Times have been trying of late.  We have had weather.  Our hairdos and our hauteur have suffered the indignities of moisture and outfits comprised mainly of padding.  Despite this chaos, people desire appointments and apostrophes continue to be errant.  Is this to be borne?!?  Not without some casual, festive raging.  Our favorite cartoon cat knew what it was all about.

Yes, it’s Fuck You Friday.  So, no, I will not send out an email when I want to use the bathroom, to ensure that phones are answered.   And ho, man who slammed me in the shins with a heavy parcel as you tore through the underground passage, not bothered to cast a glance when you struck me:  your time is valuable!  I have one message for you, and that is Fuck You.

A very, very special Fuck You to US Airways, on behalf of my Mary.  You know what you did.

It feels good to Fuck You.  My heart grows light as a feather!  Who else deserves a rich helping of Fuck You?

1.  Anyone who says, “ok, this is going to feel cold.”
2. Clocks.  Always running too slow or too fast, never just right.
3. People who advise you to do things they would never, ever do themselves.  Oh, hell no!
4. The crick in my neck, courtesy of the Newark Hilton.
5. Lima Beans, constant loiterers on my plate throughout my childhood, bringing only misery.  I will never forgive you for tasting like that.

At least we can always go back to Rebecca Black, to remember that it IS Friday, at least.  And that it is very important to deliberate carefully on choice of seating.

A celebrity died this week, of natural celebrity causes.  You probably heard all about it.  No, it wasn’t Puck from the Real World, although that guy really had it comin’.  Anyway, a few days have passed and I feel it is safe to once again resume talking about myself.  I know, I know, there is NOTHING you can’t make about YOU, if you really put your mind to it.  I could have talked about how the guy who used to ring me up at Campus Convenience resembled the dead actor.  I could wistfully recall how many times in the past I had thought that.  And how I won’t find myself thinking it any more,  not without a sense of something having been taken from me. That’s so tragic!

At least his memorial contained some crudite, by the look of it.  Being deceased is no reason to neglect your health.

What else can I make about “me”?  Let’s look into social media, shall we?  Food pictures ehhhhhh….baby flinging….some complaining.  That’s too easy.  Whenever anyone complains, there is always someone right there to tell them that *their* troubles are far worse.  That reminds me, I need to update my pity spreadsheet.  It pays to keep track of who has the most “woe is me.”  I would not want to exhaust my compassion with overexertion.  I might have to go to a spa.

The news of the day is not any more helpful.  I click open the NYT and I am confronted with scores of worldly developments, not a one of them mentions me!  In the crushing absence of any kind of validation, how can I be sure I even exist?!?  Why should I read this damn thing at all?  Oh, there is that Mr. Hoffman again, right above the fold.  Still dead, apparently.  Poor fucker.  If I have learned anything binging on countless episodes of Intervention, it’s that you need to accept the amazing gift being given to you today.

I love intervention, the screechy, scabby people plodding along toward their acoustic guitar 90 day wellness. I love the interventionists with their lined faces, droopy moustaches and catch phrases.  “If feeling bad solved anything, it would already be solved.”  After watching 20 episodes in a row, I start to feel I could *be* an interventionist.  “Will you accept this gift today? No, it’s not a METHOVER.  You already had one of those.  As much as we love a pop eyed, knife cheeked weirdo, it is not working for you, hon.  And you need to wear something besides sweatpants.”

I looked into the qualifications of an interventionist.  UGH, cucumber masks won’t cut it.  You have to “go to school” and then be “poorly paid.”  I am already doing that!

Imagine that, free to resume talking about myself, and I found I didn’t really have anything to say!  Nothing left to do but turn off the mind, and enjoy the fine, relaxing musics of the type my granny would have liked.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yrdo8myIcpQ

2013 was a vacuum, sucked into the oblivion of mind numbing cold.  Are we in space?  I see girls bare legged in their crotch skimming skirts against the bone biting winds of 8th Avenue.  It’s a Polar Whoretex!

I have not taken the G train in over a year.  Ridership has plainly doubled.  The neighborhood is POPULAR.  Thanks, Dunham, thanks to your flobby knobs I can suffer hands in my creases for two stops.  A sea of bodies in Manhattan as well.  Do people live in Queens now, too?  As I stepped back to allow a person seated in front of me to stand and exit the train, an appalling human pried her way past me to slither into the seat.  My seat.  Everyone was staring at her, so she hid behind her giant neon-pink telephone.  As I daydreamed about slapping her jaundiced face with my open book, the 90 year old lady seated next to her whispered to me,  “you should have shoved her back.”  Then she said, “don’t get old.  I’m 90, it sucks.”  Goodness, I gasped!  “Goodness had nothing to do with it.” she said. Did I just meet myself on a subway ride from the future? I looked back.  She smiled at me, lipstick unevenly applied.  It WAS me!  I asked me where I was off to.  A bookshop downtown.  I told me I would not mind living in the West Village and she said, “It’s horrible, everything is too old.”  There were so many more things I wanted to ask me.  Can I remember anything for more than a few seconds?  How’s the painting going?  Do I have any dogs?  But I had arrived at my stop.  It was getting a little embarrassing having to speak so loudly on the train, anyway.  I was definitely a little hard of hearing.  I gave me my card and  told me to have a lovely day.  She said “well, it has definitely gotten interesting!”  I agree with myself!

So, to answer your questions, Mary:

1. No, we are never going to feel like a grownup and not a total imposter, but the real you is out there somewhere, cackling and thrusting out a cartoon leg to trip someone horrible.

2. I will lose ten pounds for you, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.  I heard there would be piiiiiiiizza.

3. If people stop publishing screenshots of weather apps on social media, how will I update my spreadsheet on those most deserving of pity?

4. I am a poor, freezingly cold soul, so far from where I intended to go.

EDIT:  I have been getting a lot of emails to congratulate me for my appearance in Louis c.k.’s new little indie film.  Not only do I have a time traveler, I also have a doppelganger.  This latter Heather Morgan is most known for a film called “Bark” in which she stars opposite Vincent D’Onofrio, as a woman who thinks she is a dog.  This is a film I actually rented at a video store in Berlin, took home and watched.  Life abroad is surreal, as you know.  You might discover someone who shares your name, playing a dog.  I *just* vanquished my double in the google search results and now THIS.  Thanks to Louis Cock Krammer I will probably drop down below the country singer and the dominatrix. Again.  Life can be so unfair.

Every venerable institution has an awards program, and Vomitola is no exception, for we are truly unafraid to roll up our sleeves, turn up our dainty noses, and pass judgment just as the lord intended.  So please help yourself to your box wine and your hoarded twinkies.  Go on, you totally deserve it.

The Clammy for the best loser of an American presidential election this year has got to go to Mitt Romney.  Mary disagreed with me, she thinks the award should go to the state of Texas. However in fine Romneyan tradition, 47% of the votes didn’t count, so I carried the day.  Mittens, please enjoy your clammy, especially while your wife is traveling.

What else do we have written on this sodden napkin?  Oh!  Best description for Donald Trump’s hair goes to Penn Gillette for “cotton candy made of piss”.  That is painting with words, sir.  The Clammy for best Robert Smith Nazi hunter goes to Sean Penn, we really could have watched him giggle in face paint all the livelong day. We could not decide what was the best waste of our time, but it might actually be coming up with this list.  Honey Boo Boo was a shoo-in for Best Emerging Clamlet.  Licketysplit wins in the trusted friend category for always showing up at the right time.  With pills. In breaking clam news, Halle Berry must get some kind of award for having two Frenchmen fighting on her lawn.  Best Thing is a tie between spicy dumplings, red pandas, and a suitcase full of money. Taylor Swift gets the Clammy for best recipient of awards.  At that point we stopped writing things down and started fighting over the glitter pen.

Anyhoo, who cares?  The important thing is to see how everyone is dressed at the afterparty.  At the Drafty Clam, of course!