All posts by Licketysplit

you’re not gonna reach my telephone

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After much grumbling, I finally got rid of my 4-year-old phone. It was a great phone. I could drop it, step on it, and get it wet, and it didn’t seem to care. It had a flippy little keyboard so I could text like an old person. It vexed Verizon that I would not upgrade, and that’s always nice, to vex.  But it was time to join the modern world, and it was free to do so, and thus I was tempted. STUPID IDEA, ME.

My new phone has many baffling features like a touch screen that enables me to randomly call people just because I scroll down a page with my hammy little thumbs. Mr. H tells me I need to get apps, apps. Fine, I’ll have the clams casino. Be a love and fetch that. It will only enfatten my thumbs.

The single worst feature, however, is a whole screen devoted to “favorites.” I dutifully stuck a few of my finer human companions in there. But then it occurred to me that there is no delete, so once someone is added, they are a perma-favorite.

What, you never suddenly decide you hate someone? You are never crossed, or even vexed? I want a phone that supports a scorched earth relationship policy in the favorites department. Mr. H suggested that I could delete the entire contact, but where’s the fun in that? I want to leave the object of my scorn in the ol’ memory banks, and change the display name to something embarrassing for when that person calls, crawling back like a worm. Lambchop gave me this idea years ago, and it works a treat!

You should see what YOUR name is in my phone. Haha! We will all laugh together, anal prod.

They’re Smoking Cigars

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Today is the much revered day of Lambchop’s birthday. I cannot be there with her, but I can only hope she is brunching in style and wearing her fanciest socks. May traffic part before her, and may hipsters spontaneously molt their beards at the very sight of her. Is a clean-shaven Brooklyn too much to ask for one special day? Also, there must be dumplings.

She is, after all, the Mary, and don’t let her tell you otherwise!

We all know she is lovely and inspiring, yet she is utterly impossible to shop for (do I get her more wigs? More doll heads? A clipboard? What?). After a few hours of cursing the personal shopper at Saks, I was at loose ends. So I got myself a haircut. It’s the least I can do since she’s the one that has to look at me!

XXOO!!!!!! We and all the other personalities love you, Lambie! What would we do without you?  We miss you, Boddddyyyyyyy!

Silver BALLS

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I have a child I have to keep routinely somewhat entertained so she doesn’t eat my eyes. She used to be a baby, and now she is not, and thus horizons broaden. We just finished painting our own Christmas balls, it’s beginning to look a lot like. Then I read the directions, and it seems I should have had us do this in a well-ventilated area. Oops! No wonder things feel a bit woozy. Well, if it’s the last thing I do, I will post to Vomitola. Viva balls!

Tomorrow is the annual FIESTA DE LAMBCHOP. I am on a major memory lane kick, as is my right when I have 7 years of content in the can, so here are some past ways we have celebrated Lambchop’s birthday.

2003, Huzzah, huzzah!

Unfurl the gossamer banners, and don your t-shirt featuring dogs having a tea party! Pipe lurid pink icing flowers on a solid slab of marzipan, and flood the streets with confetti, for it is Lambchop’s birthday! And not just any birthday, oh no. It is a special number, but I shall leave that for her to reveal in her own good time.

Then we said it with ABBA!

2004, Joyeux anniversaire, Lambchop

Wherein we exploited animal labor. Never work with children or animals. Balls.

I am planning something big for tomorrow. As soon as I plan it. I don’t have time to hop the shuttle to New York for us to get matching tattoos.

Won’t you help me prepare this year’s offering? What word jumps to mind when you think “Lambchop?” If you don’t help, she is getting one of our fresh poison christmas balls.

Now someone is asking me how to work a glue gun. As if I know! ATTACK!

Bats in the belfry

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Someone actually arrived at our site by searching for “what’s good about November.” Well, I swan. Someone also arrived by looking for “anal scrabble,” which is frankly more plausible to me than something being good about November. Here, a proud listing of how much I hate November:

November 2, 2005 ,”This Also Just In”

It’s November, Charlie Brown. Outside forces continue to vex, astound. Inside forces also unfavorable.

October 31, 2007, “Handwashing is Key,” wherein we establish that while October sucks, November is worse.

October is bungled logistics and petty grievances and the horror of taking a shower every day. October secretly arranged to go out to lunch with your Saturn Return and talk about you, and then they strike up a friendship born of shared distaste for you and stay up late on the phone, planning new pranks.

November 1, 2007, Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt

Allrighty, what’s good about November? [ed.- I’ll be darned, we tried!] How psyched are you for November? Guy Fawkes day!!!!!! That is in November. Thanksgiving is in November, and that’s generally fun if you put aside historical context and all. I make a mean quinoa pilaf. Veteran’s Day, well, that could be a downer. Depends on who you ask. Halloween candy on sale? Don’t need that and would not want to catch obesity from looking at it funny either. Christmas decorations will slowly start to become more contextually appropriate. I think we should just neatly excise October and November from the calendar. Halloween can be moved to September, right after my 25th birthday. The Vomitola calendar is awesome. St. Croix’s Day is a real day! So is “everyone’s attractive” day! Except that is not really true. We just pretend and feel better.

November 9, 2007, “That the night come”

Take that, NO!vember. I am going to get on a plane and go somewhere…five to ten degrees warmer than here. Yes, well played, me. Well played! The only catch is that I am going with a ybab, and I have to decide whether to strap her to my back and carry the carseat while carrying the bag on my head, or strap the carseat to my back while dragging her on a leash attached to a cute animal backpack, or perhaps check her at the curb and pay someone to push me along in a Smarte Carte (“we’re the carts at the airport and a whole lot more…” More! I like that. OMINOUS).

Whoa, clearly winter 2007-08 was a rough one. Why didn’t someone just stick me on a treadmill in front of a happy lite watching a DVD of Caribbean waves for the whole month of November? Why don’t gyms have that set-up, anyway? I will do it and make a killing. With optional lead apron rental.

Like a little lamb lead me to the slaughter!

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Oh duckies, it is wet out there! I just swam home, after returning some overdue puppets. These things happen when one is as careless a lunk as I.

I was just at the doctor to find out how never to have any more children, and she had many helpful answers and diagrams. The more you know.

She ran down the usual health questions: “Have you become an alcoholic since I last saw you?” Not for lack of trying, lady.

Then she regaled me with tales of showing up at the crack of dawn to hospital committee meetings and storming out dramatically. I suggested that stress is a killer, and she agreed that she should start crazy pills or risk being non-functional until March. Hey, is this is a HIPAA violation if I’m the one talking about the doctor?

Anyway, we compared happy lites and exercise routines, and she told me about magical $59 fares on Southwest to the Caribbean. All medical professionals should be so helpful! She is going to St. Something in February, the perfect timing for escaping winter, and she mentioned she had no one to go with yet, but she was going anyway, and I almost hopped off the table to volunteer. We could party! We might see Zellweger skulking around. ATTACK!

I buy myself a little time

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Cat with a picture of a cat

It’s cat picture Monday! Piping hot 5-year-old content! But that cat doesn’t look a day over 9 now, so I think she’s holding her own. We do not still have a framed photo of a cat. We don’t even have framed photos of a child. That framing things ship sailed years ago.

It has just come to my attention that it is No!vember, and thus I spent a few contemplative hours under a pile of pillows, trying to replicate that most soothing of feelings: lead apron at the dentist. Every six months, I try to con them out of one, but they won’t fall for it. “Say, this one is looking rather frayed at the hem. Are you sure you aren’t planning to get a new one?”  I can see why they might not jump at the chance. The damn things are over $300! I tried bargaining, “Oh, sure, I’ll come in for a teeth bleaching, if you let me use the apron.”

“But you don’t need it.”

“Yes, I do!”

This might be my idea of heaven: lying there in a tanning bed, wearing a lead apron, while someone rubs my feet. All sensory experiences met! But I am too pale and pre-cancerous to tan, and we can’t have nice things. And I don’t have feet so much as hooves.

But really, sanity and I had a good run if I made it to mid-No!vember without crippling anxiety. You are on your own for the rest of the month. If you think I’m making pumpkin flan for anyone, well, I probably am. I can’t deny anyone the glory of flan. I will rise from my very deathbed for flan.

Healthy Competition

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Dear Steve Strange,

I have recently lost weight due to some heartbreak, but it really seems to be staying off. When the numbers on the scale started to drop, I anticipated all sorts of happiness. But all I got is that my clothes fit me rather unflatteringly. I am afraid to buy new things for a svelte new me, afraid this is just setting myself up for failure. Where is all the joy I was promised if I would Just. Be. Thin.

love,
Sad in a Sack

Well, helloooo there, Sack, I know you were expecting Steve, but I really think he could use a break, don’t you? The man is looking positively haggard. The bags under his eyes remind me of Canal St. Vuittons. No, Coach. I believe this is where the guttersnipes of today say “Snaps.” Or some other spot of nonsense.

Let’s talk about me, since I am already before you, commanding attention, shirtless, taut and iconic. I like to change my look quite a bit, and I will be the first tell you the answer to “when?” is never! Nothing will ever be good enough, so you might as well enjoy your journey. That’s the point of this little teacup ride, right? Have you considered plastic surgery? You get painkillers with that. The room does spin a bit faster post-op.

So what does it really matter: eat up, or not; actually, I never eat. Eating demeans us all. In these times where even I have had to cut back on my sartorial allowance (I have dispensed with shirts in order to remain abreast of trends in fur), you might consider tailoring, and be sure to advise the tailor that you predictably plan to become fat again at some point so he can leave a seam allowance.

Now cheer up, and put down that sandwich!

I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghosts

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It’s starting to get downright creepy around here! I called Lambchop last night, but it seems she is on vacation, so I had to speak with Wern-chop instead. Wern-chop isn’t the greatest listener, I’ll admit. S/he kept saying things like “I see planets that don’t exist and landscapes that have only been dreamed.” I asked her what she thought of these shoes I was thinking of buying, and she said “We are surrounded by worn-out images, and we deserve new ones.” Well, OK, then. So you think I look worn-out!

Then I found out that Wern-chop gets a 401(k). I don’t even have one of those. I decided that this settles it. I am launching my own ghostwriting and living services. I will be you in the ether of the internet. I will update your Facebook status, your Twitter, you Tumblr, and your Friendster, your LinkedIn, your Myspace. Your Plaxo, whatever that is.

See, I am already me in both real life and on the internet, so I have the necessary experience.

I will also answer your emails and formulate responses to the thorniest problems, both existential and otherwise. Perhaps you need a boost at work, or you need to fire a tiresome friend. I will do this and more. If anything backfires, then I will blame your ghostwriter.

Here is a sample faux life experience (this one is free!): you are on vacation. It is very exotic, and everyone is jealous at first. You have just conquered the Khyber Pass. Oh no, now there is a river! It is too deep to ford. One of your oxen has escaped and eaten a village child, and your mother has succumbed to cholera. You don’t have long yourself. I have selected the appropriate victim tribute photo for your Facebook page, and I have applied to have it memorialized.

I am so hired!

What Would Vomitola Do?

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Some of you may be wondering what it’s like to be Vomitola. It’s rigorous, for starters.

The other day I was at Target buying a huge monstrosity pack of toilet paper, and I was feeling rather grumpy about the whole endeavor, but then I realized I was the silly person who insists on dabbling in the work of the normal, and I could have sent my assistant.  Suddenly the whole errand became a lark! How exciting to get out and mingle with the common folk. They’ll go back to their barns and sheds and culverts and hunker down with microwaved meals, but I’ll get to go home and be me! It is not possible to have pleasure without a little suffering, even if the suffering is the exclusive domain of Target shoppers who are not I.

If I keep my sunglasses on, there is a good chance I won’t even get recognized. The perfect crime!

Every morning, I sleep in, and then Mr. H prepares me a cup of coffee. He was supposed to go to Finland this week, and I was already quailing at the prospect of making my own coffee. It is simply impossible. If I didn’t have people, I don’t know what. Well, I would use my natural pluck and intellect and charm to find more people, that’s what.

Still in my dressing gown, I drape myself languidly at my desk, congratulating myself on its understated style. I open iTunes and inevitably blast a little Visage. A rightfully adoring subject gave me one of these babies, so of course I have the highest quality musical experience one can have with a laptop. Top shelf, all the way. I summon my accountants and have them peer into the money bin, and then I reflect on what needs to be accomplished for the day. Then I assign those tasks to other people, although if they don’t want to be fired, they should have already known what they needed to do.

Mr. H is in awe of my wakeless path through the storms of fortune each day, and he consulted me about a work-related matter. Work is such a groggy and distant concept, but I thought I’d humor the little jackanapes. It was cute how he screwed up the courage to ask, and the diamond necklace didn’t hurt either. “Tell me about Steve Strange,” he said. I pointed out that Steve once spent more than £100,000 on drugs in under a year. “Well, that priest on the news the other night spent $4,000 per month on porn,” he offered. Oh, darling. No. That’s a mere $48,000 per annum, and think of the exchange rate! Accountant!

After much discussion and careful consideration, he selected the following for the opening screen of a PowerPoint presentation.

Now he will know what it’s like to triumph. He’ll either be fired or promoted to CEO, no doubt.

So next time you’re in a bind, feel free to ask us how to proceed. If there is anything in life we have in spades, it’s ideas! We are imagineers.