All posts by Licketysplit

Publisher’s Note

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We have dropped the ball, all the way from heaven. Did you know balls turn to solid ice when they enter the atmosphere? Ours crashed through the rumpus room of a nice family in Petoskey, Michigan. No one was killed, strictly speaking. I suppose it doesn’t matter what happens to the people of Petoskey, since they are stuck on Earth while we are in heaven.

But heaven really is not all that it’s cracked up to be. We thought it would involve lying around, getting mud wraps, maybe a lute lesson here and there. Nooooo. There is a natural foods co-op, and everyone is required to take a shift. I can’t tell you how sick I am of organic parsnips. I’m sure it builds character, but mine was already in quite a state, so why rock the boat?

Anyway, we had hoped to tune into Earth and see how some our favorite people are doing. Morrissey was going to write a post constructed only of Morrissey song titles and lyrics. But things came up, and as you can see from the above images, he is in a bit of a pissing match with Pete Burns. He has forgiven Jesus (for now), and he tells us about his chances of getting into heaven with uncharacteristic optimism:

Strung out in heaven’s high

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I was gnawing on a skewer of chicken satay, and then I wasn’t. I found myself face down on laminate flooring. I fumbled around, and my satay was gone! I was still hungry. This would not do. I picked myself up and sat on an uncomfortable yet unobtrusive bench. What a strange room. Why is Karen Carpenter sitting across the room reading an Allure magazine from 1998? Did she take my satay? This cannot be. Where are my keys? Where is my phone? I thought this kind of predicament only happened to Lady Gaga.

I poked my head out in the hallway, and I spotted a desk staffed by unflappable women in tidy smocks. I inquired, and they pointed out that, derp, I had been raptured. Oh. That explains my robe and fuzzy socks with rubber grips on the bottom. They said my personal effects were being stored for safe keeping in a little locker. The first day would be free, but there would be a nominal charge after that. My first thought, after my family, yadda, was “Where is Lambchop?” And I thought this would be jazzier somehow.

I was still hungry, so I followed some brutally direct signs. I finally found Lambchop in line at the cafeteria! We have a natural affinity for steam table food, and her last supper was similarly interrupted. We were surprised at how desolate the place seemed, and eventually it came to light from chatting up a man with a ladle that we were the only two citizens of Earth to make the cut on May 21st.

WHAT? That’s not at all what we were expecting. Why would He take us, deprive us of our family and friends, and leave Morrissey? Why was the only thing on the menu Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam? How can a coffee table cost only $14.99? We held each other, weeping. We put back our own trays like the brutal signs instructed. Why the fuck was everything printed in Verdana? I expected at least Helvetica from heaven.

The man with the ladle shrugged and said they were projecting more guests as well, but that’s just how the PEPPARKAKOR crumbles. Three consulting firms had their sticky paws on the algorithm that controls all the technical stuff pertaining to rapturing. The whole project was just a nightmare.

The man normally works upstairs, but he had kindly offered to staff the serving line in case of a rush. Something seemed familiar about his honeyed tones and suave British accent. He was quite striking, really, with one blue eye and one green eye. He smiled a rather rakish smile and told us to go enjoy the rest of our night. Enjoy? In heaven? Who was this guy kidding?

To be continued….

 

Clockwatchers

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Fellow heathens, we are so close I can smell the singed eyebrows we’ll all be sporting come some time, possibly tomorrow. Picture yourself crisped like so much cheese on a toaster oven coil!

With all this foofaraw about the end of the world, everything seems to be an omen. On my journey through the morning vehicular massacre today, I spotted a disheveled crone standing in a yard wearing a backwards rain coat. Not two houses down, there was an empty teddy bear print high chair standing forlornly at the end of the driveway. Then I was passed by three UPS trucks in a row!

I turned the corner, and at an intersection, I was blindsided to see FIVE UPS trucks in a row gliding down the cross street. The effect was akin to watching circus elephants grandly enter a town. What will brown do to me? I quake in anticipation.

It really is the little moments in life, I suppose. Just last week, I slalomed through heavy traffic to approach a Subaru with a missing back window, the hole covered in many layers of plastic sheeting and duct tape. The license plate read ADEPT. Every time I was ready to voice over WACKITY SCHMACKITY DOO into my phone’s video camera, the damned thing would change lanes. I was chasing the ghost of incongruity. A metaphor for the futility of our officing away in offices, fulfilling ever-changing and inconsistent requests for maniacs.

Speaking of maniacs, Lambchop and I slaved over an End of the World mix tape. We found so many worthy candidates (at least 80% of the Morrissey and Judas Priest catalog) that we decided to make 2 volumes. I’ll be bringing you THE PAIN:

Vol. 1: Apocalypso

The Sky’s Gone Out – Bauhaus
It’ll End in Tears – This Mortal Coil
Some Heads Are Gonna Roll – Judas Priest
Wave of Mutilation – The Pixies
Sorry Doesn’t Help – Morrissey
The Weeping Song – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Cities in Dust – Siouxsie and the Banshees
There is a Place in Hell Reserved For Me and My Friends – Morrissey (see??)
Dead Souls – Joy Division
Now I’m Feeling Zombified – Alien Sex Fiend


Should the world fail to fall apart

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Drop that donut! I have had a vision, and it is far worse than the end of the world. What if the world doesn’t end? Vegas odds are unclear. What if we find ourselves stumbling around, bleary and hungover, on Sunday the 22nd? What if we still have to get up, possibly shower, and drag our feet off to the box factory or the filing emporium on Monday? Still hungover. Oh, it will be terrible. We won’t have any clean knickers, because who does laundry before a rapture? There will be nothing in the fridge but Pellegrino and vodka and cigarettes. But I guess that’s always the situation in that department. Oh, camembert, we’ll be out of that.

At least rapture insurance is non-refundable. I’ll still have my jets. And I guess we can always go all in on the Mayan calendar.

If anything, this whole rapture thing has reminded me that I am not living as my own authentic self. Forget bucket lists. To properly dissolve a body in lye, you need at least a 10-gallon drum. I have decided that I am going to stop pretending to be an adult who always wears a shirt and knows how to proceed at a 4-way stop and add a page to an Excel spreadsheet.

Instead, I am going to swan around in my vintage Le Smoking, cultivating just the right amount of fear and adulation in my fellow humans. I think I will quit my job, as I simply prefer not to be a slave to the whims of the criminally insane. I am only a slave to my own criminally insane whims!

WATCH THIS SPACE.

Where were you when the stars went out?

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Selling rapture insurance was really quite a stroke of luck for us here at the Vomitola bunker. Lambchop is building houses and making a bikini library out of all the money that’s rolling in, just in case we don’t get to use it. Not that we’d get raptured, but it might catch on fire because it is paper. I bought an F-16 and a Boeing 747-8 because Gulfstreams aren’t expensive enough anymore. I also bought John Travolta to fly the planes for me. He’s not going anywhere, let’s be honest. He’s the last to know. Or maybe that’s his wife.

So now we wait. Wait until when, exactly, I’m not sure. I’ve heard 6 p.m. on May 21, but does that account for time zones? Surely the world doesn’t revolve around Eastern Standard Time. I need to know if I will have time to fit in the rest of my pre-rapture plans. Like should I bother making brunch reservations?

I also think it is our mission to leave a message for posterity for all alien civilizations that might encounter our ravaged planet in the future. They will need to know all the most important things about the cream of our society, namely us. Well, Lambchop has the most adorable feet, and I really hate surprise raisins in food. Not that I inherently dislike raisins, but I do like to know if they are in the cards before I take a bite. Lambchop is also a painter of some renown. Lord knows how many times I have awakened to find her handiwork on my face!

There is so much more to say than even those most important facts. We’ll be broadcasting the entire contents of Vomitola.com into space for the next 10,000 years, assuming of course that Sir Ian McKellen can finish the audio in time. I can’t wait to hear how he interprets the animated GIFs of a nonplussed Bea Arthur.

We’ll also be providing clear explanations as to why God saw fit to smite our world, in simple terms all creatures can understand:

Please, alien bringers of hope, let such mistakes not be repeated. Xenu, forgive us our foolishness.

All Dogs Don’t Go to Heaven

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The upcoming rapture was brought to our attention recently, and we at House of Vomitola took a break from sniffing nail polish and going through our couture archives long enough to say “Mmm, hey!” We held a conference call and shared some Power Point slides over Live Meeting, and we synthesized the conclusion that we really are fine with the world ending, as long as this development also halts the ceaseless wave of banality that comes part and parcel with life. Going to a lake of fire to fry sounds like a relaxing stint at the sauna compared to what we encounter most week days.

After we spent a good twenty minutes planning our outfits and what to have for our final lunch (curried butternut squash soup with crème fraiche is good, but is it rapture good?), we realized that we probably aren’t in the rapture demographic. I didn’t get so much as an email or a text or Facebook invite about the rapture. I had to learn about it off a billboard. How impersonal!

Yet we saw opportunity, as we do. If we are going to be left behind, at least it will be with all the fun people! And the raptured, being the diligent sorts, will naturally have concerns about their interrupted earthly to-do lists. They probably won’t get properly onboarded for the first week post-rapture due to the sheer volume of the new work force, and they’ll be milling around Heaven, trying to set up their email accounts, while worrying about leaving the kettle on or feeding the fish. That’s where we come in.

For the paltry sum of $10,000, we will ensure care of your past life, such as it was. We can’t put lipstick on a pig, but we’ll shoot for status quo. We’ll putter around in the cinders, making sure your dog is walked and regularly de-wormed (dogs and worms don’t have souls, and thus they are immune to rapture). We’ll take the newspapers off the stoop, stop your mail and cancel cable, and board up windows in case of zombie attacks. We’ll tap our extensive network of alcoholics and vagrants and musicians to edge the lawn and detail the burned husk of your car once a week. We’ll send rapture announcements to all your no-account friends and family left behind, and we’ll keep up with your birthday and Christmas cards list. We’ll even tweet about possible meals you would have consumed, if you still roamed the Godless shell of a planet.

So get those cashier’s checks ready before close of banking hours on Friday. Unless you use Bank of America, and then I am sure they will still be open Saturday. Please note, in the event that the rapture is postponed due to a conflict with common sense, no refunds will be available. For an extra $5,000, we’ll escrow your insurance payment, paying all interest to ourselves, until the date of the actual rapture.

 

Commuted Sentence

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So normally my day goes about like this:

Or maybe like this:

Yeah, so what? I like to change my wigs and underpants frequently. I have what you could call a library. Best practices.

But somehow (giant novelty check) I became bamboozled into working (a job?? I think?) recently. It’s as easy as falling over and getting herpes from a toilet seat. One day you are sitting at home, then the phone rings, and you are all “Yes, that is me, I have a personal internet profile. Oh, what? Work? I guess I can do that thing you claim to need,” and then you have to go meet with a string of people and tailor your personal presentation carefully to each distinct personality vetting you. And you wore the blazer, and that always makes you look smart. Yeah? I know. Really cute. I would hire me.

And then, a few weeks later, I find myself doing this…thing…apparently some people do it every day. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s like a flash mob of otherwise well-intentioned people show up to drive 15 mph for 10 mile stretches at a time. WHAT IS THIS? Normally I am a maximizer and not a satisficer (think of how long it takes me to pick out panties), but when it comes to this vehicular theater, I am middle lane all the way. Screw those guys, with their left lane, and their lane changes, and their oh wait I have to move over again, now back again, oh, exit only lane? Oops! I will pass you anyway. I will bury you. I don’t know who thought up this little charade, but it is not appreciated.

Also, it turns out I am not working for the C.I.A. This is disappointing. Being recruited has really lost its charm now. What am I supposed to do with my wigs? IDK, I am still staring at goats. Here’s hoping. I will vaporize all those cars in front of me.

Think of the children

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As we begin to wake in stadiums overflowing with joyous vomit, let us pause, as soberly as possible, and think of the real victims here. Mariah Carey and Mr. Mariah Carey’s new twins.

These ill-starred children were brought screaming into this world slap dab between Wills and Kate (honeymoon baby anyone??) and the assassination of the world’s craftiest evil doer, the Where’s Waldo of the mujahideen. These children are going to be denied a birth right to Star Magazine covers! Why would we want to see the droppings of a pop star’s womb when we could look at close ups of Pippa’s arse or Photoshopped bullet holes on stock photos of Bin Laden? Eh, babies, we’ve seen one, we’ve seen them all. Even if there are two babies. Still seen ’em. Brangelina pulled that one off years ago.

The sad little urchins were even denied names for days, until finally it was revealed to the world that their crosses to bear until they can legally change their names are: Moroccan and Monroe. I would have gone with Methamphetamine and Methadone. Magneto and Marvel Girl. Mirage and Mandalay Bay. Macbeth and Mophelia. Or perhaps I would have plucked the golden goose of Cannon Cannon and Carey Carey.

But these things are not up to me. If the universe wishes to play a joke, it has proven itself capable time and time again. We live in a time of wonder.

Collective Soul: Vomitola at the bargaining table

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Hello chicken tits, it’s been a few days. We had to spend a bit of time in seclusion after our escape from Promises. Luckily Joe Francis has this primo Mexican compound. Our Lord saw fit to kill his only son so that we might enjoy Easter eggs hollowed out and packed full of blow by the tiny fingers of children.

We also realized that perhaps we could exercise collective bargaining rights to keep our jobs as Vomitola. Then we thought about it after another margarita, and we decided maybe we weren’t really deserving of these rights. What if someone else could use them more? Teachers, firefighters, those sorts of bridge and tunnel folks that make the rockin’ municipal world go ’round. We have everything going for us already! We pay no taxes since we’re a corporation. It wouldn’t be fair to make wealthy conjoined Americans such as ourselves pay taxes twice, so we formed an LLC a while back.

Thus did we officially strip ourselves of the concept of collective bargaining rights and appoint ourselves to our own board. We’re no longer just the presidents and CEOs. Let’s see anyone try a takeover now. Hmmph. Golden parachutes for all two of us! It will be a tandem dive, of course. We will land on Mustique.

I’m not gonna cry. And I’m wavin’ goodbye.

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I will give credit where credit is due. Lambchop was the one who came up with hiding under the pool table in the day room while everyone was absorbed in “Suddenly Susan.” And she busted us out of Promises with nothing more than a plastic bag, some glitter putty, and a “how do you do?”

However, while I reward ingenuity, I also think we need some standards here at Vomitola, some best practices.  Lambchop, what else do you bring to under the table? How are we to move this organization forward? Once upon a time, the user orbited the content, but now the content orbits the user. We’re under the table, but we are the table. We have synergy and mobile applications and Twitter Twits to consider. Are we doing all we can to be Vomitola?

Oh God, I should shut my mouth while the shutting is good. Now we’re going to be forced to fill out peer reviews! As if group therapy wasn’t enervating enough. Lambchop, I promise to be complimentary if you stop trying to insinuate that I am an impostor who is just like the real Licketysplit, but with a terrible case of bacterial vaginosis.