Pictured: at left, moi. At right, Lambchop.
Oh, I kid, I kid! But this reminds me, someone is having a birthday soon. What to get her this year, besides my customary boudoir photo set? I wonder if she needs any new housewares for her chamber of horrors? The one month anniversary is the corkscrew anniversary. I think we can officially say the horrors are no longer makeshift.
If Lindsay Lohan were my friend, I would be the pal who knows what she really could use: a jug of baby urine, for surprise drug tests. We would probably eat prescription drugs like Skittles and get in a slap fight. Come to think of it, this is actually similar to many of my most prized relationships. Call me, girl. I am also good at credible court testimony and impromptu eulogies.
I am noticing a very real national epidemic: people have no idea that they do not know everything. The Dunning-Kruger effect has swept the population, leading to pitiful displays of assumed prowess and total lack of awareness of failure. This issue directly relates to the complete inability to distinguish good from bad. Some people are so quality blind that even when presented with a dire test case, like our Lohan diptych, they still may not be able to discern which Lindsay is the complete trainwreck. You could always argue both of them, as one harbors deep-seated intentions to become a trainwreck. Pre-crime.
How can you avoid falling on your face in public? Well, you probably can’t. That’s the good news. You just have to accept that in all certainty, you will fail, and you should accept the counsel of your betters, if you can even tell who those are. Knowing you may fail is liberating. Assuming you will not and then not recognizing when you have actually must be pretty peachy too, judging from the affable countenances of many I encounter on the regular. If you are not horrified most of the time, you’re probably doing it wrong.
Happy Friday! No, it’s Fuck You 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.
Hey guess what? Fuck you! The Internet says so. But then it apologizes, sorta. If you are like me then you have been very busy making sure small paper clips do not get mixed into the cup with big paper clips.* And also reading encapsulations *about* stupid articles in the Daily Mail. The above pictured woman wrote a lengthy lament about how beauty has made her life very difficult, along with the occasional free salad. And she was summarily pilloried, partly because our paternalistic society will not permit female boasting, and partly because people enjoy pummeling a soft, weak, pudgy target. The internet apologized today for some reason. Perhaps it has decided that this actually is what passes for beauty in Britain.
We do not take sides, we think you are all pretty unsightly. You still haven’t learned to check the rear view before setting out.Â And you know what else, Fuck You!
And now I must fly in the face of this intolerance of the ladyboast: I am totally above average in most senses, and care not a whit about who knows it and finds it a bother. I do take umbrage at my failure to be accorded free salad!
*Fuck you, paperclip!
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!
It’s Fuck You Friday. This is not a time to howl into the winds about the callous nature of existence, or to swear vengeance on the score of some family blood feud. It is a day for deploring petty crap! Did you know that I spent several seconds searching for my phone this morning? I do not enjoy that! At work, the hot water dispenser furnished water that was COLD. One cannot make tea with *that*! Pretty soon I am deluged with idiotic questions at the top of email chains whose bottoms contain the answers (don’t they always- faw faw faw) and it is truly Fuck You Friday. My deskmate has called in sick, so she is probably off enjoying herself. Fuck You.
There is a hole in the toe of my stockings.
I made my monthly student loan payment.
It could definitely be a bit warmer.
I haven’t any gum!
Oh, now don’t work yourself up into a lather. This is no time for rosacea or spitting while you talk, it makes you look Irish. For this kind of disdain we are all for keeping it casual. After all, it *is* 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.