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.

Not Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven

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Only four more days until the Rapture and we are pretty stymied about what to do with the rest of the time.  To be sure, our “To Do” lists are as crammed and full of squiggles as ever.  But do I really need to rotate my wardrobe when there are only 4 days left of spring? Surely, closet space will be plentiful with so many of you vacating to the clouds or being eaten by radioactive mutants. 

Like most things in life, I find myself getting excited but then ultimately bored and depressed by the prospect of the world coming to an end.  It is a joy to think of not having to show up to work on Monday, perhaps to spend the day armoring a stolen car or working on a painting.  No longer will I have to listen to your children whine at breakfast at the cafe, while you indulge their wretchedness to a faulty degree.  But I know that something will come along and ruin it for me.  Like Burgess Meredith in the Twilight Zone, I will trip and shred the last remaining pair of David Bowie’s pants, left on this rock beneath the unbearable sun without Pants*, forever!  The giddy excesses of the post-Rapture world, the murderous looting will subside and I will still be required to do paperwork.  Ho Hum.

And yet I do not envy those who will be Rapturing on up to Heaven.  The idea does not appeal at all,  for infinite reasons.  But need I say more than:  Christian Rock Music.  Seventh Day Slumber anyone?  No, thanks. 

But I have to hand it to my better half, the Rapture Insurance business is booming.  We are going to make a vacation yurt thatched entirely out of money.  Obscene displays of wealth will have to be managed quickly.  What if they are simply not meaningful in our end time aftermath?  Who could have foreseen that our already vague and listless existences might yet become *more* meaningless?  Oh now you see why it is all so dull to contemplate.  I had better get back to my finest mixtape yet, “Goodbye to the Human Race”. 

*Not just any pants, but very sexy pants. 

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.

 

Illuminated Sausage

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Once in a while someone stirs me from my vacuum of discontent to write me, diagnosis mentioning something they read here. And I am reminded that I have a job to do! To inform the people that things are annoying and not arranged for our pleasure or convenience. Why should I suffer alone?

To wit, advice I wish to share with you how Vomitola sausage gets made (and purged!):

1. We awaken, cialis cursing the day we were born. This is exactly the inspiration upon which House of Vomitola is built.
2. We endure packs of humans in a transit or traffic situation. Further indignities are suffered in a cubicle.
3. We review the news of all the foolish things many of you are up to, especially the really wealthy and good looking among you. Your folly is the savoriest.
4. We locate pictures of Morrissey looking properly disdainful.
5. We paste our faces onto things.

Somewhere in there we might actually write something. But it is usually while at lunch, loading my face with brioche and scrawling a few words over a sign about diversity thoughtfully placed on the table. You see, the creative process is a mysterious sacrament that can barely be understood by mortals who do not dare to unpack social conventions and hemlines the way we do.  Just ask Gaga!*  It is a tremendously lonely enterprise to be so right about everything.

Take a moment today to appreciate the artist in your life who at this very moment is steeping in loathing and ingratitude.  They will not thank you, but you will have done your part.  We each have our mission.

*If you have not had a chance today to get properly annoyed, I mean really aggravated about something, I suggest you read the article in its entirety, there is a link to it in the post.

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.

Heaven is (not) Real

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Ever heard of Colton Burpo? If you can forget his unfortunate moniker, there is another reason to dislike the chubby little tyke. He had one of those near death hallucinations on the operating table. An extremely magical tale of white light and a visit with a miscarried sister (eww) which his minister father turned into a book, which is now being made into a film, called Heaven is For Real. If you can banish the image of a mewling fetus that wants to hug you, REJOICE for, according to Master Burpo, there is also a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus waiting in that snuggle queue! Well, thank fuck, li’l Burpo, because I thought my heathen ass was grass. Actually, I thought my ass was gonna be Satan’s personal little golf green.

We have written about our trips to Heaven in this very space, and you don’t see us making a poxy film about it! Heaven was a bonified snooze. Heaven is a lot of things, but the one thing it most certainly isn’t is REAL. Someone break it to wee, little Burpo, your dad is just an asshole. Of course the most irritating thing about the whole sorry business is that no one ever offers to pair MY ideas with a craft services table. I want advances, Malibu homes with saltwater pools and sexually voracious nannies. And you won’t even have to accept Zac Efron as Jesus*, your lord and personal celluloid savior, in the process!

*credit for that particular casting decision goes to Gawker’s angry Richard Lawson.

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.

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?

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.