Tag Archives: shenanigans

My Indian burial ground brings all the dead rats to the yard

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That’s right, it’s wetter than yours.

Confidential to the leathery chainsmoker leaning on the bridge railing by my house snickering “Didn’t those people LEARN?”

1. That tracheotomy is going to be very becoming on you in a few more years
2. Would YOU like to buy my Indian burial ground? Because no one else wanted it. Believe me, we tried to dump this thing.

If you need me, I’ll be lying under the bed in hotel. Mama remembered to pack the tranquilizers. I am getting good at this fleeing in the night business. I missed my calling as part of a Biblical tribe.

You’ll never work in this town again

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Mine N-font disgraceth me on a conference call. Apparently, “I can start next week,” translates to “The next week after I go on a cruise” in nanny. Enough said. I should have hired an actual goat. I suspect the individual in question may be crazy anyway. Really, so am I, so I shouldn’t hold it against her. But man, I am crazy for free! I am not crazy for an exorbitant hourly rate. OK, maybe I am. No, I say things like “heuristics.” What’s that? The next bus to hell pulls out in an hour? One moment, I have to stop someone from eating catfood.

Yesterday: a result of science?

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Yesterday I almost got run down by a Volvo in the Whole Foods parking lot. I jumped aside just in time, and a Volkswagen pounced and ate the Volvo. Now that’s natural selection. Inside Whole Foods, a child was enraged that only brown eggs were left for purchase. She was dubious on the possibility of them actually taking dye. Her mother berated a teenage employee for the egg situation. He failed to conjure white eggs out of thin air, and the mother failed to take responsibility for waiting until the last possible minute to buy eggs to dye.

I was enraged because I saw some cookies that looked good, and the allergy warning only included nuts and wheat. But then the third ingredient was butter. I wanted cookies! I did not berate anyone, but I should have.

This morning, my little piglet awoke at three ayem. She did not opt to capitulate until well past five ayem. At this time, the Director of Software got a call from his boss to say that He is risen, but the servers are down. Fine. We are all risen at five ayem. We give up and let the small beastie sit in a pile of puffed rice cereal watching Sponge Bob while we lie on the floor moaning.

Something whiny this way comes

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The other day my miniature sidekick celebrated nine months of not sleeping! No, she sleeps far better than I do. Honestly. I can’t sleep through the night. Someone should really make me cry it out*. Or spank me to sleep**.

She only cries when she sees her relatives, and the other day when some lady in the grocery store looked at her. I should have thought of that years ago! No looking at me now. Don’t make me do it. I’m talking to you, ugly head. Go back over by the frozen shrimp where you belong.

Best of all, she has learned to flip her lip with her finger and make the noise “A-bee-ba-dee-ba-dee.” The MacArthur Foundation has not stopped hounding us.

Anyway, last weekend I ran an ultramarathon (this is a lie), and I’m thinking I’m getting kind of bored with those. I could do another triathlon, but that would mean doing even one triathlon first to justify the use of the word “another.” Maybe I will finish that seven foot scarf in my knitting bag instead.

*personal parenting pet peeve; this is sarcasm.
**is this dirty?

Just lions smiling in the dark

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Yes, I know that’s the wrong lyric. That’s why it’s funny. Thanks for making me explain a joke, you freaking jerks! Cite your sources, you say? No, no, you say, that isn’t right. The pigs say OINK all day and night. If I told you what the rhinoceroses say, I probably would have to pay a royalty to Sandra Boynton and the good folks at Simon & Schuster, so I will cut it right off.

Anyway, sources. We don’t need no stinking sources and studies. We need to prevent something that might lead to cancer, and you are a woman-hating jerk if you say “But the Science, she are not so good on this one!” And suddenly feminists are OK with a state tying something that only affects a woman’s body to a woman’s access to education? I am talking about Texas and the HPV and the Merck and the money and all, but I am not citing my sources. And that’s OK, because we don’t do that anymore. We are the internet. Did I mention CANCER? More women die each year of septicemia, diabetes, and unintentional injuries than the form of cancer in question, which is easily identifiable with a routine yearly screening. In the US, this cancer is the 14th hottest form of female cancer, rating below Alyssa Milano and Kim Cattrall.

No, no, you say, that isn’t right. You must want all those little girls to get THE CANCER (er, you mean one of four strains of a virus that can lead to the cancer if not caught early by a routine screening, right? And you know there are dozens of strains, not just those four targeted by the shot? No, I mean CANCER is a sure bet! Do not pass go, go straight to CANCER in this argument!). I would rather those little girls and boys learn to use the condoms and attempt to respect each other. But that’s OK, abstinence-only whatever works great. And then we can paternalistically mandate protection for something that might happen based on an individual’s potential sexual choices to cover up for the giant lapse in education. And the protection comes with great risks in and of itself, and the longterm effects are completely unknown. It’s anti-woman not to promote informed choice. Or is it PRO CANCER?

I could probably try to make more sense and actually cite sources, but I am too busy attempting to graph potential agony in upcoming situations, neither of which involves cancer. Budget air travel maybe. Is this caused by a virus?

A day and another day and the day before

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I have about six drafts saved in here. Maybe you would have preferred to read “Take the Krugerrand and run.” But you won’t read that one. The subject was the best part anyway.

I am up to no good. Others were up to no good first, but I can’t change the situation, only how I Lord grant me the serenity, Britney. You can’t go home again, Britney. Especially when home is infested with menacing dust particles. Ask the dust. Ask away. The dust will tell you all about the Federal Reserve.

Today I had a green soda. I never have soda. But it looked so convincing in the case. It purported to be lime soda on the English label, but it was something else entirely. Battle kitty had a single black bean and part of a napkin. It was nice to walk in the sun.

My girl is the queen of the savages

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I bought a lovely pair of ballet flats in early 2005 and promptly ruined them two months later. When we toured the construction progress on our Indian Burial Ground, the ground was a bit marshy, and one shoe got sucked entirely off my foot. Foolish me, thinking a hard hat paired well with kicky flats. Where are Stacy and Clinton when I dress myself each day? They might have put the kibosh on the three shirts plus Nanook boots and rubber gloves joint from the other day. What can I say? I am always cold.

I found out that I have a vata problem. I used to be a nice corn-fed pitta with the moon eyes of a kapha, but now I am cold and crackly and speedy and have trouble falling asleep. I forget as quickly as I learn. And don’t get me started on how hard it is to be an Alpha. At least I am not infested with imaginary bugs, like my poor father.

Losing my slipper was only fitting though, since sucking and my real estate forays go hand-in-hand, hoof-and-mouth. I tried to sponge the mud off, but it didn’t really work. So I left the shoes in the back of my closet for two years. Duh.

Yesterday, I cleaned and polished them, and whaddya know, instant Spring! I also added up all our debt before I did this. All of it. I wrote it on a big piece of paper and stuck it on the fridge. Shame works wonders. I love to be shamed, don’t you? I’m your secretary. In summation, we owe every cent we take in before the end of the year to that piece of paper on the fridge. No, I can’t have new shoes. I am putting tiny human diminutive former primate to work on making me some, though. She is handy with an awl. She climbs the couch like a little ape and hangs upside down from my chest. One day I will give her power of attorney, and she will have to make decisions about my welfare. Until then, we Make Do and Improve.

St. Vomitola so loved the world

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Now, in years past, I’ve had more time to revel in all the spectacular February holidays. Time to bring you such amazing seasonal designs such as this. February is like soaking in a bowl of paraffin, is it not? One emerges fresh and renewed. Or something. I didn’t even manage a Groundhog’s Day salute this year.

But today, Mr. H is home for a snow day, and we are all slowly eating each other. A ybab is yelling at me, and Scatman Crothers had a snowcat accident on the way to save us. So in great haste, I bring you the simplest tidings of the day, in a form you morons can understand.

Ri rove roo!

So where were the spiders

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Yesterday, Mr. H said “I dreamed we had a little boy too.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I dreamed I had a calzone.”

Each concept is equally ludicrous. No cheese and no more seibab!

I’ve been cleaning up the house, and I noticed there are spiderwebs all over the rafters. Perfectly architected Halloween spirals. But no actual spiders are present. This is infinitely more creepy than the few months I spent living with Shower Spider in my old apartment. Each time I’d get in the shower, I’d say something to the effect of “Please don’t drop on my head while my eyes are closed, and I’ll let you live.” We respected each other. Shower Spider would never eat cheese in front of me when I can’t have any. AHEM. But absentee spiders? Who the hell knows? They could be forming a giant pyramid on top of the headboard while I’m asleep, for all I know. They could be blinking in Morse code to say I look fat! Stick with the devil you know. Hypotheticals and invisibles are terrifying.

Jack Bauer sleeps with a pillow under his gun

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Phew, ailment I almost forgot. This concludes Jack Bauer week. Yesterday was all bokka bokka what? As all the days are, really. Someone threw up on my back, and lunch was had, and I was told a disgusting fact. The Main Idea of this fact was “large nipples, small penis.” Does Jack Bauer have problems like that? Perhaps his nipples are enlarged because he straps them to a car battery for ten minutes each morning as part of his toilette.