All posts by Licketysplit

Is it raining in here?

Uncategorized,

Oh, why, yes it is! Up above my head. I hear music in the air. I’m going to chalk it up to demonic activity. When I serve decaf, the house spirits get so bent.

What a vexing day. Faxes don’t send, and seeds get stuck in my teeth. Also, I am pretty sure I saw our future house floating down the river this morning. Flood insurance, you say, flood insurance. How about that. Don’t mind me, I live on a raft. Huck? Is dat you?

Replaced comment system since the last one had the nerve to close. All of David’s wit and wisdom is down the drain. Dust in the wiiiiind. All we are….

is good to be beautiful

Uncategorized,

I went to Russian Dentist this morning. He is a rare delight beyond comprehension. He changed the poster on the ceiling above the chair to a print of Dali’s “Atmospheric Skull Sodomizing a Grand Piano.”

So we listened to opera, and he half-heartedly tinked away at my teeth with a scaler, muttering that my teeth are too good for his business. Yes, my teeth are exquisite. I can’t help it. Don’t be jealous.

He said that people must eat only fresh vegetables and spend more time listening to beautiful music and looking at beautiful things. “Go, go to museum of art!” He said looking at ugly things is a terrible idea, and one will have mean, ugly children if one does this. At last, I said, medical advice to divest myself of all my unattractive friends.

And then I thought about it, and I realized I actually don’t have any of those. Prevention is the best medicine! We laughed and laughed together, and then he commanded “You spit now!” When in Minsk.

Big do-ins like for humans

Uncategorized, , ,

And such it is that we are all consenting adults in this house, and we have set upon a solution: the DVR. It came in the afternoon, and Henry, the installer, even left us an extra remote. We can all sit on the couch and hold a remote, captain my captain, even the cat. It is important to feel powerful. These remotes will no doubt stop other acts of bullying. This way I can watch America’s Fattest Fatties and all the Top Model I can cram down my gullet without regurgitating, and Mr. H can watch Nerdistar Nerdlactica or whatever. Picture in a picture, bitch! Look, it’s Santa Claus, and he’s holding a Coke bottle with Santa Claus on it. It’s turtles all the way down.

So the first thing I think I recorded was the Martha Stewart talk show, but maybe I just watched it when it was on. I have no idea. I fast-forwarded it and rewound it, and then I had to have a yogurt because I was hungry. That is a thing to do if you find yourself hungry. My tip is free from me to you. Martha made Larry King frost a cake, and he didn’t know what a dollop was. Yeah, right! As if he never ate a dollop of lard right out of the jar. The man’s had heart attacks, for chrissakes. Next week Martha is planning to have Kate Moss on to discuss garnishing a plate with powdered sugar.

I want to be on that Martha Stewart show so badly. I write them every day, telling them about whatever trumped up talent I can think of. I feel certain they would like to have me and all the fat kids on the show, and then I will trick the fat kids by making a cookie recipe with applesauce instead of pork fat, and they will cry, right on TV. And Martha will laugh, because I am sure she does not like fat kids any more than Anna Wintour does. She should have Anna on that same show, and they will practice sealing envelopes with only disapproving thoughts.

Have I been spending too much time on Crackster?

Uncategorized

I am going to an event sponsored by my college alumni association. I can’t believe I just typed that. I have the networking fever. They are going to be so disappointed when I show up in my bathrobe. But that’s what all people wear to work, right? Right!

I am wearing socks and a giant t-shirt today. But gee, my hair looks terrific. My beloved stylist fixed it yesterday, and together we cursed local stylist to the four winds. OMG post pics. Who, me? Stop talking to yourself. Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself.

Today in angry, fabricated letters

Uncategorized

Dear Vomitola:

Didn’t you swear you’d never post again? Why are you still here, annoying us all?

-Irritable Internets

Dear I.I.:

The ombudsman writes: The owner of this website is a filthy, pill-popping slattern. It is all we can do to see that she showers daily. Right now, she is in the corner playing with her toes. When she gets a notion to share, there is just no stopping her. We’ve tried.

-Ombudsman, Vomitola.com

Dear Vomitola:

have you really nothing better to do than write on the internet? Don’t you know people are dying? Also, is the Miele washer really worth the money?

-Holier than YOU

Dear HTY:

The ombudsman writes: The Miele washer looks nice in the stainless finish. There is also a button that one may press which will open the door. One may find this convenient. Also, it purports to handle Heavy Soil, which is a must around here. As far as the ombudsman can discern, no one has died because of this particular brand of washer.

-Ombudsman, Vomitola.com

Indianpeopleloveus.com

Uncategorized,

This morning Mr. H and I attended an Indian birthday party. We made up fifty percent of the white people in attendance. People asked us “Is this your first Indian event?” No, we’ve got a few Hindu weddings and birthday parties under our belts, and no, they aren’t any louder than Mr. H’s family on a slow day.

The Other White People kept following us around, and it was really embarassing. Those damn honkies kept asking what the food was.

“What’s this garbanzo bean thing?”
“It’s chana masala,” I said.
“What is this spice? It’s soooo spicy. Is it curry?”
“No, it’s chili powder and garam masala.”
An Indian bystander: “Ooh, she knows what it is!”  Food of many lands, I salute you. You might as well be octopus eyes, chana masala. I’ll eat the hell out of you anyway. Me eat everything. The worst food I ever had in my life came from the Cheesecake Factory. It was worse than that time I accidentally ate the moldy yogurt.

Internet, I am just wasting time waiting for the architect. Then we are off to the high seas! We will probably only eat White People Food for the rest of the weekend. Boring.

Blimey

Uncategorized, ,

Hey lipsmackers, I am on a spree. I wrote a really snotty email to Banana Republic the other day about their half-assed use of CSS in their redesign, and they wrote back personally and thanked me for finding something they hadn’t tested. Dawww you guys! Hire me, and I will tell you how to fix it too. Until then, I remain a crank on the internet.

I have another nasty letter out to UrbanBaby.com for not replying with their daily newsletter ad rates for one of my clients. Oh, you feel left out? You want a nasty letter too? Consider this entire website that nasty letter.

The next poison missive from the desk of Oh No You Di’n’t goes to: my hair stylist. Oh, sweet Boston stylist, I never should have left you. I am going back to you next week, if you will have me, for I just received the worst possible hair cut. I do not think I have had a hair cut this bad since my sainted mother strapped me into the swing set and stuck a bowl on my head. This one is close, in that it stops abruptly under my ears while continuing to drape down my back. Yet it blossoms forth in such a way that my head looks like a triangle screwed onto my shoulders. I am not sure how my now ex-stylist did this, because she barely removed any hair. I just shuddered and gaped, and she said “You’re going to make me cry,” and I said “Likewise!” I am not sure how these things happen, but they should not happen to me.

Oh, it’s been like three weeks. I am OVER that hurricane! What hurricane? Exactly.

The new phonebooks are here! The new phonebooks are here!

Uncategorized, , ,

It is a red letter day already here in sunny Vomitsville. After I got back from having the dealer fix the perma-locked car door, physician I decided it was high time I paid the car insurance this month. The things a mind does think. So I headed downstairs to mail it (I hope pressing a blank check to my forehead, malady thinking “car insurance,” and dropping it in the outgoing box works; Zellweger usually handles these things for me, but she is on a zen retreat).

And lo, there on my doorstep was my powerbook, like some kind of bastard foundling. It was so nice of Apple to warn me they were shipping it back from Rancho Relaxo, and so nice of DHL to, you know, ring the doorbell or something, instead of leaving a several thousand dollar piece of equipment with a “signature required” sticker on it out in the open. No harm done, right, Pants? Pants? Are you there? I missed you so. Mommy did so much while you were gone. Mommy got some new pain pills, and mommy even thought about making dinner.

Yes, I did think about making dinner. I went so far as to add wasabi to the mashed potatoes someone else was cooking. This was grueling. I had to lie on the floor until things stopped spinning. The cat came by and considered eating my left eye, but then I moved and ruined everything. So now she sulks, and I sit on the highest chair in the house to avoid her.

Oh, internets, I can’t stay mad at you!

Uncategorized, , ,

I want to get on with my life, I rilly rilly do, but how can I when there is breaking Zellweger news? It’s bad enough that Britney’s heartburn and upset stomach turned out to be pregnancy. I think Preston is a great name for a baby. This name is shared by the chicken farmer who lived down the road from me during my childhood.

La Zell has split up with the man who brought us songs like “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”  I don’t like to make fun of adults with good intentions who made decisions they now regret, unless they are a part of FEMA. I make terrible decisions all the time. Just ask me how!

In other news, did anyone catch that last issue of BusinessWeek? Woo fucking boy. The “Sleepless Nights” infographic is amazing.

I’m thinking for my next life, I will buy Videodiarrhea.com and just show a web cam day of me doing something boring around the house. Watch me order Tamiflu online. Watch me practice huddling under my desk. Watch me flirt shamelessly with the DHL guy. This will expose the crushing pointlessness of blogs and modern life, and maybe make me some money if I take my top off every hour on the hour.