All posts by Licketysplit

Celebrity skin

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It occurred to me that I refuse to actually achieve anything in my life because I still consider fame a viable career option. One of these days, I’m going to get swept up in the current and deposited on Oprah. I swear. Certainly, this would be more difficult if I had the entanglements of a real career. Luckily, I am generally fancy free, although one client just accepted my ridiculous total whore price for what promises to be the most annoying job in history. I am going to word the contract so I can fire him at any time. And Mr. H can feed the cat if I am called to Hollywood.

I realized that I am ill-prepared for fame, so I decided to create a Learning Annex-style crash course on how to handle it.

Part One: Dealing with unwanted attention

I decided to stalk myself. I started by going through the trash. The bathroom trash is really not that interesting. It’s mostly dental floss, and tissues with odd stains on them. Is it blood? Makeup? What? You all have these tissues, do not try to act like you don’t. The kitchen trash was the motherlode. It was filled to the brim with liquor bottles, pregnancy tests, rubber gloves, and empty pill bottles. Great! Now I know the name of my pharmacist. I photographed everything. I left Zellweger a note to shred everything, even the banana peels.

Then I decided to practice my expression for when I’m photographed on the sly. I sat in the living room with a camera for what seemed like forever, but I didn’t spot myself. Finally, I caught myself in the bathroom mirror. Augh! I look so fat! The camera is adding ten pounds. Nevermind! Composure. Happy place. I took my shirt off and pretended I was on a yacht. Composure.

As I left for the grocery store, I put on my largest pair of sunglasses and a fur bikini top. I threw red paint on myself as I was distracted by fumbling with the car remote. That’ll teach me! Never again will I let my guard down.

Then I was recognized at Starbucks. “Your drink will be up at the bar, Licketysplit!” And then again, “I have a soy latte for Licketysplit! Have a good day, Licketysplit!” My God, can’t these people see I am just out for a quiet afternoon? There’s a time and a place for fawning over a celebrity. Composure! I smiled graciously and adjusted my sunglasses. I pulled out a Sharpie and signed the bar. I’m sure they’ll want to hang it on the wall in a glass case now.

Tomorrow: Part Two: Money management

It was easy! Because In stinked.

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Gah, internet, gah. I woke up with my head wrapped up in the covers, like mummy. I think I was secretly trying to smother myself. I don’t know what’s up with the universe these days. I am constantly spotting 11:11 on the clocks, and last time that happened, we spent our life savings. Who needs Vegas when one comes factory-equipped with a lifetime supply of stupid ideas?

Some things are clearing up, however. The battle of the printer was won decisively, by getting a new one and kicking the old one. The mystery of “Who’s Been Pooping on the Stairs?” was solved. It was the woodchuck all along! And I thought it was the raccoon. A real novice move. And I wondered where the clean laundry was hiding, but Zellweger left it in the dryer.

Hey, let’s talk childhood. I was on the phone with my mom the other day, and we got to discussing my old drawings. I asked “Do you mean the Easter Island ones?” She read me and Loves-the-Bus the story of Thor Heyerdahl, and since I couldn’t sit still, I was allowed to draw. I drew the natives skulking through underground tunnels and rolling logs under those giant stone heads.

No, my mom was referring to the drawings she made me do for a contest. A children’s theater company in Richmond selected a drawing for the cover of the program for each season’s production. I recall determinedly scribbling about Cinderella and Pinocchio and Peter Pan and Charlie’s Angels. And then my mom said “And your drawings were so wonderful, so full of life.”

“Yeah? Well how come I never won?” That used to burn my ass every time I saw some other kid’s drawing on the next cover. Even at age six, I had a strong sense of injustice.

“I don’t know, I guess they never had the same feeling after I made you go back and correct them.”

“You what?”

“It was like your pencil never left the paper on your first pass. You just had all these details in your head, and you just let them flow. So I’d have you go back and straighten out lines and things like that. You always drew windows crooked.”

“….”

Ethicist: should I bill her for therapy, plus my usual hourly consulting rate for time spent in therapy?

Already today

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I ate a mildly fermented orange. Will this kill me?

I directed a whore who is new in town to a place to get her acrylic nails repaired.

I stocked up on a whole ton of birth control for the day it is declared illegal.

The cat punctured my exercise ball. I shouldn’t have thrown her anywhere near it. Now I realize all the howling was just to warn me not to eat the deadly orange. Sorry, Cat Lassie. Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.

I had my hair cut by the Sally Hershberger of Lowell. Next week she is going to bring out my inner bottle blonde. No wonder that whore sought me out. While I was in the salon, a man came in and assumed the asian stylist did massages. What an assumption! I know she really runs a counterfeit Harry Potter ring out of the back of the place.

Zellweger forgot to add fabric softener.

Ghost thought

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I am writing this, but someone else is thinking it for me. At last, at last. Outsourcing thought is amazing. All it took was getting stuck in a thunderstorm. Safest place is in the car, my ass. I should have worn my jacuzzi suit. Ghost thinker is writing down a memo. No, ghost thinker is making me use the voice memo feature on my phone. Thanks!

Earlier I was at the market, and there was a big pile of Harry Potter books on the floor. They were marked down to $10. How could I resist? I bet these are illegal Harry Potters, written in a sweatshop in China. The stitching will break down after one washing. So far, the plot isn’t what I expected. Harry Potter has returned to the king with the swords of several famous assassins, and he’s going on and on about he slew them. The king is skeptical. Jet Li is there.

Nobody’s perfect, not even meeeeeeeeeeeee

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I’m hungry. Also, I just moisturized. The internet deserves to know. I probably should not post while hungry. I probably shouldn’t post at all. I have a pasta deficiency. And a cookie deficiency. I ran out. It’s like Darfur over here.

What is the most offensive thing I can possibly say? I am not sure, but I’ll know it when I get there. Should I go with a fat joke, an ethnic joke, a handicapped joke, or just make throw-up sounds? The sky truly is the limit in Content Challenge.

Mr. H had some fancy test at the hospital today, and they said he is still most likely not dying. They stuck needles in his arm and passed an electric current through a spot on the arm marked with an X. The verdict: he did not enjoy this much. Maybe they could jazz up this test, like an episode of Fear Factor. Tank of electric eels, please! I used my medical training to diagnose some people in the waiting room as elderly. Later, on the drive home, I diagnosed someone as a douche bag. The telltale sign of this disorder is total disregard for the turn signal.

Sunday, sunday, sunday

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At this point, the casual reader of Content Challenge is probably far more taxed than the writer. See, I can just say any old stupid thing, and it ostensibly counts. Maybe I am expressing myself. OK, I’m so not. Hazelnut beer is being consumed. I’m watching an old episode of America’s Next Top Model as I type. Whatever happened to Yoanna anyway? Haha, you totally just read all that. I offer no refunds, since this is free “content.”

OK, I’m sorry. I love you! I’ll Zellweger you all tomorrrow.

We went furniture shopping again, and it was an eye-popping experience. Willy Wonka was showing on the IMAX screen in the store (yes, really), and grubby children swarmed around with chocolate smeared all over their faces from the free Wonka bars. People appeared to be using the available wheelchairs and scooters to get around the store just because they don’t like to walk. Yeah, and I get sick of breathing. But somehow I soldier on. Oh my gawd, Yoanna can’t walk her way out of a paper bag. She would be so fierce on a Rascal scooter.

I’m a planner

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Later I plan to be very drunk.

Last night I shared a bed with a seven-year-old, a la Michael Jackson. Or not. But someone decided sleeping on the floor in a Disney Princess sleeping bag is scary, and our creepy old house is, well, creepy. Just because bats sometimes roost in the rafters, and the place is haunted. So we watched the bonus DVD of The Incredibles approximately twelve times until the whimpering stopped. For once, I’m not talking about Mr. H. His niece and nephew were over for a sleepover as part of a long-promised birthday gift for his brother. The rightful parents managed to sleep until 8:30 this morning, which is about two hours better than I did. Urchins! I mean choir of angels.

I’ve been thinking about children a lot since a close friend is soon to deliver (a human baby). I am reading a book called The Birth Partner in preparation for the big event. So far, reading has consisted of opening the book to an illustration and yelling “euuuuaaghhhh!” and then making Mr. H look at it. I think I’m supposed to be there to keep my friend from punching someone. Every time I see her, I stifle the urge to shriek “Boil some water!” or “I don’t know nuthin’ about birthin’ no babies!” But I keep it together because I know she’d hit me. And she’d have the right to give it back even worse some day. Perhaps when I’m sitting in the V.I.P. lounge at the airport, sipping a drink while my purchased child is trundled off the plane on the luggage conveyer. Oh. You say they let children fly in the main cabin these days? I wouldn’t know; I am always schnockered on tranquilizers during flights.

Oh, but I jest. Someday we may inadvertently create life. Scratch that, I am going to get so, so pregnant! Probably while drunk. I can’t wait to lie to a child of my own. I told li’l nephew to concentrate on turning on the DVD player with the power of his mind while Mr. H used the power of the remote to turn it on, and the kid totally bought it. Later, a woodchuck came up to the deck door. Nephew screeched “What’s THAT!” The animal released his bowels and ran off, and we told the lad it was a river chipmunk.

And this concludes another episode of Bad Idea Theatre.

Candy, candy, candy, I can’t let you go

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Cat post! The topical is sooooo…don’t make me say it…irrelevant.

Coco is currently enjoying: Like Treats – Brewer’s Yeast & Garlic from Castor & Pollux Pet Works. I must also speak highly of their litter and Organix pet food. That’s right, worms, I order cat litter from the internet. She don’t like the cheap stuff.

Second part of the post: today I drove by a sign that read “RUMP.” It was supposed to say “BUMP,” but someone took a liberty. This made me laugh aloud. I also enjoy it when lettering is rearranged to say “ASS” in any context.

Third part of the post: Yesterday was Bastille Day, but I totally refrained from commenting on it, because I knew I would do it in the future! How’s that for efficiency.

Fourth part of the post: Some jwerk insinuated that writing many posts at a time and backdating them is cheating at Content Challenge. Well, of course it is! I’m the president. And while I may have taken a bit of a spill, I will still finish the race with head held high and socks filling with blood.

Mama’s little baby loves diesel, diesel

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I am so in the wrong line of non-work. During a lull in my breakfast of cookies, I read an article entitled Unborn babies carry pollutants, study finds. I was intrigued! Do they carry them in adorable little gingham rucksacks or perhaps in their swim bladders? Do they swallow them in condom balloons and try to act casual in the Miami airport?

The first sentence is certainly alarming: “Unborn U.S. babies are soaking in a stew of chemicals, including mercury, gasoline byproducts and pesticides, according to a report released on Thursday.”

Then they go on to mention that this data was collected from ten (10) samples of cord blood. That’s ten (10) samples. This is the same group that came out with the study last year on chemicals in breast milk that had some moms I know going “OMGWTFBBQ, my milk is made of oven cleaner!” And while no one wants to baste her fetus in methylmercury, one must wonder where these ten (10) mothers sampled lived? Next door to a Superfund site? Three Mile Island? Under the Jersey Turnpike, that’s it. Maybe C.H.U.D.s are not the ideal population for study.

Ah, Amurrica. I don’t doubt that our environmental laws are ridiculous, that everything gives you cancer, and that every day I am ingesting at least a Big Gulp worth of pure poison, but since when is ten (10) samples a reasonable study? I am going to get in on this hot study action. Did you know that one out of one cats in this household does not like wheat litter? One out of one husbands enjoys preparing grilled food (rife with carcinogens!). One out of one questionably employed wives spends too much time on the internet. Why, that’s 100%! Where is my sponsorship? I’m saving lives here, jerks.

Everything’s up-to-date in Kansas City

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Oh, bitches, please. It’s finally Wednesday, July 13th, 2005. Do I look older? No, really. You are lying. Don’t flatter me, toady. I can see it when I look in the mirror. Do you see these white hairs? Look, this tooth is hanging by a thread, and even a liberal coating of vaseline won’t help my under-eye furrows. Christ, these forehead lines are like twin Mariana Trenches. Since when did I turn into Joan Rivers? This must be a side effect of all my exposure to the elderly lately. Shoulda worn a mask.

So, in the spirit of making ridiculous decisions, I finally found a surgeon who will take off my little toes. You have no idea how happy this makes me. Would you believe I found him in the back of Boston Magazine? There are a lot of questions you have to ask a doctor when you meet him or her for the first time. I like to start with “Have you been to medical school?” However, that’s not a dealbreaker since I know I am adept at many medical procedures just from watching the surgery channel. It’s good to have standards, but let’s not be Nazis.

A friend needs to find a pediatrician for her soon-to-be-pupated larva, and I came up with a handy interrogation list for her: “Have you ever removed a tail? Describe the ugliest child you’ve ever seen. What does foreskin taste like, anyway?” She never got to ask these because some other couple rambled on during the group information session about dumb things like vaccinations. NEXT! I can’t wait to teach her baby to swear and mix momma drinks.