Tag Archives: celebrity!

A flashlight, a map, and a trusted Indian guide

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The parasite has decided to turn sideways again. This means I am supposed to hang upside down like a bat to encourage her to do the same. Seems contradictory to gravity, but so far it’s shoved her “this end up” a few times. She likes to torment by hanging out in the perfect position for weeks, then turning. For the uninitiated in the ways of parasitism: sideways means “can’t get theyah from heyah.” I would really prefer not to cap off nine months of existential panic with major surgery after all that planning on extruding her into a comfortable hot tub at my house.

In the natural birth world, any deviation from normal = It Must Be the Mother’s Fault. Surely I have been thinking bad thoughts or sitting wrong or not Trusting My Baby, Trusting My Body. In the medical world, any deviation from normal = There, There, Dear, a Doctor Can Fix This, Lie Back and Think of England. Can’t fucking win, as each option is equally insulting. Gonna move to that cave.

Maybe she flipped overnight because we watched that wicked traumatic “Grey’s Anatomy” episode last night that left both Mr. H and I weeping when the pregnant lady died on the operating table after a car accident. That lady’s baby came out early, and “didn’t look so good,” so clearly my parasite is digging in sideways and holding on until it’s really time. Yes, I know TV is for shit.

Or maybe she’s traumatized because yesterday we learned how to prevent choking by whacking a plastic infant on the back. I think I’ll just never allow her anything but a liquid diet. Hey, it works for Kirstie Alley. OK, I promise we won’t whack you on the back, you little potato. It’s not for sport. You’re not about to be born into “The Most Dangerous Game” or anything. Honest. Just try ass-end up for a while. It works so well for Carmen Electra.

You want to know about the billboard

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There are two churchs down the road that out-sloganeer each other each week. The one closest to the house says something like “Let your inner good show on the outside.” Of course I think of how the entrails of some of the Habsburg emperors were buried outside of their bodies. Or good old Saint Erasmus.

But mainly I think of how butt ugly the parasite is making me. In theory, I have the goodness of innocent infant blood inside (a prized beauty treatment for stars like Dick Cheney and Nicolette Sheridan), but the outside? Not so good. Little Davidette is giving mommy a lackluster mane and tail. Combine this with a minor illness, and I look like a zombie. A zombie with pants that can’t stay up properly because the zombie is not big enough for fat pants, but too small for her regular pants. I lurched into the car fixing place this morning and rattled “Change oil! Brains!” Then I just huddled on the floor by the counter, hissing at people until someone had to put on gloves and drag me to the customer lounge.

While in the lounge, I ate someone for starting a cell phone conversation about how annoying it was to wait in a waiting room. Survival of the fittest. This someone was even uglier than me, if that’s possible.

Stereotyping

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I do not like living up to the Vomitola name, I’ve decided. Whoever is holding the voodoo doll this week decided to add some actual vomitola to my bird flu. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your eyeballs shooting out of your nose at the same time as your stomach lining. That’s how I spent my Tuesday. What did you do, Bono?

On the plus side, if not for lying on the coach moaning and watching Entertainment Tonight, I never would have found out about this: Hilton leaves Renee Zellweger naked!

Now it’s really Friday, not Thursday’s make-up day

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Ah, Friday. I don’t have to do any work tomorrow. Except for oh crap. Crap. I have to go to a birthday party, which means I will wrap up some item I find in the back of the closet. Here, have one shoe. You’ll love it. It makes you look like you have more legs.

This morning Mr. H and I went and tortured the parasite with an ultrasound machine. I mean we treated it hospitably, as a guest of the US government. Verdict: parasites do not like being mashed and otherwise bullied with sound waves. It has quite the impressive brain, though. Takes after me. I also spotted the reproductive organs, and if I were a proper internet parent, I’d post a photo with an MS Paint arrow pointing to it, along with the caption “Money Shot!!!!!” Yes, this is done on the internets. I have seen it. People who do this also tend to have lots of blinkies festooning their personal internet homepages.

Later, I had a phone call with someone with a suave British accent. I wish I could only have calls with people with suave accents. I could just lie on the floor and pretend David Bowie is calling to ask me about my interactive vision. Except David Bowie would have even better manners than that. He’d start by inquiring after my health, and then he’d move on to a thoughtful compliment. Some pig!

OMGZ

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I totally blew off Content Challenge yesterday. I just somehow skipped Thursday. I woke up, and it was Friday. Who knew? OK, that is lie. Actually, I got quick-onset obesity, and I couldn’t get off the couch. That is also sort of a lie, but far closer to the truth. Oh, as if you did anything that great on Thursday. Who are you, Bono? Angelina Jolie?

Inter oves locum praesta, Et ab haedis me sequestra

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I’ve had lines from Mozart’s requiem knocking around in my head for the last few days, all sung jovially in the voice of my father. Confutatis maledictis? A mere sunny walk in the park, that man would have us believe. This morning Salon featured a review of a new book about Mozart and mentioned it is the 250th anniversary of Mozart’s death. How could I forget? My father uses 1756 for all possible passwords. It would be his ATM code, if he and my mother trusted ATMs. They feel it is safer to go to the bank and extract large sums of cash every few weeks. Then they conceal these sums of cash around the house to foil any thuggery.

My father used to tell my sister and I stories he made up about Mozart’s life as a child. Instead of the knuckle rapping and poor hygiene that probably went on, his stories involved shenanigans and overturned chicken coops*. Mozart had a friend/nemesis named “Fatsy Patsy Potzengriller.” I will always remember this and no actual facts about Mozart, despite being forced to listen to audio cassettes about the lives of the great composers on car rides. I vaguely remember that Schumann was my favorite subject because he went mad and flung himself into the Rhine. Oh Jesu Christe, anything but Berlioz, please. No follow through!

It’s time for second lunch. Ingemisco tamquam reus.

*It is possible I am actually thinking of Looney Tunes.

A time for consideration, horse sex

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Was it wise to start Content Challenge right before a weekend?

No, says Zellweger. Oh no you di’n’t.

Thanks to everyone who’s been clicking on ads. I’d click for you, you bastards. I also click on that dancing monkey to see if I can hit it with a banana. No rilly, so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the AdSense payoff. It’s an experiment. I am so pleased that I may make Content Challenge coincide with the return of Anal Sex Month to reward you all. This Editor & Publisher article handily uses the phrase “No. 1 finisher” in a story about lethal horse anal sex. People just cannot get enough horse sex. Horse sex: less scary and appalling than spreading freedom?

Also, I got a quasi-spelled email from the condo mgmt. people about “unclogging the chute” that I could excerpt to comedic effect, but I must retain some shred of privacy.

The following people have foolishly committed to joining Content Challenge:
The Biscuit Report – now with more impeachment!

Moose and Squirrel – writes better than me because she takes the bus

Kimbot – apparently she was gone, and now she’s back

It rubs the lotion on its skin

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Yesterday the parasite and I took a voyage au train. The parasite has been hanging around making me ill for weeks, and now it has started speaking to me. Perfectly logical, I suppose. Stockholm Syndrome.

It told me that this girl sitting in front of us looked like Soccah Stah Mia Hamm, wife of Nomah. And she sort of did, except she was wearing fake Vuitton sunglasses and a blazer that appeared to come from Sears. Then Mia Hamm put on headphones, and the parasite and I recoiled at the sound of tinny audible fiddle music.

At the parasite’s behest, I took my gum out and stuck it on her headrest. She leaned back to enjoy her fiddle, and I popped an Altoid in my mouth in case my minty breath should implicate me when she discovered the gum. “Dirty deeds done dirt cheap,” crooned the parasite. I became excited because it’s so hard to find a reliable dirty deed provider in the first place. Maybe the parasite isn’t so bad. We could achieve symbiosis instead of a host/guest relationship. I am not about to put out soap shaped like seashells. Or fancy towels. No suh.

Although it did encourage me to vomit on Mia Hamm as well. I bribed it with a granola bar and the promise of leftover risotto, and it took its patter of villainous invective down to a dull mutter during my meetings. I’m still not above making an appointment with Science to have it removed if it doesn’t straighten up.

Oh, internets, I can’t stay mad at you!

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I want to get on with my life, I rilly rilly do, but how can I when there is breaking Zellweger news? It’s bad enough that Britney’s heartburn and upset stomach turned out to be pregnancy. I think Preston is a great name for a baby. This name is shared by the chicken farmer who lived down the road from me during my childhood.

La Zell has split up with the man who brought us songs like “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”  I don’t like to make fun of adults with good intentions who made decisions they now regret, unless they are a part of FEMA. I make terrible decisions all the time. Just ask me how!

In other news, did anyone catch that last issue of BusinessWeek? Woo fucking boy. The “Sleepless Nights” infographic is amazing.

I’m thinking for my next life, I will buy Videodiarrhea.com and just show a web cam day of me doing something boring around the house. Watch me order Tamiflu online. Watch me practice huddling under my desk. Watch me flirt shamelessly with the DHL guy. This will expose the crushing pointlessness of blogs and modern life, and maybe make me some money if I take my top off every hour on the hour.