Tag Archives: celebrity!

What Would Vomitola Do?

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Some of you may be wondering what it’s like to be Vomitola. It’s rigorous, for starters.

The other day I was at Target buying a huge monstrosity pack of toilet paper, and I was feeling rather grumpy about the whole endeavor, but then I realized I was the silly person who insists on dabbling in the work of the normal, and I could have sent my assistant.  Suddenly the whole errand became a lark! How exciting to get out and mingle with the common folk. They’ll go back to their barns and sheds and culverts and hunker down with microwaved meals, but I’ll get to go home and be me! It is not possible to have pleasure without a little suffering, even if the suffering is the exclusive domain of Target shoppers who are not I.

If I keep my sunglasses on, there is a good chance I won’t even get recognized. The perfect crime!

Every morning, I sleep in, and then Mr. H prepares me a cup of coffee. He was supposed to go to Finland this week, and I was already quailing at the prospect of making my own coffee. It is simply impossible. If I didn’t have people, I don’t know what. Well, I would use my natural pluck and intellect and charm to find more people, that’s what.

Still in my dressing gown, I drape myself languidly at my desk, congratulating myself on its understated style. I open iTunes and inevitably blast a little Visage. A rightfully adoring subject gave me one of these babies, so of course I have the highest quality musical experience one can have with a laptop. Top shelf, all the way. I summon my accountants and have them peer into the money bin, and then I reflect on what needs to be accomplished for the day. Then I assign those tasks to other people, although if they don’t want to be fired, they should have already known what they needed to do.

Mr. H is in awe of my wakeless path through the storms of fortune each day, and he consulted me about a work-related matter. Work is such a groggy and distant concept, but I thought I’d humor the little jackanapes. It was cute how he screwed up the courage to ask, and the diamond necklace didn’t hurt either. “Tell me about Steve Strange,” he said. I pointed out that Steve once spent more than £100,000 on drugs in under a year. “Well, that priest on the news the other night spent $4,000 per month on porn,” he offered. Oh, darling. No. That’s a mere $48,000 per annum, and think of the exchange rate! Accountant!

After much discussion and careful consideration, he selected the following for the opening screen of a PowerPoint presentation.

Now he will know what it’s like to triumph. He’ll either be fired or promoted to CEO, no doubt.

So next time you’re in a bind, feel free to ask us how to proceed. If there is anything in life we have in spades, it’s ideas! We are imagineers.

In the nudes

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Now that we’re back at the news desk here at Vomitola, propping our feet up and adjusting our green visors, we aim to please! I see from our top searches that all you people have wanted for the past three years is pictures of Adam Ant.

Adam Ant Bio

Well, my little libertines, your wish is our command. We aim to please! We are friend, not foe. Anyway, clicky clicky on that fine image above, and you will purchase yourself a fine copy of Mr. Ant’s autobiography from Amazon. From this we will receive approximately 3 cents. A Place in the Country will soon be ours! We’ll call it Hell’s Eight Acres.

This book is a corker, rest assured. The review blurb calls it ‘A whirlwind story of sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, suicide attempts and deranged stalkers.’ We really ought to sue the book for borrowing so liberally from our own life stories, but that’s a bit too long for a good tagline, so we let them live.

Here is Adam Ant holding a baby in 1993:
Adam Ant - hmv 150 Oxford Street, London 1993

In Vomitola canon law, Adam and the Ants are a political party, historically in opposition to the Morrissey party. In a final insult back in ought-four, The Ants banished the Morrisseys to Canada. So one might imagine that Morrissey should be properly chagrined to discover Adam Ant’s baby-holding antics predated his by a good 15 years:

Morrissey holds a baby

Is that the same baby? How is this possible? This baby is not cowed by Morrissey, however. He sees right through Morrissey’s stance. Adam Ant is laughing all the way to the Human Bondage Den.

Frankly, we’re also a little concerned that our readership apparently hasn’t heard of Google Images for your Ant needs. Here, allow me:  http://lmgtfy.com/?q=adam+ant+pictures

But thanks for stopping in! Next time I’ll put the kettle on.

If, when, why, what?

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My ass has been kiting checks again, if you know what I mean. And I hope you don’t. I have a series of impossible choose-your-own-adventure dealings with which to deal. Please pull up a chair.

The largest problem is probably our ridiculous living situation. Let me tell you it: we live in a beard of bees. No, we live in a loft in a charming old mill with a recycling program and a contentious owner message board, steps from a body of water that did not even flood this year, a lovely park, and old world charm-y cobblestone streets! There are now restaurants where you can get shiso on everything, if that is a kind of thing you like.

In short, my lovely home is a fantastic place for anyone who does not own a toddler. It is RATHER SMALL for raising a team of helper monkeys as well, so be warned. But people are all concerned with “mortgages” and “credit” and “interest rates” and do not seem keen on buying anything these days. That’s too bad. I would like to sell you my bee beard. The bathroom was recently painted by a man who could pass for Perez Hilton. There are numerous other selling points, including the fact that we would get out anytime you wanted, even in the middle of the night, and we would leave any items of furniture you fancied. I might do your grocery shopping and other unpleasant errands for a year. Do you need your taxes done? I got a guy. We recently discovered the image of the Blessed Virgin in the ceiling over our bed, if that helps.

We have hit upon a plan to kidnap Ricky Gervais, namesake of a local car dealership and famous actor/director, before he leaves this lovely town when his movie finishes shooting. He taunts me with posts about using a private jet and house hunting in New York. He clearly has no idea he needs a Lowell pied-à-terre. We will convince him of the beauty of this area by taking him to the Blue Moon, a windowless cinderblock strip club out on 3A, and then to Club Thirtysomething across the way for a nightcap. There you will be able to find a woman with a tattoo reading “The only things getting between my legs are a hard dick or a Harley.” I assure you, she is out there. Then we’ll take a tour of where they print The Lowell Sun. We could start with the proofreading department, but the donkey died several years ago. Very sad.

From there, we’ll attend a Lowell Spinners game, participating triumphantly in dizzy bat, and after this, some skanky townie friend of a relation is probably having a “Jack and Jill” shower at a VFW.

Perhaps some of you more worldly types are concerned and wondering why I am not pushing the martinis and the shiso a bit harder, but honestly, you can get that anywhere. I moved here for the local color, or colour, if you must. I moved here to live next to a minor league ballpark and a methadone clinic. It speaks to me. You just can’t make this crap up, except when you exaggerate a little. You people who can have nice things don’t know what you’re missing.

Situations

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A ybab has learned to say “I don’t like it!” this week. Now everything is “I don’t like it!” Mr. H speculated that she’s just saying it because she can, but I believe that she has been seething for months and has a backlog to work through now that she can express the sentiment properly.

We can’t go do our normal crazy crap this week because there is a movie shooting in LOL, MA. There are trailers and giant heaps of equipment and security guards blocking the way to our STUFF. We have to do our STUFF. This is not fair. If we even attempt to do our stuff, we look like the rest of the slack jawed yokels lining the streets hoping to see people half of them never heard of before. I do not wish to bother anyone, but I do wish to get a snack once in a while. Snacks make the world go ’round. And obese, for that matter.

Yesterday I asked a few different yokels in the space of a block what was going on at the place being filmed. I knew exactly what was going on, but I stayed for the Rashomon-like variations. Apparently there are about 72 different people starring in this movie, for starters. Then I asked if the yokels thought there would be any dogs in this movie. Oh, the opinions! This will be less amusing after a few more days of this.

925: Product Review: The Blendtec Total Blender/That Baby From the Grocery Store

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Recently, my attention was directed to a blender by an alert husband. Because he’s pretty much the only person I’ve talked to this week, except for yelling at the receptionist at my doctor’s office.

Her: “Do you have insurance?”
Me: “DYING! DYING! DYING!” (slumps against wall to make this clear)
Her: “Well, it’s just that what we have on file has expired. Do you want to self-pay?”
Me: (inner monologue) I actually have very fancy insurance. However, husband or husband’s work colluded in such a way that the cards for new job’s insurance have not yet arrived prior to my throat rotting from within. Insurance rep was most unhelpful on the phone, as nature intended. Can I wheedle this frowsy wench into calling them to verify it for me, since I can barely talk?)
Me: “DYING!” (throws checkbook at her head).

This blender, the Blendtec Total Blender, can blend an iPhone. I give them credit for ripping off “Will it float?” from Letterman as “Will it blend?” I also give them credit for blending up a variety of dangerous objects into pure shrapnel pâté. I would buy this product if I ever did anything in the kitchen save rearrange the take out menus. I may buy this product anyway just to blend things. I have a shoe rack I don’t need anymore, but I don’t want to throw it out or summon the mouthbreathers from FreeCycle to my house.

Speaking of mouthbreathers, at the grocery store, I sometimes see really ugly babies. My ybab tends to get many approving looks and comments, for her beauty as well as her poise and charm. “Reeesh?” she might exclaim, magnanimously including the deli counter in a sweeping hand gesture. The market employees know her and come out to see her, summoning others from the back. “SHE’S here!”

Another baby might be waiting in line too, but that other baby is so ugly that he is not even offered free stuff. I look at the other mother, and I think “Wow, that’s what you go home to, lady?” I would pity her, except that emotion demeans us all. Clearly, that other baby is an inferior specimen in many ways even apart from its decided unattractiveness: lolling, drooling, not even making an attempt to communicate or observe its environment. I think of the clever lies we must all tell ourselves, convincing ourselves to get out of bed each morning, no matter how lackluster our lives may be. “But tonight, I will watch that show I like! I may even fast forward the commercials. Except I like that one with the guy who does that thing.” Or perhaps we look forward to using a certain glitter bodywash. I can’t really say. I don’t have these problems. Aside from a little hoof and mouth disease, my life is a dream, something so marvelous it used to be reserved only for people like Pat Sajak.

923: Oh, hell, I should post to my personal internet homepage

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Someone suggested I have Zellweger write a post, but I can’t find her. Other wife keeps piping up while I’m trying to hear Oprah, and she leaves crumbs all over the kitchen floor. I also misplaced our chupacabra, so my ybab is wandering around unfettered, demanding entertainment and sustenance. Scheduling conflict, and all, as the chupacabra opted to get an entirely new job and disappear without mentioning it. Oh well. If you love it, set it free. And when you see it is online on Myspace while it won’t return your calls, it was not meant to be. You may also wonder if you should mention to your friend who also uses the same chupacabra that pictures of her child are on Myspace. Sigh.

At any rate, I feel 187% less like jumping off a bridge this July than last July. I attribute this to a number of factors: El Niño, interest rates fluctuating, and not having a newborn. Ybab is a delight, trotting around jibbering and meowing at everything. She likes long walks on the beach, crackers, and looking at dogs. What a difference a few zillion neural connections make. She can unscrew caps now. If only I could claim the same skills. At least I am not Mr. H, who cannot remember the words to “Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.” I said “You just failed your kindergarten exit exam, I think,” and he replied that he did in fact repeat kindergarten. Oops.

Smother’s day

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I have recently been made aware of a concept in the America called “Smother’s Day.” A television ad told me about it, and then another and another. If I am to correctly understand, a Smother is something like a Smore, but not an actual brand of jelly. That’s Smuckers, and they are happy people live to be one hundred despite eating high fructose corn syrup solids. So in the midst of all that jubilation about the dinosaur birthdays, a ybab decided to start pointing at things. “Dat?” Well, honey, that’s Matt Lauer. “Dat?” Oh, put me on the jeezly spot, why don’t you? Some things just can’t be explained. Maybe when you’re two.

And back to this Smother’s Day deal: I hear it’s a magical day, where the cat box cleans itself, and ybab will wipe her own butt for 24 entire hours. I hear that I might get a gold pendant of some sort, possibly with the “#1” designation. And I won’t even have to put out to get this jewelry. Who wants to put out when you have a ybab already? Fool me twice, I don’t think so!

Do I smell natural gas? That would just figure if my house blew up. Last year on Smother’s Day, it flooded. Haha! As you might imagine, I am jittery about this one. Pee to the Tee to the Ess to the D. I am celebrating by not purchasing gifts for any relatives who have been blighted by offspring. Mr. H is of course free to purchase gifts in my stead, but he won’t, because he’s Mr. H. Is he even reading this? I have set a bear trap just now. Who else has found my blog? You? Great. Leave a comment plz.

OK, so if not a pendant, I hope to get a mug. Or a beer hat, but insulated for coffee. It should attest to my prowess at keeping ybab alive. She takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’, luckily. This morning I removed her from eating cat kibble, and she rewarded me with a boilermaker to the head. Is that a type of punch? A hay bailer maybe? If those aren’t types of punches, they should be. She fights dirty.

Throw away the key

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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.

A day and another day and the day before

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I have about six drafts saved in here. Maybe you would have preferred to read “Take the Krugerrand and run.” But you won’t read that one. The subject was the best part anyway.

I am up to no good. Others were up to no good first, but I can’t change the situation, only how I Lord grant me the serenity, Britney. You can’t go home again, Britney. Especially when home is infested with menacing dust particles. Ask the dust. Ask away. The dust will tell you all about the Federal Reserve.

Today I had a green soda. I never have soda. But it looked so convincing in the case. It purported to be lime soda on the English label, but it was something else entirely. Battle kitty had a single black bean and part of a napkin. It was nice to walk in the sun.