fancy home of two aristocrats would be complete without a butler, a valet, a cook, and a maid named Constance. They are also suspects, so don't forget to eye them suspiciously as well.

The murder occurred during the main course, quite an inconvenience for anyone looking forward to dessert. The cook, whose name was Pauline, brought a large roasted turkey and a side of potatoes to the table. Everyone smacked their lips loudly as they were served, especially Stuart Upton-Starbucks, who said, "Fee fi fo fum. I love turkey...and also gum." (He wasn't good at rhymes.)

"BIBS," said Lady Upton-Starbucks, fussily, gesturing at Constance to run around and secure everyone's bibs back under their chins, in the off chance that they had come dislodged during the aspic course.

Only one thing was said after that before the lights suddenly went out, and that thing was, "Mmmmmmffffffffff!" Was the veiled lady asking someone to pass the gravy? Or did she know what was coming? No one had a chance to ask her because, just then, the lights in the dining room went out.

There was a scream and the sounds of a scuffle. Then, there was another scream and the tinkle of glass breaking. As the lights continued to be out, there was yet another scream and a shout of, "Will someone please turn the lights back on and also who keeps screaming?"

Very shortly after that, a very brave-sounding voice said, "I'm feeling along the wall for the light switch! The lights will be back on soon!"

And another voice replied, "Thank goodness! I'm terrified. Not so much of the dark but of being in the dark with leftover aspic."

"And what is wrong with aspic exactly?" came another demanding voice, clearly slighted.

"Nothing," said the aspic-hating voice. "I'm just not a fan. It's basically meat Jell-O."

"Is that what that was?" said yet another voice. "Now I'm terrified of the leftover aspic as well. But also of the potatoes being cold when we finally get to eat them."

"I'm getting closer to the light switch!" said the voice of the person who had been searching for the light switch. "I've just passed the sideboard with the candelabra on it."

"Well, personally, I loved the aspic," came another voice. "My compliments to the cook."

"She has a name!" said the slighted voice from before. "It's Pauline. God, you're such an elitist."

"My hand is almost on the light switch. It's a mere inches away," said the light switch searching voice.

Everyone sighed in annoyance at the continued darkness, the aspic disagreement, the elitism, the screaming, the broken glassware, and the future coldness of the potatoes. Everyone except the person who had been murdered. But none of the people in the room knew about that part yet, so that was not on the list of annoyances.

And just then the lights came back on.

"I found it! I found the light switch at last! IT WAS ME! YOU'RE WELCOME!" exclaimed a person who everyone could now see was Sir James John Upton-Starbucks himself. But their excitement was cut short. For someone was lying dead with her face in the turkey.

And that person was Lady Milicent Upton-Starbucks.

"NOOOOO!" shouted Sir James John Upton-Starbucks, distressed that his wife was dead with a carving knife in her back, but also because her collar was COVERED with turkey grease, a thing she would have completely hated. Somehow her ladyship's bib had become dislodged during her murder.

"My god," said the gentlemanly Sir Tottenham-Smith-Facebook. "Someone in this room is a murderer."

"Yes, indeed," agreed the handsome Lady Pembrooke-Jones-DiCaprio.

"Mmmmrrrrrrrfffff fffffrrrrrpppppp," said the veiled lady, which meant either, "It wasn't me!" or "Oh, boy! I do love a mystery!"

Sir James John Upton-Starbucks rushed to the door, closed it, and locked it with the key from his vest pocket.

"Everyone be seated," he said. "No one shall leave this room until we've figured out who the murderer, or murderers, are."

Now, you're probably wondering right now why no one suggested calling the police to come and resolve the matter and instead seated themselves back around the table where the corpse of Lady Milicent and the corpse of a turkey lay intertwined together sopping up cold gravy. And the reason for this is that aristocrats don't know how to use telephones. Keep that in mind should you ever decide to call a member of the aristocracy on the phone. He will probably get confused, say hello into the wrong end of the receiver, and eventually hang up in frustration. Always send your correspondence via handwritten note to be delivered by your butler if you ever expect a reply.

"One person here strikes me as extremely suspicious!" cried Sir James John Upton-Starbucks.

"Ah HA!" cried Stuart Upton-Starbucks. "Here you go accusing me again just because I'm a bloodthirsty giant who eats entire flocks of sheep for supper. I'll have you know that in no way could I wield such a tiny knife with these enormous hands!"

"NUH-UH! I accused you of no such thing," replied Sir James John, whose name is sometimes exhausting to type. "I was going to accuse--"

"Ah HA!" cried Sir Tottenham-Smith-Facebook. "You were going to accuse ME! Obviously I'm a gentleman with impeccable table manners. Therefore, I would be the first to offer someone a second helping of roasted turkey. That is how you knew that the knife was in my hands when the lights went out."

"Well, I suppose, now that you mention that, you total poopy butt, however--" replied Sir James John.

"Tut tut tut!" shouted Lady Pembrooke-Jones-DiCaprio, not bothering to look up from making smushy eyes at her darling husband. "No! He was going to accuse me and my extremely handsome husband of the murder. We're so obviously in love. How could he not?"

"I never--" began Sir James John.

"Are you implying that my husband is incapable of committing a murder???" Lady Pembrooke-Jones-DiCaprio shouted. "I'll have you know that the cornerstone of a good marriage is being supportive, and if darling Edmund Pembrooke-Jones-DiCaprio, the love of my life, wanted to commit a murder, he could do it!"

"You are my moon angel!" cried Lord Pembrooke-Jones-DiCaprio, and the rest of the world disappeared to the very handsome couple as they went back to gazing into each other's eyes adoringly.

"I was actually going to accuse the mysterious veiled lady seated to the right of my wife," said Sir James John Upton-Starbucks. "Who are you anyway? Show yourself, or I shall throw a big tantrum!"

"Mmmmmmmmrrrrrrfffff!" said the veiled lady, which either meant, "How dare you? Isn't it obvious that I'm your mother-in-law and I'm trying to keep your other guests from catching my cold with this veil?" or "Mwahahahahahaha! In a complicated and unforeseen plot twist, I'm Lady Upton-Starbucks's evil, murderous twin, Samantha! And you'll never catch me alive!"

At this point, it's likely that several things are going on in your mind. Perhaps you would just like the suspense to end and to know who the killer is. Perhaps you would like the suspense to go on and for me to continue twisting the plot until I become bored of it. Perhaps you have no opinion at all as you have gone to the kitchen for a snack. But most likely of all, you've forgotten about the other people in the room. Don't feel bad. The servants of wealthy aristocrats are used to being ignored. But I will get to them and their current activities right now.

Told to be seated, the valet, the cook, the butler, and the maid sat down on the floor exactly where they had been standing. The valet sat down next to the sideboard, where Sir James John Upton-Starbucks trod on his fingers in the dark while looking for the light switch, and because he was such a good servant, the valet didn't utter a word in the way of, "Ouch! My fingers!" or "You blundering ass!" Instead, he sat crying silent tears of extreme finger pain as accusations of the guests were made.

The cook sat down next to the fireplace, wearing an expression of concern that dessert, a delicious apple tart, was going to burn, left unattended in the oven. She was also still slighted by the guest who didn't like aspic and intended to poison him later, as she knew exactly which gentleman he was. But, despite that villainy, of the murder of Lady Upton-Starbucks, she was entirely innocent.

Asked to sit, the butler sat down under the portrait of Lord and Lady Upton-Starbucks. He was also crying silent tears, but it was because his grandmother had died in her soup at a dinner earlier that week and he was suffering from painful dinner memories as a result. 

The maid, Constance, had sat down in the dining room doorway. As accusations were shouted and identities were demanded, no one was looking at her. Not one person. She was, after all, just a servant. And that was why, right before the lights went out and the screaming began anew, no one noticed her bloodstained hand creeping up the wall toward the light switch. She really, really hated those bibs.

The dessert ended up burning after all.

THE END

Friday, October 18, 2013

Frightening Friday: Ghosts Are the Stupidest Ever

Walk toward the light, idiot.










Driving past a cemetery late on Halloween night, there is an extremely good chance that nothing at all will happen to you. The cemetery will fade into the darkness, and you'll continue on your merry way to pick up a pizza. But sometimes...just sometimes...you might see a ghost. He might be standing in the middle of the cemetery, arm raised in a wave. He might be hovering by the road, like he's waiting for a ride. If you are driving past a cemetery late at night and you do see a ghost, beware.

Ghosts are total idiots.

I can say that because I know several ghosts, and each and every one of them is a total bonehead. Just the other night, I was lying in bed thinking about George Clooney when a ghost appeared.

I said, "What do you want this time, ghost? I'm trying to think about important things." And he just stood there, rattling his chains and moaning.

"Quick, ghost!" I said. "What's five plus five?" And he just floated there, slack-jawed, until he dematerialized out of what must have been total embarrassment. The next night he appeared again. This time, he was headless. Probably because he was so mortified at not knowing simple arithmetic that he didn't want me to look him in his eye sockets.

It almost makes me sorry for stealing that gold locket from that casket on one of my recent travels. If I knew I would have to put up with this, I would have left it right where it was, gripped tight in that skeleton's hand. 

So, our truly terrifying tale of horror today is all about ghosts being dumb. I call it...


Ghosts Are the Stupidest Ever

One Halloween night, a man was driving down a deserted road past a cemetery. Perhaps he was on his way home from a dance. Maybe he was just on his way to pick up some nachos at the Cemetery Road Convenience Store. We will likely never know because, as in many cases like this, this story is totally made up and this man does not actually exist.

As the man neared the cemetery gates, he saw a woman standing near the road, arm raised in a wave. She was wearing an old-fashioned white dress, too light to keep her warm on such a chilly night.

Now, if you've ever heard a story like this one before, you might be silently telling the man, "DON'T STOP. DRIVE AWAY!" But the man cannot hear you because, again, he does not exist, so he did an extremely silly thing and pulled over to the side of the road to talk to the woman.

He rolled down the window. "Do you need a ride?" he asked.

The woman said yes and climbed into the car.

Here is where I stop the story to remind my living readers that you should never get into cars with strangers.

And I will also use this time to remind my dead readers that DEEEERP DERPY DERP. You're idiots.

Back to the story.

"Where are you headed?" the man asked.

"354 Oak Street," the woman replied.

The two drove in silence for a few minutes.

"I don't want to pry," the man asked, deciding to casually make conversation. "But are you a ghost?"

"What? No, of course not," the woman replied. "I'm a young lady on my way home from a Halloween dance late, late at night. Mysteriously walking all alone."

"Okay, suit yourself," the man said. "I'll just drive you home. But I will say that this has all the hallmarks of a ghost passenger story. You know, the thing where you mysteriously vanish, and I show up at your house tomorrow with your shawl or something. And your mother tells me you've been dead forty years. Stuff like that."

"Well, you're wrong," the woman said, "I'm completely alive."

"Okay," the man said. "I'm not one to pry. Just thought that if you wanted to talk about it, that would be fine with me."

The conversation came to a halt once again.

 Finally, the woman spoke again. "GOD. How did you know? I thought I was hiding it so well."

The man laughed. "You don't want to know," he replied.

"Yes, I do," said the woman.

"Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't get upset."

"Fine."

"Fifty years ago, on a night like this one," the man began, clearly jumping into an extremely long and tedious story, "a young man was driving down a road past a cemetery. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman standing by the road. He pulled over. He asked the woman if she needed a ride. She did. He drove her home. On the way there, he looked over, and she had MYSTERIOUSLY VANISHED INTO THE NIGHT. The man got so scared, he drove into a ravine and was killed instantly."

"OH MY GOD. THAT IS TERRIFYING," the woman said, alarmed.

"I know, right?" the man replied. But when the woman turned to look at him, he vanished.

"AAAAAAAAAAA!" said the ghost woman as the ghost car plummeted into the ghost ravine. 

Do you believe me that ghosts are total idiots yet? They do dumb stuff like this ALL THE TIME.

THE END

Friday, October 11, 2013

Frightening Friday: Bloody Mary Goes Bananas

"I've had a hard day, okaaaay?" --Bloody Mary


















There are people in this world who are terrified at the sight of blood. You know these people because they often say things like, “Get that blood away from me!” and “Is that blood? I’m never shopping here again!”
Personally, I think that if you’re afraid of blood it’s time to get your terror priorities in order. Blood is just a fluid that delivers life-giving oxygen to every part of your body. I ranked it at 86 in my list of “Things to Be Super Scared Of,” right between carbohydrates and being made to watch a movie sequel where they couldn't get any of the original actors to reprise their roles.

But there are times when it's a good idea to be afraid of blood. For instance, if you're wearing white. Or if you notice a lot of it in your stool and it's been several irresponsible years since your last colonoscopy. Or if you wake to find yourself in a pool of it and there's a mysterious corpse in the corner of your bedroom. Or if you say "Bloody Mary" into the mirror three times. These are times to be afraid of blood. Which brings me to today's terrifying tale of super spookiness. I give you...



Bloody Mary Goes Bananas


It was a dark and spooky coronation. Queen Mary I, daughter of King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon, became the ruler of England, Ireland, and bathroom mirrors.

"From this day forth," she announced, "if you go to your bathroom mirror and say 'Bloody Mary' three times, I will appear and tell you what a disappointment you are and maybe claw at your faces. Especially at slumber parties, but also at summer camp."

"Hooray! Long live the queen!" shouted the people of England and Ireland, although none of them owned bathroom mirrors.
"Furthermore!" said Queen Mary I, as she was not quite finished. "Did you know that if you dip a sleeping person's hand into warm water, she will pee her pants? I decree that we try it on Melissa tonight and see what happens." 

"Hooray!" the people of England and Ireland shouted again, in agreement that Melissa would definitely be the one to fall asleep before midnight.

"I also decree!" Queen Mary I continued, "that we should eat pizza and Twizzlers after my parents go to bed. But let's not get onions on the pizza because that's gross."

The people of England and Ireland could only shout hooray again, overjoyed at the bounty of onion-less pizza and strawberry-flavored confection.

Then, Queen Mary I and the people of England and Ireland settled in to watch a super spooky movie with all the lights off. 

Years passed. Queen Mary I became ill, as people in the 16th century tended to do. "Ew, you guys," she proclaimed. "I ate way too much pizza, and I'm like totally nauseated. Sorry to be a complete buzzkill."

And then she died during a rousing game of "Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board," and nobody was psyched about that one bit, except her sister Elizabeth.

Hundreds of years passed.

One night at summer camp all those years later, an 11-year-old girl was lying awake in the darkness thinking about things.

"What do 11-year-old girls think about?" you might be asking.

Well, some think about boys. Others think about hairdos. And some 11 year old girls think about the best strategies for beating BioShock Infinite on 1999 mode. I guess what I'm saying is that 11-year-old girls think about a lot of different things. But this 11-year-old girl was lying awake in the darkness debating whether or not she should say "Bloody Mary" into the mirror three times because one of the other girls in Cabin 12 told her that if she did a demon would appear and drag her to hell, etc. The story had gotten blown quite out of proportion over the years.

Finally, the 11-year-old girl got out of bed. She felt her way around the other bunk beds in the darkness, listening to the sleeping breath of her cabin mates. She went to the mirror in the cabin bathroom (it was a very modern camp with all the amenities). She turned on the light and looked into the mirror.

"Bloody Mary," she said once.

"Bloody Mary," she said again.

"Bloody Mary," she said a third time.

And as she had promised all those hundreds of years before, Queen Mary I appeared in the mirror and said, "You're a terrible disappointment to the people of England and Ireland! Now, come over here and receive your punishment!" And she halfheartedly tried to scratch the girl's eyes out, but she was a queen and far too proper to administer a decent eye scratching. (That was more Mary, Queen of Scots's thing.)

"Oh," said the girl. "I was expecting something scarier to appear."

"Like Anne Boleyn?" Queen Mary I asked.

"No," said the girl.

"Like Anglicans?"

"No," the girl replied.

"Like dying without giving birth to a child to succeed you?"

"Uh....no," said the girl.

"What were you expecting then?" asked Queen Mary I.

"I don't know," the girl said, "A demon with blood shooting from its eye sockets?"

"OOH," said Queen Mary I. "I have an idea of a thing that will totally scare you."

And she dared the girl to call a boy she liked and hang up.

THE END

Friday, October 4, 2013

Frightening Friday: A Terrifying Work Environment and the People Who Suffered From It

He does not want to go to work either.











You know what really scares me? I'm asking that question because OH MY GOD YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT TODAY IS? It's the first Friday in October. Did you guess that this is the first Friday of Frightening Fridays, because it is? Are you excited? I'm excited. I'm so excited that I actually just jumped for joy and fell down a flight of stairs. I'm writing this from the bottom of it whilst waiting for an ambulance to arrive.

In case you're wondering, the answer to my first question is "falling down a flight of stairs." But now that I've done it, I'm realizing it's not actually that bad, aside from the dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, and gathering pool of blood. This means I won't have to go to work for at least five hours.

Which reminds me that I still need to tell you today's terrifying tale, which is all about having a terrible job. And maybe you're saying right now, "That doesn't sound so terrifying," but it's also possible that your job involves feeding marshmallows to a herd of baby goats, or perhaps you are a pillow tester for Puffy's Pillow Emporium. Naturally, you're going to enjoy your work. But trust me when I say that the job in this story will give you nightmares until at least the next pay cycle. It's called...


A Terrifying Work Environment and the People Who Suffered From It  

It was a dark and stormy copy machine. Dark because it was covered with layers of ancient coal dust and stormy because no one could find a better way to describe the way that the machine sometimes electrocuted people.

But that is not the most terrifying part of the story.

The president of the company at which our story takes place hated spending money and had purchased the copy machine from a mining company that was no longer in business for reasons that involve a mining company exploding. The copy machine had cost him zero cents. All he had to do was get rid of the family of raccoons that had been living in it and refill the toner. Some people might argue that nothing is scarier than a company president who won't spend money on things. Not a deadly copy machine. Not a clown-werewolf hybrid. And definitely not a company president who will spend money on things but has fingers where his eyes should be.

But that's still not the most terrifying part of the story.

Every day, the company president who didn't believe in spending money on things, especially copy machines that didn't electrocute people, would change his mind. Now, some company presidents change their minds every day: about what tie to wear, whether or not to put raisins in their breakfast oatmeal, or which fancy car to drive to the office. But this company president changed his mind about what his company actually did. An employee might leave work one night a taxidermist and arrive the next morning to become a painter of frescoes. He might start the week selling insurance, spend Wednesday learning how to be a chemist, and finish the week as an underwear model. It all depended on the economy and what was profitable on any given day. At the end of each day, the company president would call his teenage daughters and say, "What's popular on the Twitter today?" And they would tell him. The next morning, when everyone arrived for work at 4:55 AM, he would announce what they would be doing that day. That was how the company spent a very confused and unprofitable day recently as a twerk factory.

But, no, that's not the most terrifying part of the story. Not even that.

The company was haunted. Like, really haunted.

But not by ghosts. By listless, burned out employees who wandered around saying things like, "Is it Friday yet?" and chewing on stale bagels from the day the company was a kosher bakery. They all had dark circles under their eyes and downtrodden expressions from having to learn how to be heart surgeons one time. They lived in fear of the copy machine that electrocuted people and the office toilet that was just a room with a bucket in it and the supply closet that only had broken pencils in it and paperclips the company president had made himself from old electrical wire.

But no. Still not the scariest part.

The employees were not allowed to eat at their desks because of the vermin problem. Even on the day all of the employees were exterminators. And it wasn't just cockroaches and mice. There were cobras and vampire bats and chupacabra. And a religious suicide cult that had started a commune in the elevator. Nowhere you went was safe.

"I guess we should do something about the vermin," the company president said one day. So he made everyone in the company interior decorators and they wallpapered over everything: the mice, the cockroaches, the cobras, the bats, and even chupacabra. Fortunately, the suicide cult just had to be hauled out to the dumpster by then.

And even that is not the most terrifying part of the story. I guess I should tell you the scariest part now before you get bored.

IF YOU QUIT YOUR JOB, YOU WOULD WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING AND STILL BE WORKING THERE.

I know. I was scared too. That is why I will end the story here and not tell you the part about the day a mysterious parasite came to Earth and slowly used mind control to take over the company and all its employees. And then nobody noticed for ten years because the employees always acted dead-eyed and listless.

But I can't tell you that part because it's not the most terrifying part of the story. Just know that some heroic guys arrived and harnessed the electrical power of the copy machine to kill all the mind controlling parasites and everyone was saved.

The end.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Do You Have Your Fear Pants On? It's Almost Time for....FRIGHTENING FRIDAYS

This picture made me poop at least five times.
















 Hey, poop heads and poop faces. What's going on with you? I'm not doing anything over here, except getting ready to scare even more poop out of you than before.

In case you're wondering, I am trying to use the word "poop" at least 15 times in this post announcing this year's Frightening Fridays. So, brace yourselves for more poop, literal and figurative. You might want to brace yourself literally with an outhouse that latches securely and figuratively with some fortitude and Halloween candy. Things are about to get poopin' scary.

This year, in addition to our weekly terrifying tale posted each Friday on this site, I'd like to invite you to join me while I read one super spooky story each week via my YouTube channel. There will be SCARY VOICES. There will be DARKNESS. There will be CONVINCINGLY LIFELIKE BAT NOISES. Lots of good poop like that. So, don't miss it, you poop butt.

Poop.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

A Revised Account of the Time I Saw the Biggest Piece of Shit Ever

It's trying to escape.












Last September, around this time, I went camping. Then, I came back and wrote this story. Unfortunately, the story involves my ex-boyfriend. Therefore, I decided the story needs a few edits before I repost it. Let's do this thing.


My Revised Account of the Time I Saw the Biggest Piece of Shit Ever

In this world, there is so much darkness.

You see this darkness in the bottom of the refrigerator drawer where you keep your vegetables after you haven't opened it for a few months. It's a brown ooze that maybe used to be a cucumber. You look away, quickly slam the drawer, and go back to drinking heavily. It's a reminder of how fragile life is. And cucumbers.

I saw the darkness very recently. I was on a camping trip in New Hampshire, and I had an experience that left me changed. I saw...something.

The moon was full. The air was filled with the sounds of the night: owls hooting, crickets chirping, an elderly couple arguing over which one of them misplaced the bug spray. The air smelled of campfires and that overwhelming stink of hotdogs you get when you open up your cooler after a long day. As we pulled up to the campground bathhouse and I grabbed my toothbrush, I sensed that this wasn't any kind of normal night. "Do you feel that?" I asked my boyfriend, Daniel Craig. "Feel what?" he responded. "The darkness," I replied, ominously. Then, he looked at me in that way that I knew meant he was going to hide the rest of my beers when we got back to our tent. I feel like this is as good a place as any to mention that Daniel Craig was a super amazing boyfriend who loved to talk and listen and cook Mexican food.

The women's bathroom was empty, but I felt strange, like I wasn't quite alone. "Hello?" I said. I've seen a lot of scary movies, and people always do that when they feel they aren't quite alone. As expected, no one responded. I brushed my teeth and took out my contacts. Then, I walked over to the bathroom stall.

I opened the stall door. I looked. I closed the stall door again.

I paused.

What had I just seen?

I opened the stall door again. I looked.

It was real.

Inside the toilet was the most enormous piece of shit I've ever seen.

Now, you're all thinking right now, "Sure, sure, Bethany. We've all laid monsters in our day. The day after pot luck chili night, whoa boy!" And I'm here to tell you that no...you've never seen a piece of shit this big. Not after pot luck chili night. Not ever.

It was about 10 inches in length and the width of a can of Coke. The person who had pooped it had clearly not bothered to flush because there was no way that would ever go down the toilet. Ever.

I ran out of the bathroom.

"DANIEL CRAIG, OH MY GOD," I said, panting as I ran the eight feet to the men's restroom to find my very handsome and manly British boyfriend.

"What?" he said.

"There's a piece of shit in the women's bathroom that is so big, I think the person who pooped it died."

"Uh huh," he responded. I could tell he didn't believe me.

"Dude, go in there and look."

"I am NOT going to go look at a piece of shit," he replied.

"Fine," I said. "But you will be missing out on the most horrifying thing I've ever seen."

We began walking back to the car. He stopped.

"I want to see it," he said, handsomely.

"Go," I told him. "It's in the last stall."

"Is there anyone in there?"

"No." 

"I can't believe I'm going to go look at a piece of shit," he said, a very undignified thing for a normal person to say, but a thing that sounded sexy when Daniel Craig said it.

He disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the stall door open and close. He came back outside.

"Holy fucking shit," he said.

"I know."

"I looked in there, and all I saw was blackness."

"No one will ever believe this," I said.

As we drove back to our campsite, I could only try to imagine the kind of person, the kind of woman, who could poop out a piece of shit that big. In my mind, she was 6'5", 255 pounds. A drifter with a crazy, faraway look in her eyes and amazing digestion. She was the kind of woman who didn't even camp with a tent, just slept under a big tarp, a box of Fiber One bars tucked against her bosom. After her massive dump that night, she wandered off into the woods to contemplate the universe and died, sitting alone on a tree stump, from complications of a bleeding rectum. And like Johnny Appleseed before her, one day the locals would tell stories of her greatness. Stories of a mysterious woman who once took a shit so big it killed her.

And here's this.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

NOBODY CALLS ME BETHY....Anymore

SYMBOLISM. Is what this is. And a chickadee.












I'm sitting here staring at my Starbucks coffee cup, upon which someone has written the name "Bethy." And while I hate that name and will cut you down where you stand and burn the body if you call me that, it does bring back fond memories of the one person in the history of time and space who has ever been allowed to call me Bethy. So, let's talk about her. Because warm, cuddly feelings make me feel better. I'm having kind of a difficult week.

When I was in kindergarten, I peed my pants on the school bus. I know. Gross. But I feel that it's as good a place as any to start the story. There I was, five years old, on the school bus, surrounded by other children who were totally staring at me and my peepants. I remember thinking as it was happening of that joke where the little boy is reciting his ABCs, and he skips the P, and his teacher asks, "Where the P?" And he says, "IT'S RUNNING DOWN MY LEG."

That's why when our bus driver, Nila, asked me, "Bethy, are you okay back there?" I responded with, "IT'S RUNNING DOWN MY LEG." And then I laughed and laughed at my joke and maybe also started to cry.

But it wasn't my fault. If you want to get technical, it was the fault of whichever parent made me wear that summer jumper with the rainbow polka dots. It was clearly designed by someone who was thinking like an adult putting clothes on a child and not like an adult expecting a child to dress herself. My arms didn't maneuver in a way that would allow me to fasten those snaps over my right shoulder. And so, rather than going to the bathroom and facing the mortification of having to ask my teacher to help me put my jumper back on in front of my classmates, I had held my pee all day long.

All day long.

Well, at least until noon, as our kindergarten school days only lasted half the day.

But if you're going to pee your pants on the school bus, there is nobody better to handle the situation than Nila. She didn't make a big deal about it. She didn't embarrass me or make me feel stupid. She told my mom about it in a whisper when we got to my house, after I had run inside to change. And I never had to wear the rainbow polka-dotted jumper again.

Nila was not only our bus driver, but also our neighbor. She and her husband Carl lived even farther from town than we did, about five miles from our house. And there was no one in the world who was happier to see you than Nila.

"I could just put you in my pocket and take you home!" she always said to people, especially my little brother who was, to his credit, the cutest ever when he was little. (He called her "Milo.")

"I hate it when Nila calls me Bethy!" I said, sometime in second grade as I got ready to head out to the school bus one morning.

"Then, ask her to stop calling you that then," my mom replied. "But do it politely. Don't be rude."

Nila said, "Good morning, Bethy!" when I got on the bus. I didn't have the heart to say anything. Nila was always so nice and pleasant, even though she probably had to get out of bed at 5 AM or something to drive us all to school.

Eventually, Nila retired from driving the school bus. I was in fifth grade when she did.

"Wow! She must be old!" I said. "How old is she???"

My mom said, "In her 70s. Please don't ask her."

In what I assumed was her 80s, Nila was declared legally blind. The last time I went to her house, we sat in her kitchen and she showed us her clock that made bird sounds every hour.

"I can't see the numbers anymore!" she explained as her clock chirped like a cardinal. "Must be 2 PM!"

The last time I saw Nila was at my grandpa's funeral.

"Why, Bethy!" she said, in the little chirpy way she always said it. Nila herself was like a little bird, a chickadee or a finch maybe. She pulled me in for a hug, squinting as she tried to get a good look at my face and see how I'd changed. I was almost 30, and she was almost 90. Her eyes were blue and milky, her face crinkled like paper.

I wished I could have stayed in that moment longer than I did. I knew I would probably never see her again, and I was right.

There are few people you meet in your life who care about you unconditionally. No matter what you tell them, they say, "Good for you! I'm so proud of you!" Nila was like that for me, even if I never really saw her after I became a teenager and then an adult. To her, I would always be that 5-year old who peed her pants on the way home from kindergarten, and that 7-year-old who fell in the mud running to the bus, or that 9-year-old who punched her brother in the face one time and got in trouble (HE DESERVED IT).

I guess I'm not sorry that I never got around to telling her to stop calling me Bethy. In a tiny way it always makes me happy to hear it.

But if any of the rest of you call me that, I will end you. It's Nila's name for me, and hers alone, and it died with her.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Miley Cyrus Is Trying to Kill Me

AVERT YOUR EYES.















Six months ago I got some terrible news from my doctor. She said to me, "Bethany, I'm a doctor. You can tell because I'm wearing a white lab coat, I'm carrying this stethoscope, and I've taken all your money to run a lot of tests on you. So it pains me greatly to tell you that you have a very serious condition, very serious indeed."

"What is it, Doctor?" I asked.

"Hold your horses!" she responded. "I can't just tell you. I have to allow the tension to build so that you'll be extra upset!"

I waited.

"Here goes!" she finally said, "You know how some people get cancer and some other people get bubonic plague? And it's really inconvenient for them and they sometimes die? Well, you have a disease where, if you see Miley Cyrus twerk one more time, it will kill you. It's called Twerkinson's."

"Are you trying to be funny?" I asked.

"No, cross my heart and hope to not get Twerkinson's," she replied. "I could not be more serious. You can tell I'm being serious because I took my glasses off so you could see the seriousness in my eyes. And my new eyeshadow. But this isn't about bringing out the green in my eyes. It's about you and your Twerkinson's."

"There isn't any such thing as Twerkinson's," I said.

"Ten years ago, there wasn't," she said, getting up and walking around her desk for extra dramatic effect. "We were all safe. Dance Fever existed only in the lab. But then people started dying. We doctors began to ask ourselves why."

"Are you messing with me again?" I asked. "Like that time when you told me I had a weird growth on my back, but it was just a scratch and sniff sticker that smelled like popcorn?"

"Hey! I removed it, didn't I??? Sheesh! I swear you get more ungrateful every time you come in here!" my doctor said.

"Yes, but you didn't need to use a scalpel to remove it. I have a big popcorn-shaped scar now."

"I said I was sorry! Now, can I go on??"

"Okay. Yes. Never mind. Go on. Tell me more about Twerkinson's."

My doctor settled back into her seat and slowly began to spin around in it.

"Anyway, like I was saying, people began to die and me and my doctor friends were like, 'What's going on here?' So, we decided to get to the bottom of it in the most scientific way possible. We ordered some chimps off the internet and began to run some tests on them."

"Ooookay," I said.

"They all died right after we made them watch internet videos of Miley Cyrus twerking," my doctor said. "It was then that we put two and two together. Miley Cyrus is trying to kill you. She's trying to kill us all. With Twerkinson's."

"I'm still not sure I believe you," I said, "but I'm scared, so I've decided to go with that feeling instead of doubt."

"Good idea," said my doctor. "The best thing to do is always believe everything I say 100 percent. I've never been wrong, except about that one thing."

"What thing was that?" I asked.

"I don't remember," she said. "But it definitely didn't involve a flu outbreak that killed 10,000 people. Now you should probably go so I can fart into this paper bag. I can't do it with you watching."

I left. I went home. I cried. I haven't watched any internet videos since.

I'm telling all of you this because after the VMAs the other night, I think all of you should probably get checked for Twerkinson's. I won't have your deaths on my hands.

Friday, August 23, 2013

The Movie Script I Wrote Called "City of Boners"

Fixed it.


















Have you guys heard about this new movie coming out called City of Boners: Mortal Instruments? I know. I was totally intrigued too until I squinted and got closer and found out it was actually called City of Bones. Apparently it's a book I haven't read?

But that hasn't stopped me from writing a script for City of Boners for you. I hope you brought protection.


My Script for City of Boners

INT. Day- Remote village hut on the morning of Young One's 13th year of life.

Young One: Now that I have reached the age of shaving, I must travel to the City of Boners and find my destiny.

Wise Elder: Do not go without this sword, my child.

Young One: I thank you, old one. I am gladdened that you think me old enough to carry a long, hard sword, and not the small, soft one from my youth.

Wise Elder: Go now. Go to the City of Boners. Take with you only your sword and this pouch of seeds.

Young One: What do I do with the seeds, Wise Elder?

Wise Elder: You will know in time, my child. Now, go. For I must get back to polishing my own sword for the next five to fifteen minutes. After which time I will fall asleep.

[Cut to!]
 

EXT. Day- City of Boners

Young One: Ah, I have reached the City of Boners. [to Vendor] Where shall I go first?

Vendor: You must go first to the temple.

Young One: Where is it?

Vendor: Follow that path. You cannot miss it. The temple is tall and surrounded by a thicket.

Young One: I fear to go there. Is that normal?

Vendor: All fear the High Priest of Boners. He is the one who dwells in the temple. You cannot enter the City of Boners without his permission.

Young One: I will go then, but my sword will be drawn for safety.

Vendor: It would be safer to keep it sheathed. Trust me on this. I once entered the Temple of Boners with my sword unsheathed, and the next day I regretted it very much. I must avoid using my sword because of the burning sensation it still creates.

[Cut to!]


INT. Day- Temple of Boners

High Priest of Boners: It is I, the High Priest of Boners. Who enters here?

Young One: A youth from the nearby village. It is my coming of age time.

High Priest of Boners: Unsheath your sword, young one, and come forward.

Young One: I cannot. For it makes me very uncomfortable when people look at it.

High Priest of Boners: I insist. To enter my city, you must perform three tasks to prove that you are worthy. The first of these is to hold out your sword and measure it next to mine.

Young One: I will do it then, but I am still wary. My sword is sacred to me.

High Priest of Boners: Fear not. I see a hundred swords of young ones each week.

Young One: Okay, I guess.

[Young One gets out his sword and holds it out.]

High Priest of Boners: You must hold it out straight.

Young One: I apologize, High Priest. For I am nervous.

[The two measure their swords.]

High Priest of Boners: My sword is longer, but yours is more robust. That is to be commended.

Young One: My father says that it's not the size of your sword but how you use it.

High Priest of Boners: Your father is wise and must have a powerful, if small, sword.

Young One: He says it is average and has had no complaints.

High Priest of Boners: You must now prepare for the second task.

Young One: I am prepared. Tell me what I need to do.

[Cut to!]


EXT. Day- Forest

Young One: According to the High Priest of Boners, I am to find the Sacred Spring through this forest, but I am most definitely lost.

Spirit of the Woods: Lost, you say?

Young One: Yes. I am looking for the Sacred Spring. The High Priest of Boners sent me this way, but he was vague about the directions.

Spirit of the Woods: That's because all he does is look at swords all day. I can show you the spring myself, for a small fee.

Young One: Name your price.

Spirit of the Woods: It depends. I can guide your sword with my hands or tell you the way with my mouth.

Young One: I feel very warm suddenly and must sit down and shield myself from your view for a moment.

Spirit of the Woods: It is because the Sacred Spring is near. Your sword can sense its presence.

Young One: Please take me to the Sacred Spring.

Spirit of the Woods: Well, you are kind of cute. I guess I will show you the way for free.

Young One: I accept your guidance.

Spirit of the Woods: Just don't tell anyone.

[Cut to!]


EXT. 30 seconds later- Sacred Spring

Young One: I think have lost the pouch of seeds Wise Elder gave me.

Spirit of the Woods: [sighs] You definitely did. So....this is where I leave you, Young One. I must now go home and shower.

Young One: You have been more helpful than you will ever know. If I ever pass this way again, I will call you.

Spirit of the Woods: No, that is okay. I will call you.

[She leaves.]

[Cut to!]


INT. Day- Temple of Boners

Young One: I have returned, High Priest of Boners. I traveled to the Sacred Spring and back!

High Priest of Boners: Really? I was sure you would take one look at the Sacred Forest and turn back.

Young One: Tell me of the third task.

High Priest of Boners: Nah. You're good. You've already traveled to the Sacred Spring. Therefore, you do not need my guidance any longer. And, besides, I am out of thinly-veiled sword puns. Go now, back to your village and tell them of your travels.

Young One: But I want to stay in the City of Boners and travel every day to the Sacred Spring!

High Priest of Boners: Wouldn't we all?

Young One: I thought you preferred staying in your temple and measuring the swords of young ones.

High Priest of Boners: Just because I prefer to measure swords does not mean that I have never ventured out to the Sacred Spring once or twice.

Young One: I am not passing judgment. It's just strange that you did not seem to know the way and described it as cold and terrible, when I found it to be quite warm and pleasant.

[There is an uncomfortable silence.]

High Priest of Boners: I really want you to leave now, so I can get back to exercising and looking at these sword etchings.

Young One: Okay.


INT. Day- Remote village hut

[Young One enters.]

Young One: Wise Elder! I have returned!

Wise Elder: Good. Did you ever figure out that situation with your penis?

Young One: What?

BLACKOUT.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

MY LIST OF BIRTHDAY DEMANDS!!!!

I am completely overwhelmed right now, you guys. And topless.












Thirty-four years ago today, I was born. AND YOU'D BETTER NOT FORGET IT. As you are 100 percent aware, birthdays are the one day out of the year when you get to say or do anything you want and you cannot be criticized or prosecuted. Everyone is required to write nice things about you on Facebook and pretend they forgot about how you killed that guy that time and framed them for the crime. It also means I get to make some big time demands, and everyone has to adhere to them or suffer the consequences.

Are you ready for my demands??? GET OUT A PEN AND A PIECE OF PAPER AND GET READY BECAUSE HERE THEY COME.

1. First demand! Cheese! I want to eat cheese on everything. Get me some cheese and a grater immediately. But if you even hint at showing up with American cheese slices, I'll grate you instead and feed you to the pelicans!

2. Second demand! I want for everyone to think I'm cool. But that kind of effortless cool you can only be if you are Johnny Depp or a 20-something lesbian with an asymmetric haircut.

3. Third demand! I want peaches to be ripe and in season year round. I don't care what you have to do or how many Earth's orbits you have to destroy, I want it, and I want it now!

4. Fourth demand! A portal gun!

5. Fifth demand! Time travel!

6. Sixth demand! A sidekick! Someone to show up at my house and be like, "We have to go on a hijinks-filled roadtrip immediately," but always understanding that he or she is the sidekick and I'm the awesome one.

7. Seventh demand! Candy!

8. Eighth demand! For people to never use the adjective "smokin'" to describe another person ever again. Unless the person is on fire and is, in fact, smoking, in which case, DON'T JUST STAND THERE. DO SOMETHING.

9. Ninth demand! Money! But not too much because lots of money just leads people to turning up dead in swimming pools.

10. Tenth demand! Kittens!

11. Eleventh demand! Puppies!

12. Twelth demand! Baby elephants wearing little bonnets!

13. Thirteenth demand! A whale who wants to be best friends with me! A blue whale or a humpback. Right whales are stupid, and don't even get me started on sperm whales. JUST KIDDING. ANY WHALE WILL DO.

14. Fourteenth demand! Boyfriends for everybody!

15. Fifteenth demand! For you to quit complaining about the new boyfriend I just gave you!

16. Sixteenth demand! Cake!

17. Seventeenth demand! Pie!

18. Eighteenth demand! Cakepie! And unity in the dessert community.

19. Nineteenth demand! Extra demands for tomorrow!

20. Twentieth demand! For you to stop reading this list and get on these demands ASAP.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Some Updates (but Not Really) on My OKCupid Account

Say goodbye to my unibrow, Michael. It's the last time you're going to see it.














Well, you guys, it's been real. Real what? REAL AWESOME.

You know the story. Girl breaks up with guy. Girl gets on the internet looking for a new guy. Girl gets burned out and hateful after 10 minutes. Girl decides to put on makeup and wigs and dick with dumb people. Girl meets someone awesome and is happy but also like, "BOO!" because what is she going to do with her time now? Girl insists you stop calling her "girl" because she's 34 years old, thankyouverymuch.

But I don't want to leave you feeling sad about my abrupt departure from OKCupid. That's why I'm giving you a little something I've been saving for a while. One time I had a had a conversation with a weirdo on OKCupid IM. I was going to post it ages ago, but I kept going back and forth like, "Is this even appropriate?" It's not. And I decided I don't care. Just read it. Here it is.


The Time I Trolled for Weirdos on OKCupid


Dude: hey
Me: Hey yourself.
Dude: hey what u doin
Me: Oh, you know. Typical Tuesday night things.
Dude: i am [Dude]
Me: Bethany
Dude: hi bethany u r so clever lol
Dude: did u go out
Me: Did I go out tonight? Nope. I've been trying to get some writing done tonight.
Dude: oh cool i love a writer
Dude: it is sexy
Dude: can i ask u a forward question?
Me: Sure.
Dude: what r u wearing?
Me: It's not anything that's going to appeal to your sensual side, I can assure you.
Dude: u r 36d?
Me: MY GOD. HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT???
Dude: i like my big breasts. god.
Me: Well, you must be psychic.
Dude: since i was right u will have to let me massage them
Dude: i have good oil
Me: I've never met you. For all I know you could have hooks for hands. I can't make any promises unless you can assure me that your hands are not hooks.
Dude: my hands r soft and loving
Dude: they will take good care of you
Dude: when u r ready
Dude: sounds good?
Me: I don't know. I still have no photographic proof that you don't have hook hands. People lie on the internet all the time.
Dude: i am a lawyer not a liar
Me: You could be typing that with hook hands right now.
Dude: no i want to massage your big tits with my pretty hands
Me: Okay, I guess. But if I find out you have hook hands or even a peg leg, I'm going to be pissed.
Dude: ok. tell me to massage your big breasts
Me: Please use your hook hands to massage my breasts now.
Dude: oh yes. tell me to pour oil on them. do u have big nipples?
Me: I don't know. What do you consider big?
Dude: do they stand up when aroused
Me: Definitely not. The Bible forbids that.
Dude: ok. what r u wearing now
Me: A suit of armor.
Dude: haha do u wantme to massage your naked body when we r together?
Me: Not until I've established that you don't have hook hands.

So, maybe in the past, you’ve spent time in a relationship where you were always the one who had to initiate sex. And sometimes even after you did, the smallest interruption would unnerve your partner so much, he or she could not get in the mood again for the next six weeks. And you would spend your nights sweaty and anxious and wondering if perhaps you could use being celibate for the greater good and achieve some kind of spiritual enlightenment.

This is the happy alternative. Perverts on the internet will never turn you down. 

If you want to go back and peruse the old OKCupid stuff, I'm putting the links here. 


And, in conclusion, here's a jam all about saying goodbye.