Election? As in, pill for people? I thought we were meant to be choosing between fear and sanity?
But I am an American voter, which means I suffer from a general confusion and an inability to distinguish between concepts. Point me toward the totalitarian libertarians! What if I prefer a fearless sort of insanity? I ENJOY YELLING. Where is MY candidate?
It has come to our attention at Vomitola HQ that there is a national day of election tomorrow. Apparently there is a nascent party that favors lapsang souchong and stockading gay people, which is as contradictory a message as we could find.
Anyway, I like to poach scallops in a spot of lapsang broth myself, so I thought maybe I could focus only on their fiscal conservative angle. After all, who isn’t using a pinch less caviar in these troubled times? I am no scientist, but I think it tastes just as nice that way. However, I soon realized that these otherwise upstanding tea-favoring people believe Glenn Beck is serious!
We admit we are not even sure who is running tomorrow. It seems to be one giant free-for-all at this point. The names of the crazier people who stick out as, well, crazier people include Christine O’Donnell and Sharron Angle. Sarah Palin may or may not be running for something. Bristol Palin is running for Queen of the Danceteria. We shall go out on a limb and predict: a sweeping victory for the mentally interesting.
Although we may be able to prevent the Bristol thing if we vote as one nation for that nice Jennifer Grey. Nobody puts Baby in a corner!
Battle kittens, we went trick or treating with Steve Strange. Look, that’s yours truly with the little mustache!
We called Steve back from safari only to cause him great psychic trauma when we found the the local politician’s haunted donut cavern was shuttered. Not running for re-election. Oh well. Democrats used to stand for free donuts for all, but what of this year? Are times really that tough? Are we just a bunch of poverty stricken Roombas zooming around, moaning about a little cat shit in our path, while other people flaunt ungrammatical signs about Obama making us MARRY OUR SISTAR? It’s time for a rally, my little wasabi peas.
Dear Steve Strange,
I think I have forgotten the capacity to love another human being after a few emotionally tumultuous years. I don’t know if I’m depressed or if having such a character flaw is depressing! Or are my family and friends just that awful? One of them snores, and another interrupts constantly, and yet another taps his teeth with his fork by accident with each bite he takes. And then there are those people from the tea party railing about. I want to start a new life under a new name, where none of them will ever find me. Is being a hermit a viable option these days? I just don’t care at all, Steve.
-Faded to Grey
Dear Faded:
You know, I try to be rather a kind human being, having experienced some humbling times in my own life, but really, you make me sodding sick. Sicker than cold turkey heroin withdrawal while tied to a bed.
You are speaking with a man who has been in a hot air balloon and spent £100,000 on drugs in under one year. ONE year! Have you ridden an elephant? Bedded Robert Palmer? I thought not. I don’t want to hear one more measly whimper about whether or not your life is dismal. It is. Let’s sally forth operating under that impression.
As for the people in your life, if they are putting up with you, you should assume they are even worse than you, and you should sack them. As for this tea party, well, a party always cheers me up, so why not have at it? Where do you store your doilies and your glitter cannon?
love, Steve Strange
*advice is intended for entertainment purposes only. is there any purpose save entertainment?*
Ok, internet, I am here to GUSH. Did I have a child and experience a love heretofore impossible to imagine? Did I quit my job? Did I get a dog and dress it up as a sailor? No, no, and sadly, painfully, no. But I did see Pee Wee Herman on Broadway with one of my oldest and dearest friends. And though we greeted him with the shrieks of adoring children who have not forgotten their favorite, bizarre-o playmate, this was no nostalgia tour or Star Wars Christmas Special. Pee Wee looked amazing, and genuinely brought the funny with his mild, delicious misanthropy. He greeted us at the stage door, all charm and politeness.
I don’t want to detail the show, because the run has been extended to Jan. 2 and it really is a must see. Miss Yvonne and the Jambi the O.G. (original genie) were on board for the production*. I feel droolingly gleeful about shouting
mekka lekka hy mekka heiny ho
mekka lekka hy mekka chonny ho
in public. It was not just me who left the theater jumping up and down and grinning for miles. Across the aisle from us was the double rainbow guy, judging from his enthusiasm. For me, moments of true happiness, untainted by wistfulness or some darker feeling, are so rare, so unbelievably rare, it is sad. AUGGH. Ruined it.
*I do feel it incumbent upon me to mention that Laurence Fishburne did not reprise Cowboy Curtis himself. Excuse me, Larry, you got something better to do? Counting your matrix money and tracking down your daughter’s porn must keep you pretty busy, admittedly.
OK, rodents, I already posted this to my super secret personal internet homepage, but I think it bears repeating for a wider audience.
Mr. H told me a funny story the other night. I treated him to “Wackity-Schmackity Doo” because that’s been stuck in my head for days, thanks to Lambchop, and he told me about this guy at work that says “bee-booo” if you ask him how his day is going, but there is a poor result on that particular day.
“Bee-booo” harks back to a time the guy left his Roomba running, and he and his wife went out for the night and came home to find the Roomba, marooned in the corner, jammed with cat shit, yes, after tracking it all over the house, just mournfully moaning “bee-booo, bee-booo.” Sad Roomba beats sad Keanu! So we all have it better than a Roomba, I hope.
Bee-booo.
Do we, George, do we? Do we have it better than a Roomba? Times are tight all over. Lambchop and I are literally scrivening our fingers to the bone like regular Bartlebys. We couldn’t even afford to go see BEDBUGS, the musical!
What’s that, you say, you saw us out brunching last week? We have been known to enjoy a spot of brunch. And besides, that was the V-2 summit. Those summits are always catered! Where else did you see us? Were you hiding behind a mailbox or popping out of a trash can? We wouldn’t put it past you.
Now I have to go Photoshop sad Keanu onto Morrissey’s back. THANKS ALOT.
We could not rest on the glory of our V2 Summit, for the sea ice is melting and Marc Bolan is still dead! So we hit the Georgetown Martini and Rossi circle and attended our friends at a State Dinner at the White House. Imagine our astonishment when that nice young man, Barack Obama, said he did not know us! Hand to heaving bosom, we really know how Snooki must have felt. Which usually only happens when we are searching for our missing underwear.
When you have egg on your face, make béarnaise! People, we have to rectify the situation of our comparative obscurity. Morrissey is depending on us! So we look to you, gentle readers. Please continue to enjoy a spot of vomitola, and tell your friends. And when you submit to our ads of interest and click our links to our other sites or buy our comely vomitola wares, you put porridge in Lambchop’s mouth. Which god knows she needs, because if you leave her to her own devices she will subsist on candy canes. Spread the love, and pass the Vomitola.
We are entering the bespoke t-shirt business!
It’s about time. We have Ideas. And Opinions. And what better way to share than the venerable yet humble message t-shirt? Make one for your dog today!
It was what it was.
And don’t forget about the Meta Mug. There’s a story to go with this one. That we will never, ever tell you. Try this one on a stein.
Although we can see Russia from right over here, sometimes the great heads of state must convene. And so with much fanfare and slicing of cantaloupe for continental breakfast, did Licketysplit journey from the New England seat of Vomitola to its New York office. Apparently the world has problems that not even Steve Strange can solve. Everywhere one is met with Audio/Visual Terror! Filthy, stringy men in fishnet quartershirts play bucket drums, people screech about poor cell phone connections, a terrier will stop and crap right in front of you! And so we pored over a hefty agenda that included staring out over the East River, gadding, lolling, letting you live (however ill-advised) and climate change (there was some). Of course, anytime the V2 unites there is bound to be dissent. Some of you do not approve of our zero tolerance policy toward mom-jeanshorts while others fight for the right to employ the term “irregardless”.
Over the hubbub of protest, much progress was made. We diagnosed ourselves with Asperger’s through a helpful online quiz, and, after much careful debate, determined that:
“At the end of the day, it is what it is.”
The controversy of who is “The Mary” continued, with Licketsplit gaining the upper hand in designating Lambchop “The Mary”.
This matter is far from over. Look for Lambchop to declare Licketysplit “The Mary” in the future. Will it be skywritten, will it be etched into the nose of a neutron bomb dropped on a muslim country? Every nation is permitted its secrets!
At last it was time for the summit to adjourn for the Veuve had been drained, the last goose slain, and the flag bunting due back at the rental. Your Lambchop is quite bereft, but I have decided to follow all those thoughtful reader suggestions on how to handle depression. I joined a club! Just waiting for everyone else to show up.
