Welcome back, your dreams were your ticket out

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hacked

Whoa, we’ve had lost weekends before, weeks even, but Lambchop and I have never slept through an entire year. What happened to 2013? Did anything important take place at all? Can you honestly recall a single event of note from 2013? I can’t. It’s like it never even happened.

The reason for our absence is a combination of cloak and dagger cyber intrigue and sheer laziness. Some astute Spanish guy took over our WordPress installation, and the hosting company took the site down. That was nice of them. I guess that went to my junk folder. Then it seemed like a lot of work to fix it. And I spent 25% of the year in California, and I had other things to do like Instagram pictures of dogs who are allowed to sit next to me in first class. And my fake Twitter account kept me up nights.

But as luck would have it, I am mid-existential crisis, and Mr. H rightly determined that having this site back up would be a nice distraction from me telling him about my angst.

Questions swirl: Am I ever going to feel like a grownup and not a total imposter? Who is going to fix my manicure and lose this ten pounds for me? Will people stop publishing screenshots of weather apps on social media? Is it possible to cobble together a résumé using only Smiths lyrics?

Over to you, Lambchop!

Apocalypse Nope

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I heard on Facebook that the Mayan apocalypse was supposed to happen at 6:12 a.m., but stilllll waiting. You know what did happen at 6:12? The cat threw up on the iPad. That’s it?

We live in a world where eagles can’t even properly carry off babies. Children don’t know enough to rush a gunman. People know how to comment on the Internet, despite incomplete second grade educations and missing chunks of their cerebral cortex. Matt Lauer still exists.

I, for one, am ready for the end of the world. But we got burned on the Rapture of ’11, so I don’t know. It’s like you just can’t trust prophets of doom anymore. At least we made a killing on Rapture Insurance back then. But I’ll be the first to admit we have not properly monetized this apocalypse.

Since the world did not end, it looks like I will have to go to the gym after all. Dismal.

And you go home, and you cry, and you want to die

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I started a draft for a post with this title last week. And what do you know, it is still timely, a week and a few mass shootings later. Morrissey gets us through.

Let’s chat,  America.  Some of you have strong opinions, and you are making sure people know. What’s been making the rounds among the dullards I am blessed to associate with in some way?

1. No one is entitled to share feelings about a tragedy if you are not directly involved. See also: stop posting depressing stuff, can’t we post positive things for a change? Yes, it is tedious to witness endless expressions of shock and horror. Think how I feel after noticing the changes to the Instagram TOS first, only to have to see it rehashed for a full 24 hours after the fact!

2. This tragedy is an opportunity to experience the true meaning of Christmas – Matt Lauer, noted ghoul.

3. Guns don’t kill people, people kill people! Well, maybe. It does take the magic of the human hand to squeeze a trigger. Issue guns only to the handless! I don’t know, friends, what else are guns good for besides injuring or killing a living creature? Is there a way to use them to scare leaves off your lawn that I am unaware of? Can they be used to hang pictures in a pinch? The only use I could come up with for a gun that did not involve shooting was pistol whipping, but I am a tad creatively blocked.

4. You wouldn’t regulate cars! Oh right.

5. Why is there no armed police detail in front of my child’s school today? Because they are fetching coffee and donuts for the snipers on the guard towers surrounding the soccer field.

6. Teachers should be armed. Ah, but who will protect the students from the tyranny of an armed teacher? The students should also be armed.

7. It’s the crazy people, stupid. Yes, possibly. And we as a nation do not want to give anyone health care that they did not EARN.

8. Laws are useless because people might break them! People are also sheep who occasionally decide it is in their best interest to do things like obey traffic lights. Let’s at least give it a go?

9. Let’s approach this issue rationally. Actually, I did not hear that one.

10. If you can think of a Tumblr title, it’s already been made:
http://whitepeopleloveguns.tumblr.com/

 

Introducing the Clammys

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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!

And the Wiener Is!

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Darlings, don’t you hate it when you are assaulted with accolades just for your amazing talent at being you? It is trying: the endless composing of acceptance speeches, the constant attention to one’s hair, and never being able to take a bathroom break in case you are called to the stage.

I found myself in just such a situation the other night, at a local industry awards show (I am a hobby industrialist), replete with a resigned 3-piece cover band, an ersatz Seacrest emcee, and hoards of other people actually taking the whole thing seriously. Did they forget about how they entered their work themselves? And how nearly everyone in Boston is on the judging panel? Only to end up surprised, like “Who, me? Nominated? What an honor!”

I tuned out after I found but a single drink ticket shoved in my badge. Then what do you know, my faction won the first award of the night. Then most of the rest of them. Ryan Notcrest began to make fun of us. I guess if you’re going to rig it, at least make it look believable. Right, Obama?? I had second-hand embarrassment at various points seeing how excited people were to win these things. It’s not that the work was not snazzy, but isn’t it existentially troubling to get a charge out of something that is Not a Big Deal?

Apparently everyone with an ironic mustache and all the rest of America disagrees, so who are we to argue! We are pleased to announce we’ll be hosting The Clammies, the first ever annual or whenever Vomitola awards show.  I have a turkey to brine, however one does that, or I’d go ahead and Photoshop up a cute icon. We aren’t sure what we’ll be evaluating for excellence, or what the judging criteria might be, so do sling some suggestions our way. Best Use of Stolen Cell Phone Footage in a Blackmail Situation? Most Undeserved Success Story? Most Astonishing Photobomb by a Sandwich?

Does it really matter? Just know that we are tastemakers to the last. Deep down, no one wants to be but a background player.

The Difference in Good and Bad

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Pictured: at left, moi. At right, Lambchop.

Oh, I kid, I kid! But this reminds me, someone is having a birthday soon. What to get her this year, besides my customary boudoir photo set? I wonder if she needs any new housewares for her chamber of horrors? The one month anniversary is the corkscrew anniversary. I think we can officially say the horrors are no longer makeshift.

If Lindsay Lohan were my friend, I would be the pal who knows what she really could use: a jug of baby urine, for surprise drug tests. We would probably eat prescription drugs like Skittles and get in a slap fight. Come to think of it, this is actually similar to many of my most prized relationships. Call me, girl. I am also good at credible court testimony and impromptu eulogies.

I am noticing a very real national epidemic: people have no idea that they do not know everything. The Dunning-Kruger effect has swept the population, leading to pitiful displays of assumed prowess and total lack of awareness of failure. This issue directly relates to the complete inability to distinguish good from bad. Some people are so quality blind that even when presented with a dire test case, like our Lohan diptych, they still may not be able to discern which Lindsay is the complete trainwreck. You could always argue both of them, as one harbors deep-seated intentions to become a trainwreck. Pre-crime.

How can you avoid falling on your face in public? Well, you probably can’t. That’s the good news. You just have to accept that in all certainty, you will fail, and you should accept the counsel of your betters, if you can even tell who those are. Knowing you may fail is liberating. Assuming you will not and then not recognizing when you have actually must be pretty peachy too, judging from the affable countenances of many I encounter on the regular. If you are not horrified most of the time, you’re probably doing it wrong.

Happy Friday! No, it’s Fuck You Friday!

The Personal Pan Pizza is Political

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I’m just kicking it, my little nacho baskets. This poor draft has been sitting on the steam table all day, seasoned only with a title and this image of American womanhood. Just know that you can peel that skin right off the top of the post, and it’s still perfectly good! We were talking about politics.  To recap, recent developments were the fault of the sluts and the dark skinned folk and the Spanglish. Ancient story. This is what happened in the Garden of Eden, right? So we got a hurricane and a Socialist presidential election and a Bieber breakup, and won’t anyone be civil anymore? I know you’re disappointed, but please continue to remember your eyebrow maintenance obligations. I’m looking at you, Oklahoma. In actual news, more enemies have been vanquished. I wish it, and it is so. I am a lucky lady, in spite of being a slut. Or is that what gives me my powers? We will never know, until we perform a controlled experiment. Is it too soon to have pretzels for dinner?

It Was All Our Fault

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Obama’s reelection may not have renewed my spirit, but looking at pictures of all those sad white republicans did give me fresh life and vigor.  But it could not last.  Boredom will set in, that even the pruniest scowl of an entitled christian xenophobe cannot whisk away.

I did come across some good news today.  Apparently, after a full 24 hours of soul searching by the Republican Party, they have determined the culprit for their losses.  If you think they are realizing that a pro-rape stance is not a winning position for today’s congress, you underestimate the clever little buggers.  No, no, they have discovered our trump card.  The SLUT VOTE.

The jig is up, hoes.  But I am proud of us.  Who knew that our hem hitchin’, scabby knee’d ways could coalesce into functional representation?  Surely those cash prize abortions will be released in different flavors now.  I have a real thing for marzipan.

No wonder I feel blasé.  Now that sluts have put their man in the ovum office, what is left to do? Please feel free to tell us, because that is the way we like it best.

Shiny Balloons for America

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In lieu of a humorous photo to accompany this post, I will inform you that if you google “vulgar balloon”, you will get photos of Kathy Griffin.  Google, I am impressed, as that really seems like something approaching wit.

Oh lookee, we are having a parade!  Everyone is so excited, so absolutely cornholed that Barack Obama has been re-elected President.  I am with you thus far, Americans.  I value my crotch agency and my Obamacare as much as the slattern on the next corner.  But let us not get all dewy-eyed.  After all, it is not 2008. And unless you are some John Deere driving pork belly with a bowling ball for a head who thinks “civil liberties” is some far left concept, it should mean something to you that our current administration has made Anthony Romero, director of the ACLU, weep with disgust.

You don’t want to hear about torture and rendition, indefinite detention, and setting infants on fire by remote control, awash as you are in the candy-like warm fuzzies of our cool b-ball twirling prezzo.  You are all going to blaze one and get gay married and that is just swell.

But I do hate to see everyone so happy, on general principle.  Take just a wee second from your hooting and your tweeting over the gloriousness of Obama to recall that we live in a rapidly militarizing state of constant war.  You deserve your parade for not electing a complete charlatan of a corporate raider into the White House.  But please notice that it is still raining.

 

 

The November Man

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This just in! VNN (Vomitola News Network) calls the election for Barry O’Bama. Paddy Power  always believed! And if it floats in South Park, it must be true. They’re in a swing state, after all.

O’Bama was buoyed by a last minute revelation wherein he held a fireside chat and came out to America as Irish. America was so glad he did not say Kenya that they cancelled the election halfway through the day. If you’re already the President, just stay in line!

All the signs were there.

You see, money is green, and so are aliens and leprechauns. In other news, Massachusetts is fine with medical marijuana now, and I happen to have a hideous case of terminal anxiety. Stupid Massachusetts then failed to allow me to kill myself via Question 2, so the only option left is more green.

Money, that is. I am reclining on a tuffet of money, enrobed in a dressing gown of stitched together money. The gown was sewn especially for me by clumps of money that I animated by magic, Fantasia style.

I have my money specially printed. It is made from silk extruded by worms of the finest pedigree. I have Lambchop’s picture on one side, and mine on the other. Thank goodness the poors have not yet rioted and upset my extraordinarily polite silk worms or my other horticultural projects.

What were we talking about again?