Tag Archives: existential crisis

Beads that sparkle like a prism, snake oil for your rheumatism

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OMG, I am the worst captor ever! I left my Zellweger at a rest stop two weeks ago. Didn’t even notice until the laundry started piling up. Well, hell. She must have gnawed off her ankle bracelet, because I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she was put off by Theater in the Car. I think I was doing selections from Gigi that week.

And today I slept in, only to wake up to more perplexing acts of human awfulness. The mind reels. Should I go back to bed? Should I spend quality time staring into my new 10x magnifying mirror? Should I delete all these emails from MoveOn.org and NARAL hectoring me about the supreme court? Should I purchase a trailer in the woods? Should I stick my head in the oven? No, because the oven is filthy since I had to let the help go. Oh balls, I’m sure I’ll think of something. A telethon! Tom Cruise is in charge of the phone bank. The prescription for PTSD is long walks on the beach and a tinfoil helmet.

Where’s my satan flag

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Well, I survived another spectacular weekend. I endured food, lovely weather, people, outfits, things, and stuff. I was displeased that no one lost a thumb in the amateur fireworks derby down the street. I live for the day I can scoop up an errant knee cap and spirit it home to my freezer. “Why no, I did not see your body part. Oh, that must smart!”

Mr. H emailed me from the next room to remind me that he started a blog. He also requires more orange juice and some soy creamer. So far, he has managed to post a few photos and the equivalent of “hello, world,” but I have faith that I will boot him in the ass until he says something of substance. I am not so sure I will get his orange juice. What am I, the help? I am not helpful.

Little does he realize that blogging is hard, much like being president. I think about Iraq every day. I also think about my hair. It’s hard to write something that makes absolutely no sense at regular intervals. Making sense is for masochists.

Your daddy’s rich, and your mama’s good looking

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It’s July, hi, hi. A Boston terrier moved in across the street. I asked him if he knows Goblin Foo. He said “Who doesn’t?”

In addition to the dog, people moved into the new condos as well. I set up a lawn chair out front and loudly rated everyone’s furniture as it came off the moving trucks. One credenza was so unsightly that I tipped it into the river when the movers were taking a break. You’re welcome! It’s called a favor in my country. A mitzvah.

In another act of great magnanimity, I taught a baby to swear. I am here for you.

I don’t understand why my good deeds go unrewarded. The Swedish car assembled in Japan has a big crack in the windshield. Maybe this is God’s way of letting me know I should let the air out of Drunk Upstairs Cheryl’s tires.

Excuse me, i have a very delicate cake in the trunk of my car

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Oh, why you gonna honk at me for slowing down just a little bit before I turn? There is no one in the left lane, so go the hell around. My signal is on, whore pants. Do you realize the situation with the cake? I would think that you do not. Respect my cake. You have no idea how fragile it is. I would hate to arrive at my destination and find the fruit topping all messed up to one side like cheese on a tilted pizza. Oh no, that is not how it’s going to be. Screw you, you troop-supporting insensate buffoon. I am sorry your SUV is so hard to maneuver that you cannot handle swinging into the other empty lane. My cake will triumph.

Shake it off, shake it off. I lead a charmed life, what with the having most of my original teeth and pooping every day. Although I will never know everything there is to know. I haven’t even tried all the vegetables in the produce section. I only know one good recipe that uses wheat germ. What if I am actually supposed to be married to a professor in Prague? I am sure I am not living in the best possible place. Where is that place? I am happy, but the whole world looms. Books jump off the shelf and mock me for not finishing them. Just you wait, SUV driving slam pig, I will up and move to a small community in the Amazon. The natives will befriend me, and I will teach them rudimentary farming techniques and how to perform a tracheotomy with a pen. They have never seen a pen before. We live happily ever after in our easy breezy loin cloths.

Hey baby, hey hey!

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Yesterday, some children came over. We had a dance party and some existentialism. Did you know ice cream cones can fall on the ground? Well, they can. Also, glass doors may look like they are not doors at all, but they are actually quite solid. One should not test things for solidity with one’s head.

This has been a randomly selected update about a small segment of my life. Stop reading this. I am not wearing shoes. I mean it, stop. Nothing to see.

Vomitous

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Well, bokka bokka bokka. I am waiting to hear back from the mortgage people to see if Mr. H and I are worthy of helping to tip the American housing market completely into the toilet. This is rather nervewracking, as if I were waiting for free clinic test results after sleeping with all of BU. Or perhaps Bennington. I am in full “what have we done?” mode. I want to throw up. But I won’t, because I didn’t eat breakfast yet. Maybe after. Guess I won’t have oatmeal, that would just be gross.

The Vomitola domain expires in a few months. Should I keep it, or should I pick something new? www.OMG.com is taken. This is a hard choice, people. I want my “personal weblog home page on the information super highway” to reflect my unique personality. I think my blinkie gallery goes a long way towards that goal, but I don’t know if my love for dogs is showcased enough. Oh, and my jokes page could use a Swiffering. When it rains, it pours. There has got to be a New York Times article about just this modern situation.

And the Oscar goes to…

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O best beloved internet, today I took some time from my busy schedule to worry about getting that bird flu and whether or not Hilary Swank will wear Vera Wang. Then that baby of my acquaintance stopped by. Here’s the thing with babies: They are swirling existential voids. People think babies don’t know anything, but they are wrong. Babies know they are helpless and insignificant, and this rightly pains them. This one is constantly suicidal, throwing himself at electrical outlets with tongue extended. He is also good at seeking out buckets containing one inch of water. I feel bad stopping him since he seems to really know what he wants, but I am pretty sure assisted suicide is illegal, even in this godless liberal state. Not that I looked that up, so don’t believe junk you read on the internet.

This disjointed rambling brings us to the results of our Vomitola election. I know you’ve all been irritated and jittery waiting for these results. I praise those of you who voted multiple times, especially for me.

And the winner is —

Cease! Desist! Impudent whores, I claim this puny electronic fiefdom in the name of superior intellect.

While I am no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh and the mother’s milk of the vine, one cannot build a nation by telling the little creatures that they do not have to toil if they do not wish to do so. Indeed, I rather admire the notion of enslaving the sans-culottes. However, I simply cannot abide the necessary company of rogues and japesters required to bring this to fruition. Let them exist under the iron rule of my ministers, out of sight and distance of hearing.

Thus, I see no other course than to appoint myself Monarch in Perpetuit. It is for your own good, you incompetent strumpets! Democracy is pointless and ugly simply because the pointless and ugly are allowed as much of a say as I. Now yield me my due as sovereign, and I will endeavour to rehabilitate the status of this intellectual cesspool.

-Melvin I

Mega-low mania

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That’s a baby, gumming a laser dot off the carpet. Babies are so stupid! You can’t eat a laser.

I miss eating, period. It was rad while it lasted. The tubs of tapioca pudding, the beef wellington, and above all, the ham. Lambchop and I have declared a fatwa on food. We are a sorry pair, stabbing half-heartedly at broth when we lunch together. But we look great! We are so lucky to be afflicted with wasting diseases. Some people pay for tapeworms, but not us. It merely took some vagaries of the digestive tract and a whopping dose of serotonin, between the two of us. America, wait for our book.

It’s strange that we do everything together. People look at us funny when we use the same machine at the gym at the same time. And sometimes I do get tired of her sitting on top of me at the dentist, and I wish she didn’t need a night light. It’s all worth it, though. My bodddyyy and me! Maybe someday we will be surgically separated, but so far, so good. Don’t tell Lambchop, but for Christmas I am knitting us a muff.

To do, oh, what to do

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I made a “to do” list the other day, titled “Things hanging over my head.” It started out innocently enough.

1. Roll over errant retirement accounts from two jobs ago, which involves contacting people in jail

2. Finish wedding thank you notes, now that “the gift too heavy to mail” has arrived

3. Purchase more attractive filing cabinet, file random pieces of paper

4. More fucking laundry

It devolved from there.

5. Figure out life’s “special purpose”

6. Purchase first home in a state where a shitty ranch is still 450k

7. Get own TV show

8. Reproduce, or not

9. Vomitola book deal

10. Get job, any crappy job

11. Stop occasional weeping fits, they tax delicate undereye skin

12. Give up on all of the above and purchase Baskin Robbins franchise

13. Figure out what to make for dinner

These are in no particular order, but you get the idea. Most logically, we would get the book deal before the TV show. I’m just saying. You know where to find us.

-xxoo