All posts by Licketysplit

Unfuckable Friday

All this talk of ugly people over the past few days has left us with a bad taste. Banana. Blech!

I’m glad we’ve established that ugly people have lives too, and potentially even problems, so let us move on once again to the attractive. We at Vomitola have bagged and tagged our share of the handsome over the years, and we have decided that there are two main attractive male archetypes.

After one particularly lackluster showing back in the 90s, we coined the term “Hoobjoob.”

The sensitivity! The hair! The aimlessness! Ah yes, the Hoobjoob is the bane of the modern woman’s existence. So promising at first, these specimens inevitably disappoint via complete lack of follow through. Maybe you somehow managed to bed one of them, probably by tripping and falling on him. Then the nightmare begins: the rambling texts and gchats and lame Facebook comments, the inability to make actual plans, despite copious amounts of flinchy but ongoing attention. What is this? We start to wonder, is it me? Could I be less than desirable in some way? Why is he not interested in banging, but interested enough to keep pestering me?

A trusty girlfriend can easily provide the answer: “Ah, you’ve got a Hoobjoob on your hands!” And then you can blithely change this person’s name in your phone and never speak of him again. There is no other solution.

If you give us a genius grant, maybe we can actually ascertain the reasons for Hoobjoobery in the modern male. Is it toxic exposure to hair products? A particularly damaging episode of “Full House” viewed in childhood? You thought you were getting John Stamos, but beneath the hair lurks all the social skills of Dave Coulier!

Anyway, we can’t be actually arsed to do this research unless you give us enough money and a dissection kit. If you’ve been Hoobjoobed, move on, guilt free. It’s not you, it’s Hoobjoob.

Coming soon: Part II: The Steele.

Life Is a Problem

Lambchop passionately advocated for respect for the problems of the beautiful yesterday, and while I leaped in the air and applauded, daintily, I felt like there might be even more pathos lurking beneath the surface. Sure, people underestimate just how hard it is to be ravishing, the drudgery and responsibility of showing up each day with one’s DNA assembled just so, but ugly people cannot be without their issues. Or can they? We are not FOX News, so I set out to see the other side.

My first hurdle was finding an ugly person. As a rule, I don’t know any. I wandered around, ransacking supply closets, looking for one hiding. I realized that creative agencies don’t hire ugly people, so I was woofing up the wrong ugly tree. I decided to go under cover in order to attract the right demographic. I put on a Liz Lemon shirt, librarian glasses, and wandered around with unwashed hair and yesterday’s makeup remnants. People kept asking what I’d done with my ‘do, telling me I looked great. This wasn’t working.

So I did what any modern child does and took it to the internet. I present you, Lambchop, with irrefutable evidence that ugly people DO have problems!

All studies begin and end with Wikipedia, so here you go: The World Association of Ugly People “attempts to make society more aware of ugly people’s problems.” More aware. Interesting. They assume we are already at least a smidge aware! Presumptuous.

But I did you even one better than Wikipedia. I Googled! Some social scientist at Tumblr has collected the definitive research on the problems of the ugly. Entitled ugly people problems, this person’s dissertation attempts to prove that ugly people do, in fact, have lives too, and thus problems. If A = B and B = C then A = a wasteland of an existence.

Quod erat demonstrandum.

The Ron Jeremy Moment

A few years ago, I found myself vomiting profusely for reasons unknown but likely related to a child picking up random stuff on the ground and then sticking her fingers in my mouth. It was the kind of endless anguish that left me atoning and bargaining. As I clutched the toilet bowl, heaving, I even tried positive psychology, which shows you how desperate I was.

I realized that while this was bad, it could be worse. Yes, I could be projectile vomiting while being simultaneously fucked in the ass by Ron Jeremy. I don’t know why my mind wandered there, but I actually felt better for a second. Word to the wise: it can *always* be worse.

Then a few months later, I ran across an excerpt from Ron Jeremy’s autobiography. Remind me to save up for the whole enchilada some day, it seems like a thing.

I read in horror, mouth slack, as he spun a yarn about shooting a scene on a boat with a lead actress so seasick that she was leaning over the rail vomiting.

Even Ron found this off-putting, but the show must go on: “If you’ve never had the chance to fuck a woman while she’s vomiting over the side of a ship, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Dreams really do come true. People are professionals. There you have it.

This vomit/fuck scenario became my personal yardstick (har har) for abject terribility. Is it a Ron Jeremy moment? We hope we never find out, but life typically imitates art. Especially today. Once you’ve looked over that rail, where do you go next? Well, according to Ron, back to shore to recover and fake some orgasm reaction shots. I’m still weighing my options.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak

Now that we’re rejecting everything in the material world that is not aesthetically or sensually pleasing, we’re doing a lot of reevaluation around here at House of Vomitola. We cast a critical eye on all aspects of our lives. Do our turbans protect us from the assaults of the workaday world? Are our sunnies shielding us appropriately from the unkempt and otherwise unappealing?

I was personally sent for a tailspin the other day when it turned out you can have good things, but not too much of a good thing. I awoke with the most frightful headache, and careful reflection led me to diagnose myself first with brain cancer, then glamour fatigue, then exhaustion and dehydration. I was getting ready to call the Mayo Clinic when my house cleaner suggested that it might be…a hangover. WHAT?

I stumbled out to meet the day, unclear as to how Champagne Wednesday could be at fault for my condition. How could Armand de Brignac hurt me? I decided to go to work, as it is perfectly acceptable to be useless there. I still work because I need that “me time.” An underling asked why I was cradling my head on a velvet pillow while reclining on my Persian carpet. What was the occasion for the festive indulgence? Well, it was WEDNESDAY. What else does one do?

Vomitola Buys the Farm

Against Lambchop’s bitter protestation, I got a farm on eBay in a fit of tipsy impulse. While I was at it, I got an uninhabited island off the coast of Panama, but I’ll deal with that later. I also considered buying that town from The Hunger Games and filming complicated Twilight fanfic reenactments in it.

So. The farm. It’s…well…farmy. Not what I expected at all. No one showed up to greet me with a cheese plate! The animals smell quite strange. I really did not want to know where filet mignon comes from after all.

Apparently there are people out there in America who can’t have nice things. I was absolutely stricken to find this out. Did you know that to farm, you have to do work? There is dirt. Flies. It’s not all tumbles in the hay loft. And hay is ouchy anyway.

As a result of my little lifestyle experiment, I came to the painful realization that if I can’t have nice things, I don’t want to have any things. If I can’t have bespoke custom measured thousand thread count sheets, spun from 24 carat gold, I don’t want to sleep. If I can’t have European white truffles grated onto my tongue, I don’t want to eat. If I can’t glance at the hour on a Patek Philippe Supercomplication, time should stop.

I think I’m a Buddhist now.

Pointy or Pointless: Is Luxury as Dead as My Ermine Socks?

so soft

I am in such ill spirits today that I actually cursed my chiropractor out of my office.  Then Felipe, my manservant, came by with my artisan volcanic water mister, and I threw a Manolo at him. I missed, so I threw my iPhone with slightly better results. Remind me to cancel my trainer, that was a lot of work.

When Mark Zuckerberg popped up on OneChat (that’s just for us 1%, got to keep the electrons unsullied) and asked if I wanted to catch a ride on his plane to Coachella, all I could do was roll my eyes. I have paddled around in enough infinity pools at sprawling villas for the last month.

I don’t know what it is lately, but I just can’t muster enthusiasm for my normal routine. I could seriously strangle myself with this Hermès desk runner. I am wondering if it’s time to return to my primal roots and buy a rustic little farm somewhere? Just think, I could get my feet in the grass and not even care if I ruined my diamond pedicure. The very thought is exhilarating. I could learn to make pie from scratch. I could can food instead of people and make the cutest jar labels with handmade paper.

I think my first order of business will be to have a search team assemble a selection of fine strapping farm hands, and this will naturally unfold from there. Back to nature, as naked and simple as the day we were born!

 

Tough Tits Tuesday

My darling chicklets, troche I spent the weekend recovering from Fuck You Friday. That was a lot of fucking you! And you were there. And you. Oh, medicine you really had it coming.

Monday was an epic debacle, from the moment of waking to never really falling asleep last night. I covered a lot of ground, ranging from providing an embarrassingly lackluster answer to a group of Brazilian financiers to failing to kill or at least maim someone who honestly deserved it.

After determining there really is no easy way to get on the roof of 75 State and fling myself off,  I had the presence of mind to retreat to my shame cave (has free wifi) and have a sandwich.  It seems 90% of my problems turn out to resolve to Actually Just Hungry. The other 10%? I was born this way.

Fuck You Friday: Can’t Give It Away

Lambchop couldn’t find her phone, but I, I have bigger crappy problems. Don’t worry, we always strive to lovingly one-up each other, once running for president of Vomitola only to have no one vote. But that’s how it goes: who can apply more makeup at one time? Who is first mistaken for a whore when we set foot upon the curb? Who gets to kick the chair out from under that guy this time?

Anyway, what was this about? MY problems. I am chilly! I am being trifled with! I lost my gum and then I found it, but I wish I had bought another flavor instead! There was a little too much sea weed in my soup. Someone needs to file these papers that litter my desk and answer all these emails.

In conclusion, fuck that guy. No, really, fuck THAT guy. And fuck you! It’s Friday!

Sexy Thursday bumped for Fuck You Friday

Lambchop and I mulled over having Sexy Thursday, but due to supremely sexy circumstances beyond our control, we decided to cancel Thursday for this week. Glad that’s not hanging over our heads any longer! We have moved on, to the grand tradition of Fuck You Friday!

What happens on Fuck You Friday? A lot can happen, that’s what. This is a great time to tell someone you hate him or her, or just have sex with that person, depending on the situation. So to be fully prepared, I like to back up my files and make sure I’m wearing nice undies. It’s really what you make of the day.

Try a little tenderness

I honestly can’t remember why I ever saved this picture to my “MUST USE” folder, but then again, why wouldn’t I have saved it? Perhaps it’s a commentary on impostor syndrome or the vulnerability of the creative state, or perhaps it’s an accurate description of my preferred workplace dress code. We’ll never know, will we?

OK, we do know. I would totally work naked given the option. And I am, thank god.

Where did we last leave your intrepid narrators? I chose to turn to page 33, and I was eaten by a bear. Stupid move. Lambchop opted for page 18, and she was rewarded with the discovery of pirate treasure! This is just not fair. OK, I’m in a room. I see a door. There is a table with a key on it.

What actually happened? I left the country, but they wouldn’t keep me. Prescription drugs rain like lemon drops. My personal life continues to gracefully degrade, and my professional life, well, see above. Each day is an ongoing horror fest, punctuated by the sublime. I haven’t been to a grocery store since early 2011, so there’s that.