All posts by Lambchop

We’re NO. 1 at Snuffing Enemy No. 1!

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Leave it to Vomitola to be on the cutting edge of pretty much everything. Weren’t we just talking about the need for a new arch-nemesis? Ol’ Barry O “Bam Bam” can never stand to be long outdone by us, so he rid the country of its top cartoon villain. Well hoo de hoo. I guess nothing bad will ever happen again and I can start wearing thigh high lace ups to the airport, their spiny heels filled with secret hooch, and still retain my dignity. Just joshing, kids, the War On Terror will continue unabated. If anything, with greater drooling enthusiasm than we have seen in quite some time. PHEW. Now all we need is a new Dr. of Evil, preferably one with an unusual moustache. Perhaps now that John Galliano is out of a job…

If I can cease my hysterics at the contemplation of Galliano in full spangly faux military regalia, leading the chants of “death to America”, I will conclude with a LIST:

Top Ten Things People Are Saying About the Death of Bin Laden

1. Why didn’t they look him up on Google maps sooner?
2. “I am MAYOR of his mansion!”
3. Must retire the phrase “..then the terrorists have won.”
4. He was not so much killed as written out of the script
5. Barry Bounce!
6. Say Hi To Hitler, the new broadway musical
7. A sad, abrupt finish to Will & Kate coverage
8. Maybe we shouldn’t be waving flags in the street becasue someone is dead, lest we be confused with religious extremists, a.k.a. what Crazypants “lefty” McLamesauce would say
9. Trump Truce Offered!
10. He was the last one, right?

Baby, it Ain’t Paris

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Remind me, why in the hoarhound did I book this vacation?!? First, I was separated from my Mary, and she had all the nips in her purse. So I made sure to tell the concierge that I absolutely cannot make it through a day without a gin and tonic or three. He nodded so sympathetically and then what do you think? If you said “began slicing the limes,” you would be wrong! I can tell you I caused quite a flap, so they put me in a room for hardcore deniers. Spending a day alone in stir with Billy Joel was not on my bucket list, thank you very much. Thank heaven for George Michael, that dirty old queen. His face may be tighter than his ass, but he passed me notes on rolling papers to pass the time.

I bet Licketysplit is having all the fun, making sock monkeys with Mickey Rourke and dropping lima beans in Kiefer Sutherland’s milk. She is a party all by herself.

I had just about given myself up for a goner, when I realized the door was not actually locked. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen. The dishwashers always know how to have a good time.

To Pose or be Deposed?

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That is the question!  Word has traveled abroad that the creatives at House of Vomitola are “dehydrated” and “suffering from exhaustion.”  These are terrible problems that all beautiful people seem to face.  What is it about the lack of sleep and enough Fiji water that makes one curl into a ball, weeping and motionless apart from occasionally putting one’s fist out for more klonipin?  Perhaps it is the crown what makes the head too heavy to lift. 

But Vomitola can’t be fired from Vomitola.  Over our bewigged and botoxed bodies!  They cannot take away our shiny keys to the executive lav!  I cannot use a toilet that does not feature the voice of Stephen Frye, telling me I am brilliant as my fanny is spritzed lightly with rosewater.  Surely we can offer our most insincere of mea culpas to our public, throw a really nice party, and we’ll be back to eating mini bruschetta off of a jewel encrusted sea turtle in no time.  What?  We have to go to Promises?  But we don’t believe in those.  But we must.  I hope there aren’t any Disney stars there right now, I would hate to have to beat any plump lipped tweens on my very first day at a new resort.  Hate is such a strong word, isn’t it?

Well, I suppose we must get to packing.  I go nowhere without bath salts, my ermine underwear, and my poor Pomeranian, Ernest, who had to be stuffed because he really just would not shut up.  Promises, promises!

Hoo Dilly

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I had a rough start to my day when a bus cut me off, tried to run me off the road.  I backed up and tried to pass it on the left while it stopped for passengers, but then it came at me from the other direction, pushing me into an SUV.  I kinda had that star wars trapped-in-the-trash-compactor-seconds-from-the-crunching-of-bones feeling for a second there.  While that may seem pretty cool, I was surprised to find it was not. 

And it is (waah waaah) too cold and blustery and my dress is too tight and if you reeeeeally loved me…

In the interest of balance, this day has not been all bad.  It has not completely sucked the sheen from my grill.  Spicy tofu and eggplant for lunch, mighty fine.  And then I had to say “Adcocks” a bunch of times, because it is someone’s surname.  And that was pretty great.  Adcocks!  But then, Lo!  I came across Junderwear.  Brief jegging underwear for men and their dongles.

Hello, my name is Junderwear Adcocks, and my life is a pointless shell.  I inhabit a lonely cubicle,  my only source of adult converse being an automaton to remark on the weather or the relative position of the present moment to Saturday.  Beneath this frustrated husk beats the furious heart of an artist whose gentles are firm in the grip of Junderwear!

What more horror may be in store if I stubbornly insist on remaining awake?  Please try and keep your teeth in your jaw, and your dangles in your jundies and I will inform you in all haste.

Assessment Appraisal

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I completed my self-assessment.  Turns out I am awesome.  And I should be given plenty of moneys for unspecified purposes.  Dig your claws deeply into your armchair and wait and see how this turns out.  How did I calculate my raddness to a precise degree?  Using the scientific method, of course!

  • Ask a Question.  This part was easy.  Just how awesome is Lambchop?  Only a very little, like finding a really good skipping pebble?  Or a whole damn lot, like a really good burrito?!
  • Do Background Research.  I polled many of you on this question.  And I found the results to be rather skewed depending on the participant’s love of burritos.  Hrmm… 
  • Construct a Hypothesis.  Lambchop is not awesome, so much as super amazing.  Unless you don’t care for mexican food.  Then Lambchop might be the closest thing to awesome.  Please exclude things like contemplating the cosmos or the grand canyon.
  • Test Your Hypothesis by Doing an Experiment.  Obviously it was necessary for me to try and sleep with a lot of people, even though they were extremely hungry.  I have an excellent record on that, and that is all I am going to say about it.
  • Analyze Your Data and Draw a Conclusion.  Being way too lazy for charts and graphs, I settled for a rather raunchy doodle on the side of my desk blotter, which I would share with you, but I dribbled coffee on it.  All things considered (apart from our glorious cosmos), I am Awesome.
  • Communicate Your Results.  You are looking at it, bub!

    • Self Assessment

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    The devil has finally found the perfect instrument to torture me.  He tested me with those toe gloves, with phone calls to Verizon, and with the music of Katy Perry.  I may cringe, devil, but you cannot best a hardy thrillseeker like me with such paltry devices. 

    And then I was given a “self-assessment” to complete at work.  It is not like a self-exam where you can just *not* do it and say you did (sorry, doc!).  No, no.  It is a series of fire-ringed hoops to jump through in the hopes of landing in a pile of money at year end review.  Not really a pile so much as a a thin bit of tissue to keep you from scraping your bottom.   I am not new to the concept, however at my current firm, it is quite the fucking doozy.   The questions are lengthy and sound like something that can only be answered after a 3 day seminar in “teambuilding”.  I thought this kind of shit only existed in the world of Steve Carrell and John C. Reilly.  I read, laboriously, over the half dozen items.  I cried a little inside and put it away.  Over the next days I periodically thought, sweatingly, of the paper in my bag.  I wondered how the fuck I am supposed to talk about my ownership of processes and my business contributions.  Remember when it used to be enough if you would show up not smelling too drunk? 

    It’s a brave new world.  Time to justify my love.  Time to self-assess.  If only Katy would write a song about it.

    Whist in the mist

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    This is what the world looked like today from atop my three speed this morning.  Just to add to the sepia-toned feeling of crossing the bridge in the fog, I passed a man on a bicycle weaving up the incline in a newsboy cap, pinstriped knickers and jacket.  Smoking a cigarette. Must have lungs of iron.  Or will have.  Wackity shmackity doo!

    I have received a couple letters.  The major gift givers seem disinclined to favor me this year with any giant novelty checks.  Chagrin!  Damn their calfskin boots and their facial fillers!  I hold out hope that a huge pot of money will fall on my head from the sky.  Oprah says I deserve it!  What?  She said that to you, too?  Despite the hairstyle which adorns your head like a blown out moccasin??? Oh, those are also still *IN* you say.  I went to see my style consigliere this weekend, and am assured that my destiny is well in hand.  Or perhaps trodden underfoot.  I wasn’t really listening.

    The next weeks stretch out in front of me like a mouthful of gummi worms.  Work, work, new IUD.  Mildly pleasing, relatively inoffensive.  I have been reading that it is destructive to wonder if one’s life is “good enough”.  Good enough for what?  If you are reading this, let’s face it, your life is good.  At least one of your eyeballs is in your head and you obviously have an excellent vocabulary.  Send the rest of your complaints where they belong, to be muffled in the fog.

    Finally!

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    Speaking of maypoles of questionable lust, you have suffered and waited long enough. The Miley Cyrus sex doll has finally gone from a draftman’s sharpened stub of pencil, to a mold in China, to your greedy paws.  It’s the Finally Miley!  We have come a long way since the Olsen twin “are they legal yet?” countdown.

    Now instead of the pointless fantasy that any of our nations losers will actually get to have sex with creepy child stars, we can just plug away at her synthetic counterpart. The nation has seen itself in the mirror, and is cutting its losses. Hope it won’t turn out to be too achey or breaky, or your money back!

    Just in time to wonder what this little lady is up to:

    Honey I’m Home

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    Hey there Vomkiteers!  I am back from my vacation to the bottom.  How was it down there?  Pretty bottomish.  Maybe not in the cellar of the Rock Bottom Inn, but in the garrett upstairs, mooning out of the window and getting crapped on by deformed squabs.  But that was yesterday and fortunately not only is today, today, but we are blessed with terrible recall.  Every day presents the chance to crawl up amnesiac from the bottom and emerge dumbly resplendent, at the very least to comb one’s hair, go to the corner store for a cup of noodles,  and possibly repeat one’s errors by nightfall.  Not that I ever make any…who remembers?

    With such delightful white noise to keep me company, I have been very busy in the studio.  Working on some small things in the hopes of making a few sheckels next time out. 

    My tattoo guy finally called back, left me a message.  Not only is he alive (hurrah!), but he is back in New York.  I am afraid to call him back, though.  Because  it means I will end up back on his table.  I miss it.  Just laying there in his studio while he holds me down with great strength in one hand and pricks my skin for a couple hours without even talking.  Don’t get me wrong, I want to go back to his table.  I thought I would set aside some money for it, and I didn’t.  Instead I frittered it away on prosecco and a 4G.  I do so love to fritter. 

    Oh the mental insanity!  I entered my kitchen at midnight to get a glass of water a couple days ago and was greeted by a creature from Naked Lunch.

    I have never seen a live waterbug (aka Really Big Cockroach) before.  I have only spied their carcasses in old factory buildings or alleyways.  Places my palm pilot warned me were unsavory.  And here I was in my own tidy kitchen, with the hellish spawn of Madagascar on my counter, its 2 inch antenna waving lazily in my direction.  I felt it sense me, we had communication.  I screamed, what do you think?  It scuttled a few inches, the merest gesture of retreat.  Once the initial spasm of terror was over, I realized I had to kill the beast.  But these giant things are notoriously tough.  You definitely don’t want to smoosh it with your hand or foot, for fear of the mental imprint of its crushed exoskeleton remaining forever in your central nervous system.  I opted to paddle it out of existence with a wooden cutting board.  And don’t you know that press it though I did, it did not go gentle.  It took many, many minutes before I finally heard a loud POP of its horrible shell cracking.  Nature, as if I were not proof enough, you are loathsome.