All posts by Licketysplit

Where do bad folks go when they die?

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Still in the future here. Looking good, looking good. Cars don’t fly, but all the highways are underground now. Also, I live in Canada. Did I ever tell you that story about moving to Canada? It was way back in ought-seven, and I sneaked over the border after killing a trucker. I had to survive the first few cold nights inside an elk carcass. I eventually got a job sewing fake Kenneth Cole shoes.

Oh. None of this ever happened, you say? That’s too bad. I always have super vivid dreams, and sometimes I’ll think of some piece of a dream and have to remind myself “Naw, you did not really push that person into a volcano.” It’s a bummer.

These days I have this new thing where I do whatever I want as it occurs to me. It’s going well so far. My wants are few. Today I wanted chocolate chip cookies, so I bought some. I’m also enrolling in off-shore medical school. My experience in the ER proved without a shadow of a doubt that I have the right stuff to be a doctor. Yes, follow my finger. I diagnosed the child in the next room with a case of poor lineage, and I gave myself a skull and crossbones tattoo with Betadine. I also diagnosed several people in the waiting room with obesity.

Go to a lake of fire and fry

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Content Challenge is not going well. This is Monday’s post, written in the future on Wednesday. No es bueno! I have zero inclination to get photos out of the camera. So I’m going to vamp for a paragraph and then churn out Tuesday’s entry. The internet is such a dang sweatshop. I’m saying yes, yes, yes when I should be saying no. But hey, if a six-year-old can make my shirt, surely I can — hey, why isn’t iTunes playing through the stereo correctly? WTF. Some of us have problems here. Well, not as bad as yours. Or yours. But you’ll never even understand you have a problem, so it’s all good. I’m going to put this cable into this hole and see what happens.

Diagnosis: delicious

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I seem to be operating on some kind of tape delay. This is yesterday’s post (Sunday), but I am writing it today (Monday) about events that happened today. We have a slingshot-around-the-sun situation on our hands. Are you with me? Follow my finger. Left…right…up…down. Ok, now touch your left index finger to my index finger and then touch your nose. Back and forth. Quickly now.

I had planned to saddle the internet with an extensive pictorial on my current lack of a hairstyle, but things happen, and we spent the day in various waiting rooms while Mr. H got expensive medical tests. They still don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s not the di-uh-beet-us or a stroke. Time in the ER waiting room operates on a different frequency. Ellen came on the TV, but the wall clock still read 10:55. No es possible! Rather than puzzle through this break in the space-time continuum, I busied myself learning Tagalog from the “Your right to a medical interpreter” poster.

Tomorrow (Yesterday today): hair. I am tired. Good evening. I’m going to press against the palms of your hand now. Push back, hard. Good, good.

Take me out

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Forgive me, for I ate a plum, and it wasn’t that delicious. Some people have all the luck. I have already failed at Daily Content Challenge, but I am going to back-date this and carry on with a stiff upper lip. You are so polite that you will pretend not to notice. I’m the president; you’re FOX News!

Yesterday my horoscope warned “If you take a risk (with your life) you could end up in the hospital; this is especially true toward the evening.” Normally I scoff at death, but I was supposed to attend a minor league baseball game that evening. Oh! Would I be killed by a t-shirt cannon? Trampled by the Canaligator? It was AARP hat night, and I inspected the cap for hidden poisoned needles or molecules of bird flu or old age (di-uh-beet-us). The Spinners team logo is a bat spooled with yarn, to celebrate the rich textile mill heritage of Lowell, but this particular personalized hat was stitched in China, thanks to some inscrutable combo of Cisco routers and slave labor. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

The boring conclusion is that I did not die at all, not even during the brief thunderstorm that passed overhead. It took me until the third inning to realize the game had started, because that’s how gripping the play is. I ate one jumbo grilled dog, with ketchup (catsup) and mustard. Was it really a dog? We can’t be picky. I also had a Red Hook ESB in a plastic cup. This heightened my enjoyment of Dizzy Bat. Later I had bites of ice cream and funnel cake. Holy fuck. I thought the funnel cake might be the instrument of my death, but I guess the obesity virus takes a long time to make its stranglehold known.

Then I used the power of my mind to hurt a particularly annoying child. This effort took until the sixth inning. He was jumping up and down, and when he attempted to plop back into his seat, the seat had conveniently folded into a closed position. So he fell on his ample little rump. My companions laughed at his misfortune. Don’t tell me it was coincidence. Nothing is a coincidence.

Supertanker

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Internet, let’s talk about my hair and hard times. Normally I prefer to frequent a salon where they bring you espresso and dole out near-orgasmic scalp massages. It is the happiest place on earth. However, the repeated experience sets me back over a thousand dollars a year, and I’m not even including parking or gasoline mileage. And color is another several hundred at least. So I realized this all makes me a Bad Person, and here I sit with grown out layers and visible white hairs. I am going to the cheapo local salon to have a white stripe dyed down the middle of my head, like skunk. The savings are substantial.

Suffering from existentialism also costs money. Did you know I used to be crazy for free? I know, like peasant. Weekly therapy is fifteen bucks a whack, plus fifteen for the psych-pharm guy, plus thirty-five for assorted medications. If I went back to just lying on the floor and kicking when I felt extra anxious, I could save over $100 a month! I think I will get right on that. Poor decisions are my right as an American. Drink more potato wine, peasant.

My eyesight is terrible in my old age. I cover up by buying enormous sunglasses so no one can see me squint. This also saves on Botox. Also, I don’t eat unless someone makes or opens the food for me, so that cuts down on the food bill. I have a system here, people.

What do you do to save money? Expired can goods? Unlicensed plastic surgery? I want to know!

Beads that sparkle like a prism, snake oil for your rheumatism

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OMG, I am the worst captor ever! I left my Zellweger at a rest stop two weeks ago. Didn’t even notice until the laundry started piling up. Well, hell. She must have gnawed off her ankle bracelet, because I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she was put off by Theater in the Car. I think I was doing selections from Gigi that week.

And today I slept in, only to wake up to more perplexing acts of human awfulness. The mind reels. Should I go back to bed? Should I spend quality time staring into my new 10x magnifying mirror? Should I delete all these emails from MoveOn.org and NARAL hectoring me about the supreme court? Should I purchase a trailer in the woods? Should I stick my head in the oven? No, because the oven is filthy since I had to let the help go. Oh balls, I’m sure I’ll think of something. A telethon! Tom Cruise is in charge of the phone bank. The prescription for PTSD is long walks on the beach and a tinfoil helmet.

You can’t get a hug from a mug with a slug

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Oh internet, I’m in pain. Why does my body fight me so? Do I not ply it with cookies? Do I not sing it show tunes while driving in the car? I give, and I give. This week’s car theater theme is “the wild, wild west.” O! Klahoma. And so much more.

Another installment of Complain and Ye Shall Receive: there was a dead bug on the bathroom floor for a few days. Rather than remove it, I chose to complain about it and leave it there. Choices. We all make them sometimes. I suppose it’s a poor one to stage a contest of will with a dead bug, but there you have it. The bug held ground admirably. Then yesterday I was vindicated because the cat sauntered in and ate it, clean as a whistle.

Today’s contest: me vs. the printer/copier.

Where’s my satan flag

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Well, I survived another spectacular weekend. I endured food, lovely weather, people, outfits, things, and stuff. I was displeased that no one lost a thumb in the amateur fireworks derby down the street. I live for the day I can scoop up an errant knee cap and spirit it home to my freezer. “Why no, I did not see your body part. Oh, that must smart!”

Mr. H emailed me from the next room to remind me that he started a blog. He also requires more orange juice and some soy creamer. So far, he has managed to post a few photos and the equivalent of “hello, world,” but I have faith that I will boot him in the ass until he says something of substance. I am not so sure I will get his orange juice. What am I, the help? I am not helpful.

Little does he realize that blogging is hard, much like being president. I think about Iraq every day. I also think about my hair. It’s hard to write something that makes absolutely no sense at regular intervals. Making sense is for masochists.

Your daddy’s rich, and your mama’s good looking

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It’s July, hi, hi. A Boston terrier moved in across the street. I asked him if he knows Goblin Foo. He said “Who doesn’t?”

In addition to the dog, people moved into the new condos as well. I set up a lawn chair out front and loudly rated everyone’s furniture as it came off the moving trucks. One credenza was so unsightly that I tipped it into the river when the movers were taking a break. You’re welcome! It’s called a favor in my country. A mitzvah.

In another act of great magnanimity, I taught a baby to swear. I am here for you.

I don’t understand why my good deeds go unrewarded. The Swedish car assembled in Japan has a big crack in the windshield. Maybe this is God’s way of letting me know I should let the air out of Drunk Upstairs Cheryl’s tires.

Lahge regulah coconut iced cawfee

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I sin; I sin; I sip the flavored coffee. It was a gift. Patience is a gift. I have it coming out my ears, thanks to these vitamins. I woke up in the night at the moment the power fizzed out because I feel absence acutely. Nothing is always scarier than something.

Mr. H was reading this doomed personal internet homepage the other day, and he was rather crestfallen when he realized I was mocking Tom Cruise in the post where I was blathering about how lucky I am to be married. AMAZING. But the dirty secret is that everything I wrote was true. Normal people just aren’t supposed to be effusive. We must hide our light under the bridge with the rest of the trolls. O, grimy peasants of the internet, do not fear my bliss. Embrace it, and perhaps it will rub off on you, the toiling masses. In your nascent apprehension, already you must have realized that I regularly eat delicious things for dinner with a man I love. It is not so shocking.

Ehhhhhhhh, how you say. What else. Nothing and something had a race. Something won. The heat is talking. I swan.