Category Archives: Uncategorized

Le car, vroom vroom

Uncategorized, , , ,

Two weeks ago, a butterfly flapped its wings in Moscow. Today I impulse-purchased a Volkswagen. And you know what? I instantly started to drive like a total asshole. Like I’m from Cambridge. For my next trick, I’ll pop out a few kids and let them pull shit off the shelves in Bread & Circus while I yap into a cellphone headset.

Oh, the car. It’s Galactic Blue (hooray for Science!), with lots of bells and whistles and even jimcracks and doohickeys. And technically it was not a purchase, but a lease. So at some point over the holidays I’ll have the pleasure of explaining to my parents and other older family members that I do not actually have “anything to show for it.” It’s the matrix, ma.

Another plus: we got rid of Mr. H’s Ford Focus. Now the family of spiders that lives in it is someone else’s problem. Shudder. I am certain Super Townie at the dealership plans to set the white whale on fire and roll it into a lake. And he’d be right to do it.

-xxoo

Hot 97

Uncategorized, , ,

Continuing our riveting streak of self-flagellation, here’s a goth polaroid! Enjoy, eat it up. That’s me on the left, Heather on the right. What is it about teen angst that makes girls press their heads together and take high-contrast self-portraits?

Our thing was looking like we were about to throw up. That’s where the Vomitola name first came about. We used to click off a zillion shots, wait for them to develop, and then cobble them together to make a story, complete with captions. Sample: “Helen spies the bucket…” or “Now it’s Heather’s turn.”

We were also pretty into the two heads, one body idea, as you shall see from tomorrow’s offering.

-xxoo

Get up on this

Uncategorized, ,

So Heather came over tonight. We painted our nails and organized our sticker books. Then we busted out the 40s. Round two pictured here.

All Lisa Frank dreams aside, this picture was taken in 1996. It’s unflattering. We both had to use drastic mezures to hook up in those days. Hence the plastic knives. But that’s in the past, yo. And let the past be the past. Although that’s hard to do when one finds the PHOTO BOX. That’s right, we’re going to be taking a little trip trap through the misty watercolor memories in the corners of our minds.

I have to go take Lambchop’s bra out of the freezer. We havin’ a sleepova.

-xxoo

…I know, I know, it’s seeeeerious

Uncategorized, , , ,

Dear Kitty Winn,

I am a single girl and I keep going to parties where I wind up drunk and passing out my phone number like it’s Pez. Then i live for a few days in fear and paranoia that boys with neck tattoos and wives are actually going to call me. Now, this would be my problem, except that none of these bedraggled suitors have even called! What gives?

-I know I’m unloveable

Sheila Take a Bow,

Buck up. Kitty herself was stalked by a mad Russian she entranced while doing a kicky Serbian folk dance at a party. But I mostly find that blacking out has the virtue of erasing all unfortunate acquaintances, and leaving me to start each day afresh, blissfully unaware of the doings of yesterday. You are lucky that Mr. Neck Tattoo does not lurk upon your doorstep- what would the neighbors think of your taste?

I am sure you have many charms in addition to being an alcohol sucking tartlet. If you can name at least two you can stop hurling song lyrics around. Try bowling instead.

-Kitty Winn

LipSmackers

Uncategorized, ,

Lambchop is on strike until she gets a snarky set of lips (or similar) to appear wherever wisdom and poetry fribble from her fain mouth!
Come through, ye gods, with a sticky pawprint for yours truly.

It is matters of gross importance such as this, that consume me as i endure Upper Management training here at the Box Factory. Learning how to sandwich sheaves of yellowed forms into a bulging and creaking drawer so that they can safely be ignored until this whole place goes up in flames, is a vain and tedious pursuit. Five more minutes of this and I will be forced to drill holes in my skull to aerate my brain pan.

Unlike me, I hope you lucky layabouts are all out shooting morphine and diving to the pavement in horrible flashbacks every time a car door slams. After all, its Veteran’s Day, celebrate!

Lunch today is on the Vet,

wonder what we’re gonna get?

Purple Heart Pizza or Missing-Leg Pie,

Filet-of-oh-god-I’m-gonna-die!

Veteran-tastic!

Oh, the Training is about to move on to proper placement of Staples and Other Perforations. My heart weeps. I dream of leaping stallions and roan colored mares galloping through fields.

-xo

What would Martha do?

Uncategorized, , , , ,

Ugh. I’ve got a hangover, and I only just started drinking. No, not *that* kind of hangover, a wedding hangover. That’s right, we’re still not done with our thank you notes. So if you didn’t get one yet, that means we dislike you intensely, and we found your gift terribly unimaginative and downright insulting. Oh, I keeeeeed. The list is in fact alphabetical (we are somewhere in the R-S range, we can’t help being popular), and I was foolish enough to think Mr. H might actually help with birthing them.

But then again, I married someone with a limited vocabulary. Hey, I’m not being mean, it’s just the truth. If I were with a man as verbose as I am naturally, we’d never get anything done because we’d be too busy trying to out-conversate the other. Why, it would be like being married to Lambchop. We ruled out same-sex marriage as a possibility years ago. A) she wouldn’t get the donkey dingle graft, and my hips are far too slinky to carry it off, and B) we’d never have sex anyway because we’d each be too busy trying to put on more makeup than the other. So Mr. H and I, we compromise. I explain the big words, like “abutters” and “that other one from the other day he didn’t know,” and he makes dinner. But he does know enough to say “You’d better not be making fun of me on your stupid website.”

Now, Kitty Winn says that the secret to a good thank you note is to create your own custom attractive letterpressed notes, and also to lie, lie, lie. For instance, the truth is not always suitable for print:

“Dear Aunt Hilda,

thank you for remembering us on our special day. I’m sorry to hear that what you purchased to commemorate it is “too heavy to mail,” but I eagerly await the day you drop it off at my mom’s house several states away from me. I am sure it will make a lovely addition to her hall closet, be it a solid block of obsidian or a mastadon femur. I really hope it’s breakable! We’ll see you at Christmas.

kisses,

-Helen & Mr. Helen”

No, no, that simply won’t do. What am I going to say? I have no idea. But Mr. Man also knows enough to open a second bottle of wine, so I’m sure it will sort itself out. If you are in the lucky R-Z last name category, you can look forward to a sloppy, drooled-upon note in a few days time. But we ran out of the nice letterpressed ones, so T.S.. Note to self: next career — purchase letterpress!

-xxoo

There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west

Uncategorized, , , , ,

I’ve got “Stairway to Heaven” stuck in my head because some deviant was playing it on an acoustic guitar in the train station. Call me a Nazi (“Nazi!”), but people shouldn’t be allowed to play in public if they aren’t any good. There, I said it. It’s too bad there’s not a musical version of nanowrimo to keep those sorts otherwise occupied.

I also inadvertently confused the names of two ethnic characters in a thinger I was trying to code, which led to hijinks and me wondering why my shit didn’t work. Hi, my name is Hitler. Then my sister pointed out that I am terrible at recognizing people, just like she is. And it’s true: people frequently say things like “Hey, I saw you at blah blah (the cheese counter at Shaw’s, Starbucks) and you were blah blah (staring into space, trying on a bra), and I blah blah (batted my eyes, yelled at you) but you didn’t notice me.” I think it’s a symptom of late-onset autism.

(But really, if you were an art director, would you name your token ethnic characters incredibly similar names? Mary, John, Patty, Samir, and Samar? I think not!)

Heather mentioned the joys of being completely insane in her triumphant return post. These days, instead of skittering around worrying that the Hancock Tower is going to thwap down like a flyswatter and squash me, or goggling at how shiny the sidewalk is, I just stick with garden variety rage. I blame the MBTA, hormonal birth control, the downstairs neighbors, going to work, ill-fitting pants, the incredibly unexciting lunar eclipse, and solar flares for my rage. If I had managed to retain my propensity for ingesting random substances people hand me, things might be different. Curse you, aging process. And curse you, common sense.

But someday Lambchop and l will have to tell you about the time we huddled under a pool table for hours, only taking a break to watch Suddenly Susan and wrap duct tape around a computer monitor.

-xxoo

You turn to us

Uncategorized, ,

For:
kitty winn

bukkake

alien souveniers

antoinette k-doe

ass-bear

bad kitty skulls cat

cat anal leakage –sex

crawfish drive thru new Orleans

do dachshunds wheeze

g-l-a-m-b-o-y steve strange

heather morgan god

how do goths lose weight

kitty winn rumors

louis vuitton on newbury street

marabou christmas tree

And Heather and I are happy to serve, for we love our audience.

Actually, we are a smidge appalled by some of those investigations. Most importantly, Louis Vuitton is in the frigtastic Copley Mall, not on Newbury Street. I should know, they made the bags under my eyes this week. As an aside, hard work is really bad for my appearance.

Also, I am just kidding, I wouldn’t carry a Louis Vuitton bag if my life depended on it. Unless it were free, in which case I’d write MY name all over it. Or possibly if they managed to make one without gold-toned hardware. I will admit to fleeting temptation when the Murakami bag came out, but it’s just not me.

Some of the other searches make perfect sense, especially the marabou Christmas tree. If I had any inclination to celebrate Christmas, I’d order one right away. Maybe I’ll settle for a non-denominational wreath. What is a better symbol of pagan fertility than pink marabou? As for the rest of the terms, I am sure you have your reasons, but please do not tell US about them.

Back to the steppes of Hell. Er…work.

-xxoo

I’m Baaaaaaack

Uncategorized, , , ,

Your intrepid Lambchop finally has computer access because I have been PROMOTED. Here at the box factory, I have been moved from the floor to the FRONT OFFICE. No more tri-folds for me, its strictly applying glittery nail polish and winking at my boss.

Watching my little girl grow up and get married was both delightful and painful. Midnight wedding night saw me clinging to her ankle with a claw up her silky dress, crying “NOOOOOOO!!!” as she and Mr. H. weaved and wended their way to the bridal suite. Later, at home, I fell down the stairs. Now THAT’S a party!

So much has happened in addition to these startling achievements of Lickety and myself. With Mr. Lee dressed to the nines, there were 3am cabrides to Chinatown to partake of sashimi and sake. He chased me through a sprinkler on the last day this year you could still see green leaves on the Bay State Road. Beautiful! There were four new paintings; there was a party for the twins, a party for polka-dots and a party for Pac-Man (it was his birthday). There were some shows and a week straight of Halloween. All this really amounts to is me falling down the stairs in different colored wigs.

Licketysplit and I have often discussed the merits of being totally mad. Permanent lu-lu. I have made up my mind to push the boat off for good this time. I can contemplate shinyness all day. It came to me while I traipsed through Newark on a random Sunday, wearing bunny ears…

…oh there is more…

-xo

I, Melvin

Uncategorized, , , , ,

Already today I have been provoked to the brink of madness. As I wandered into the train station at the start of my morning journey, I thought I heard the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner,” but in a manner so devoid of musical talent that I thought a wee child must be having his way with a recorder. As I descended the stairs, I saw that it was in fact a gentleman of competent mental age wielding a fife.

He gamely struck up an off-key attempt at “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I clenched my fist and rolled my eyes heavenward, debating what to do. Should I club him dead where he stood with my umbrella? Should I offer him money to stop playing until the train came? I feared that either approach would lead to an unpleasant discussion on the nature and quality of my patriotism, so I slunk away. I may indeed be a patriot, but I am no nationalist, and there is nothing inherent in the meaning of patriotism about suffering through the abuse of the Western musical scale. Just try telling this to the Ashcrofts among us.

Then he lurched into an utterly tuneless rendition of “Greensleeves,” followed by a dissonant take on Pachelbel’s Canon. All bets are off, I thought, I owe it to myself and the rest of the populus to strike him dead. The train was approaching at long last, and the hapless fool began to tweet his way through “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” I lunged viciously, but was restrained at the last second by a burly buffoon wearing a fleece vest that read “Pro Player.”

And you sir, you are a professional at what endeavor? Balding? Overeating? The wearing of stone washed DENIM? I hissed and narrowed the pupils of my eyes like a lizard, and he released me from his grasp as if burned. I dove into a waiting car and stalked to a seat, only to be displaced by an immensely fat woman.

I sulked all the way to the terminus of my route. I wasn’t even able to delight myself with my favorite game of imagination, wherein I script little cards bearing grooming and sartorial advice to be handed to the other passengers.

-xxoo