Tag Archives: going to hell

This year, I am thankful that Pharrell gave us something to bump to

Pharrell is like the Great Pumpkin, I think.

Secret confession: I am the lady driving around in the Saab wagon with the duct-taped in windshield with the hip hop station blasting. A baby likes it better than all other forms of musical entertainment.

Now, I have an ethical dilemma. Ethicist, a baby went on the Google and found the very embarassing personal ad of the head troll from the condo association Yahoo! group. This troll recently lobbied for the installation of stockades in the lobby for the person who left trash next to the trash chute. This troll makes statements like “Didn’t this yahoo learn anything in kindergarten?”

How did a baby know this person was single? A wretchedly abrasive personality is never a non-starter when it comes to coupling. A baby has a lot to learn. There is some awful person out there for everyone, and the Internet is a uniter, not a divider.

But here’s the problem: a baby thinks I should print out the ad and plaster it liberally about the lobby. I think this is a good idea, but perhaps not environmentally sound. I think I should make a gmail address and email a PDF around instead. You see how we are at odds. A baby offered the compromise that we should do the printing on recycled paper, with vegetable-based inks, and only put the flyers on car windshields in the parking lot instead of all over the lobby. WWYD?

Some Argentines without means do it

Hi Internet, hi. It’s May. Just saying. Still singing loudly around the house and considering the purchase of a double-tall Airbus. You?

My horoscope says “You must make your own luck today by careful consideration of the alternatives.” Hmm. Such as: the alternative to making money is being poor, so I will do all my work. The alternative to starving to death is eating, so I will have some orange juice even though I don’t feel like it. Eating: Love it when other people make the food for me. Otherwise: 2 lazy 2 live!!!! If the alternative to not going to the bathroom weren’t exploding, I would never get up. OK, I force myself to trot around outside in a stupid outfit, but that doesn’t mean i enjoy it. That’s only prompted by vanity.

I nearly got pitched out of a child’s dance recital. She was on near the end, I was nursing a slight hangover and pill withdrawal brain shocks, and the kids were all tappa-tappa-tappa, twinkle twinkle. The theme was “Hollywood,” and each number was from a song associated with a movie. The emcee described “Pretty Woman” as a film about “opposites attracting.” I thought it was about whores! Then seven-year-olds in red lipstick came out to shake it.

A class of large teenage girls in voluminous tutus came out, and Mr. H had to restrain me as I jabbed him in the ribs. Turned out they all had Down Syndrome. My far vision has deteriorated to the point that all I saw was clumsy non-rhythmic lurching. I felt bad for snickering, but only a little. It was still a trial. Then the teachers all performed to “Batdance,” and there was no stopping me. It must be quite the burden to be a bringer of culture to Chelmsford, Massachusetts. Mr. H made me go wait in the hall before I started laughing too hysterically, bribing me with the promise of a Frosty. I never got that, come to think of it. He wouldn’t tell me about the rest of the show, only that it’s good that I left when I did. Hulk can’t help self.

Oh for….sometimes I wished people was like dogs, Luke

It’s get-up-and-go Monday, and that means I got out of bed well before noon. I don’t like it any more than you men, but it’s how science and the Lord need me to be. I have already done distasteful things like send invoices and print labels and finish the leftover wine in a glass that was on the coffee table. That last one was not as bad as I thought it would be. I think it was Gewurztraminer.

Later, I turned on the TV, and it started on the surgery channel. Instead of operations, they were showing something called “The Baby Human.” That program featured researchers showing babies clown masks. Guess what? The babies cried, because CLOWNS ARE FUCKING SCARY. Where can I get an Obvious Grant? So far, my preliminary findings include the fact that traffic can be stressful. I confirmed this between 1 and 3 pm. Also, people dislike closing doors on their fingers. At least I do.

And damn, $4 coffees and damn. I get up to all kinds.

Going to hell, going to hell.

Mormons ‘r’ Us

Last week I went to lunch with an ex-Mormon, and one of our crew was looking intimidated by the vastness of the sushi buffet. To which I remarked “what’s the matter, you look like Elizabeth Smart at the altar”. We here at Vomitola firmly believe in Lowering the Bar.

Last night I was visiting another friend of mine who is an ex-Mormon. She’s a rocker, and is going to feature in my next one-hit-wonder, the Mormon 5. Just call me Mary Ellen, crooning about ironing my pinafore and contemplating my dirty pillows. But Motown.

Cripes its 2pm and I am still not dressed. Maybe because my roommate has hosted a party that has been going ’round the clock for two days. I am going to go out and get a hot dog. Thanks for Caring and Sharing!


A story

It is a terrible story. The Story of Nicholas. (as told by Mr. H and his parents)

Mother: One day the boys came home, and they asked if their friend Nicholas could come over and play. I said “who the hell is Nicholas?”

Mr. H: So we pointed out the window, at the kid in the yard.

Mother: I said “Isn’t that Johnny? His name is Johnny. Why are you calling him Nicholas?”

Mr. H: We said “we don’t know.”

Mother: Then I realized– and I said “Don’t call him that anymore, his name is Johnny, call him that.”

Me: I don’t get it.

Mother: He was the only black kid in Acton!

Father: sotto voce, in loud restaurant: Nigga lips!

Me: Oh my God.

Mr. H: I wondered why I’d say “Hi Nicholas!” and he’d hit me!

Me: *snorted Chardonnay out of my nose*

Mr. H: The big kids used to tell the little kids to call him that, and we thought they were saying Nicholas.

Poor Johnny.



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,



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.


Trading dungeons

Lambchop: oh my, we truly are damned
Lambchop: we are headed straight for a fiery pit

Licketysplit: yipes: http://www.boston.com/dailynews/118/region/City_finds_dozens_of_dead_cats:.shtml

Licketysplit: a posh fiery pit at least

Lambchop: to be assaulted by satan’s little wizards who offer us champagne that is a little “flat”

Lambchop: ACK!

Licketysplit: if you were going to rent an apartment for nefarious purposes, why not pick a more reasonably priced neighborhood??

Lambchop: is there a market for dead cats?

Licketysplit: perhaps!

Lambchop: some great boon in dead cat futures we were not aware of?

Licketysplit: the tv news last night said they suspected this was experimentation to breed a better show persian

Lambchop: YIKES!

Lambchop: I thought healthy, live animals generally entered those things

Lambchop: but its nice that they give an equal shot to those stinking and decaying

Licketysplit: at least *I* still have a chance!

Lambchop: after all, when I am a gaseous soup in my coffin, I would hate to think I can no longer be on TV!

Lambchop: you and I simply MUST have a talk show from the grave!

Licketysplit: ho ho, i will make sure your urn is polished to a fare-thee-well

Lambchop: awww, after you lovingly pile my dusty remnants in there- no pyre necessary!

Licketysplit: “my career was going so well, until my stinking hellhole of a cat tomb was discovered!”

Lambchop: her Makeshift Chamber of Horrors!

Licketysplit: “It’ll do in a pinch!”

Lambchop: i am sure she is rueing the corners she cut in the design of her chamber of horrors!

Lambchop: do you suppose they assist you in such matters at the Home Depot?

Licketysplit: “I am looking to construct a chamber of horrors, but not a shoddy one.”

Lambchop: “I need real know-how about the proper installation of duct tape, heavy plastic sheeting, burlap and sturdy rope.”

Licketysplit: “where are your higher quality trap door mechanisms?”

Lambchop: “how do i insure these meathooks will not rust or flake?”

Licketysplit: “i am looking for drainage!”

Lambchop: “i require adequate storage and composting!”

Licketysplit: “ventilation is a must, but i am concerned about sound”

Lambchop: “how can I construct a crawlspace that will really stand up to the test of time?”

Lambchop: hee, i was imagining us having a real DIY guy on our show, telling us in his dry workaday way how to build this stuff

Lambchop: that guy from this old house would do anything for a few shekels!

Lambchop: we would be handling weatherproofing and sealants and nodding sagely!

Lambchop: interrupting at just the right moments with penetrating questions like “how will this affect the health of my family? For example, a mother living in the attic”

I love the big ones says kathy sally thinks.

I get the best spam ever. If that subject line doesn’t entice one to read on, whatever will? I guess my second choice would have to be “26 pics of teen girls getting ass reamed in the ass.” I applaud that for both specificity and redundancy.

Say, Lambchop, thanks for reminding me of MLK day! I just realized I shot my Black People Love Us wad a day too early! Silly me! I suppose I should cast about for a Little Black Sambo fan site or something to make up for it, but I fear public outcry. Speaking of the public, should we post email addresses? I would love to get some reader mail going, maybe some problems we could publicly address!

Sample letter:

Dear Lambchop and Licketysplit,

I’m torn, befuddled, and perplexed! My boyfriend wants nothing but anal sex. And I know I’m supposed to be *gay,* but it just doesn’t do it for me! What should I do?


Scaredy Cat

Sample response:

Dear Puss In Boots,

You should do what we always do: Poppers! Failing that, try to strike a balance of the finer things in life. Take some time out in your relationship to try a new flavor of iced tea, or listen to that new Starbucks Jazz CD compilation. Lambchop has been known to loosen up by rearranging her living room, perhaps trying a new fabric softener. And I like to achieve ultimate relaxation by arranging my book jackets by color. Soon you’ll be but a puddle of a man, ready to trip trop the anal staircase. And should you feel any trepidation, lie back and think of the Snuggle Bear! Ease into the rooting and tooting, you’ll learn to love it as much as we have.


L & L

So come on readers, dial us up on the ol’ interweb! We are here to help!