Mine N-font disgraceth me on a conference call. Apparently, “I can start next week,” translates to “The next week after I go on a cruise” in nanny. Enough said. I should have hired an actual goat. I suspect the individual in question may be crazy anyway. Really, so am I, so I shouldn’t hold it against her. But man, I am crazy for free! I am not crazy for an exorbitant hourly rate. OK, maybe I am. No, I say things like “heuristics.” What’s that? The next bus to hell pulls out in an hour? One moment, I have to stop someone from eating catfood.
All posts by Licketysplit
Spot the Vomitola
Rare itinerary publication: We are going to this: The Boston Massacre vs/ Baltimore’s Charm City Roller Girls. A. Ybab really loves a chance to see her auntie Moose hit a bitch.
I’ll be, oh, let’s see, the one with a small human clinging to my back. The effect is not unlike a monkey riding a greyhound.
Yesterday: a result of science?
Yesterday I almost got run down by a Volvo in the Whole Foods parking lot. I jumped aside just in time, and a Volkswagen pounced and ate the Volvo. Now that’s natural selection. Inside Whole Foods, a child was enraged that only brown eggs were left for purchase. She was dubious on the possibility of them actually taking dye. Her mother berated a teenage employee for the egg situation. He failed to conjure white eggs out of thin air, and the mother failed to take responsibility for waiting until the last possible minute to buy eggs to dye.
I was enraged because I saw some cookies that looked good, and the allergy warning only included nuts and wheat. But then the third ingredient was butter. I wanted cookies! I did not berate anyone, but I should have.
This morning, my little piglet awoke at three ayem. She did not opt to capitulate until well past five ayem. At this time, the Director of Software got a call from his boss to say that He is risen, but the servers are down. Fine. We are all risen at five ayem. We give up and let the small beastie sit in a pile of puffed rice cereal watching Sponge Bob while we lie on the floor moaning.
Who’s that dog that saved the day?
Someday I am going to go to grad school just so I can write a dissertation on the archetype of the hero dog.
I need a hero dog. I would probably have more luck finding one of those than I am having finding a small human minder on Craigslist. My ghost writer is on strike, so perhaps my ad was less than compelling: “You: don’t be a degenerate! Salary negotiable. You troll! I just know you want to sell my small human the second my back is turned.”
My upper lip smells funny. Am I dying? Oh, it’s my lip balm. I apologize, but sometimes it takes a few moments of “freewriting” to clear the cache before I can do real work. You read this of your own free will! I am going to put that in my gratitude journal.
What did I come here to do again?
Oh, hello, blank Blogger window! You must be here for a reason. I found you behind a half-finished site map, my online banking, iTunes, and a blog about shoes. Hi! What did I want to tell you? Do you know why I try to put chilled liquids away in the cabinets sometimes? Are you my mother? Do you know where I can find a perfect shirt dress? Do you want to pay me money to write breezy content?
On that last one, if you want to pay me for any of your content creation needs, do get in touch. I will get out all my nicest commas. They languish now in a drawer next to a cake server. I could tell you what I think of shorts worn in the evening. I can do investigative journalism where I make up most facts and key players. I think that is called fiction, or possibly it’s called working for a newspaper in Boston. I can ghost write thank-you notes for the most unimaginative gifts or write columns about real estate mistakes. You know you need a me on staff. You never ask for help. It’s not cool to be a martyr.
What, you say? Most people get jobs by having resumes and writing samples. Preposterous. Who has time for that? I’ve got four years of a grimy, crumpled, profane writing sample right here. I can see from my stats that plenty of people read this. I don’t know why, but thanks anyway! Who are you? Hi!
Throw away the key
Last night, the Director of Software did not return until tiny human and I were fast asleep. All the software needed extra directing. Like Kevin Federline, I’d assume. The Director missed a delicious dinner, which featured me zesting lots of stuff while an irascible monkey clung to my leg. We have places for monkeys like that.
In other news, my net worth is still negative. But my self-worth, gossssshhhh, it’s out of sight. I have nice ankles! I am kind to animals! I send thank you notes! Yes, it’s good to be me. Remind me of this when I am humiliated beyond belief at the financial planner’s office tomorrow. Apparently people are supposed to have things like emergency funds, retirement funds, college funds, and insurance for many unpleasant situations. We have some of that, but in amusingly petite amounts. My IRA is so cute! I could just pat it on the head.
Perhaps the Director can get a second job. Perhaps the monkey can learn to play the bones on a street corner. Perhaps I will move to Mexico with the last dregs of the savings account. It is spring, and anything can happen.
What color is your time machine?
I phoned my arents-pay to let them know that my petite imp is locomoting on her hands and knees. My male arent-pay said, “Have you noticed that most green cars are driven by black people?” I asked him how this color preference affected him personally. He feels that people are simply not observant enough of minor details. But then he couldn’t tell me what color car “the orientals” drive. Observant my ass!
Then we had a lengthy chat about stepping out of the Matrix. I asked him to please let me know if he figured it out, as long as it didn’t involve a mail away kit from the back of a photocopied newsletter. So he will leave my refrigerator door open as a sign from the fourth dimension, as there’s a chance he might not be able to re-enter the Matrix once he figures out how to exit. The Matrix is tougher than Lollapalooza.
In other news, I am soliciting ideas for time-consuming projects that can be completed in the comfort of one’s invisible-bug-infested split level home.
Something whiny this way comes
The other day my miniature sidekick celebrated nine months of not sleeping! No, she sleeps far better than I do. Honestly. I can’t sleep through the night. Someone should really make me cry it out*. Or spank me to sleep**.
She only cries when she sees her relatives, and the other day when some lady in the grocery store looked at her. I should have thought of that years ago! No looking at me now. Don’t make me do it. I’m talking to you, ugly head. Go back over by the frozen shrimp where you belong.
Best of all, she has learned to flip her lip with her finger and make the noise “A-bee-ba-dee-ba-dee.” The MacArthur Foundation has not stopped hounding us.
Anyway, last weekend I ran an ultramarathon (this is a lie), and I’m thinking I’m getting kind of bored with those. I could do another triathlon, but that would mean doing even one triathlon first to justify the use of the word “another.” Maybe I will finish that seven foot scarf in my knitting bag instead.
*personal parenting pet peeve; this is sarcasm.
**is this dirty?
Just lions smiling in the dark
Yes, I know that’s the wrong lyric. That’s why it’s funny. Thanks for making me explain a joke, you freaking jerks! Cite your sources, you say? No, no, you say, that isn’t right. The pigs say OINK all day and night. If I told you what the rhinoceroses say, I probably would have to pay a royalty to Sandra Boynton and the good folks at Simon & Schuster, so I will cut it right off.
Anyway, sources. We don’t need no stinking sources and studies. We need to prevent something that might lead to cancer, and you are a woman-hating jerk if you say “But the Science, she are not so good on this one!” And suddenly feminists are OK with a state tying something that only affects a woman’s body to a woman’s access to education? I am talking about Texas and the HPV and the Merck and the money and all, but I am not citing my sources. And that’s OK, because we don’t do that anymore. We are the internet. Did I mention CANCER? More women die each year of septicemia, diabetes, and unintentional injuries than the form of cancer in question, which is easily identifiable with a routine yearly screening. In the US, this cancer is the 14th hottest form of female cancer, rating below Alyssa Milano and Kim Cattrall.
No, no, you say, that isn’t right. You must want all those little girls to get THE CANCER (er, you mean one of four strains of a virus that can lead to the cancer if not caught early by a routine screening, right? And you know there are dozens of strains, not just those four targeted by the shot? No, I mean CANCER is a sure bet! Do not pass go, go straight to CANCER in this argument!). I would rather those little girls and boys learn to use the condoms and attempt to respect each other. But that’s OK, abstinence-only whatever works great. And then we can paternalistically mandate protection for something that might happen based on an individual’s potential sexual choices to cover up for the giant lapse in education. And the protection comes with great risks in and of itself, and the longterm effects are completely unknown. It’s anti-woman not to promote informed choice. Or is it PRO CANCER?
I could probably try to make more sense and actually cite sources, but I am too busy attempting to graph potential agony in upcoming situations, neither of which involves cancer. Budget air travel maybe. Is this caused by a virus?
Let meee get this straight
I’ve really got nothing. Normally this does not stop me from typing and typing and typing with abandon, but there is a first time for everything!
I could tell you: we saw some dogs.
I could tell you: Morgellons is really what happens when a “subject” rejects the attempted infestation by black ops-developed bio warfare nano fibers, which would love to get in there and replace your DNA with their own. You have to watch out for the gold-tipped one because it contains a camera. I heard this. You don’t want to know. Oh, the coverup is vast. Don’t let Big Pharma know I told you, or the Illuminati will be on me like white on rice.
I could tell you: there are people in this world who have sent rockets into space, but these same people cannot enjoy foreign cuisines or resist buying quack medicine.