Tag Archives: consumerism

you’re not gonna reach my telephone

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After much grumbling, I finally got rid of my 4-year-old phone. It was a great phone. I could drop it, step on it, and get it wet, and it didn’t seem to care. It had a flippy little keyboard so I could text like an old person. It vexed Verizon that I would not upgrade, and that’s always nice, to vex.  But it was time to join the modern world, and it was free to do so, and thus I was tempted. STUPID IDEA, ME.

My new phone has many baffling features like a touch screen that enables me to randomly call people just because I scroll down a page with my hammy little thumbs. Mr. H tells me I need to get apps, apps. Fine, I’ll have the clams casino. Be a love and fetch that. It will only enfatten my thumbs.

The single worst feature, however, is a whole screen devoted to “favorites.” I dutifully stuck a few of my finer human companions in there. But then it occurred to me that there is no delete, so once someone is added, they are a perma-favorite.

What, you never suddenly decide you hate someone? You are never crossed, or even vexed? I want a phone that supports a scorched earth relationship policy in the favorites department. Mr. H suggested that I could delete the entire contact, but where’s the fun in that? I want to leave the object of my scorn in the ol’ memory banks, and change the display name to something embarrassing for when that person calls, crawling back like a worm. Lambchop gave me this idea years ago, and it works a treat!

You should see what YOUR name is in my phone. Haha! We will all laugh together, anal prod.

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.

(Because your kiss) Your kiss is on my chest

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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!

At the End of the Day, It Was What It Was

It was what it was.

You're the Mary

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.

Meta Mug

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.

This the kinda of shit that you bump to get drunk to

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I dunno, my baser instincts suggest I make jokes about how National Buy Nothing Day will be pretty easy for so many more Americans this year, but that is so wrong. It’s not nice. I like buying stuff and so do you! May we all take advantage of deep discounts on melamine-free items.

I was just saying to my moosie relation, who may or not be writing on her personal internet homepage again, that ….uh what the hell was I saying. Let me ask, er, review the logs. Yes, OK. I am seeing way more straight up gratitude posts today versus the usual smallpox blanket jokes. This must be a function of a bad economy, like hemlines getting longer. I beg to differ on that point in the article about people cutting their hair shorter when the market drops. Their cuts must not top a c-note. Me, I am growing mine out, and it looks fantastic. I still go every 6 weeks, though, because who wants split ends? It’s not the apocalypse.

This year, I am thankful that I played a twenty minute command drum solo on a Wednesday morning instead of going to a real job (I worked last week, so I am off the hook til I get the urge to buy stuff again). I am grateful that my child is a brilliant little beast, even if it means she is going to come up with shit even I never fathomed when she is a teenager. I am pleased that Mr. H got a job with a mere twenty minute commute. I am pleased I did not throw up today, despite initial leanings (seriously, WTF is wrong with me). A Cat did not throw up and only bit me two or four times. So much is right, right, right, despite living on an Indian Burial Ground. I mean, it’s sort of like living in a giant fridge box, but with climate control and indoor plumbing. Those things are OK by me. I am thankful to be Facebook friends with YOU! I am thankful my sister never got a Taz tattoo, you betcha. Hey, my kid hasn’t bothered me in ten minutes, and I have to go see about that. I am thankful she can’t reach the knife block. Yet.

JetBlue is DEAD TO ME

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Internet, give me the strength not to scream at the Mormon CSR trying to charge me $15 to do the thing I am supposed to do on the website, yet the feature on the website DOES NOT WORK. Happy Jetting, you perky fucks. Thanks for not flying with us today. Thanks for JETTING. Yeah, we will indeed not be flying with you today, because you cancelled our flight. I assume this is because our particular plane is routed efficiently from the seventh layer of Hell, as the skies above Boston are rather lovely this morning. Give me back my money! The Utah accent is not helping me process my loss. Don’t make me send my Zellweger down there.

Home improved

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Oh, I didn’t mean I was DONE. Just that two walls, some baseboards, and a door are impeccably painted. Like art restorer at the Met painted. I get strange urges while on my knees. The little brush. Oh yes. The tiny one. Give it here to me!

This has taken the better part of 3 weeks, interspersed with cleaning, throwing out, donating, screaming, huffing, stomping, threatening, and other things Bob Vila must do as a matter of course. To celebrate the limited success thus far, a ybab came over and dragged a screwdriver down one of the newly painted walls. We can’t have. You know.

Why did a ybab have a screwdriver? Why ever not? Children need to fucking learn to be useful.

When I was at a large home product chain retailer the other day, I noticed they sell tastefully faux weathered placards inscribed with “Everyday is a gift.” I stuck my head in a foot spa and muffled my screams with a stainless steel polishing cloth.

In other news, Mr. H got stung on the toe by a wasp of some sort.

But the ocean ain’t whiskey and I ain’t a duck

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As I was teetering on a ladder carefully painting the edge of a wall, it struck me how this will be one of those stories where we’ll look back and laaaaaaaugh. “Oh,” I’ll chortle, “One time, long, long ago, before the mutant wars, I had to make a thing called a condominium look like a West Elm catalog in order to convince someone else to buy it!”

“What’s a West Elm, grandma?” the kiddies will say. “I thought trees were illegal now?”

Then I will tell them about arranging vases of dried sticks, and they will laugh at me and ask me to tell them the story of how I lost my eye at IKEA. We will all relax in our hovel until the radiation winds kick up. One of the skins from the mutants I killed over a’ter holler will blow off, and we’ll have to make due with some tattered Pottery Barn catalogs to cover the hole.

The kiddies will drift off to sleep, muttering “And you could get meatballs at this place called IKEA? Made from animals?”

In other news, the secret to trimming a ybab’s nails seems to be singing “Rye Whiskey” over and over again. I was trying to get Mr. H to join in on “Alabama Song,” and then “Mack the Knife,” but he is not familiar with those works. He didn’t even know “Rye Whiskey,” but it’s simple enough to jump in at any time.

Where does one begin?

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One could begin last week, when one spent a fair amount of time sitting on the toilet while barfing in a Halloween pumpkin bucket (don’t you keep one handy to play with in your bath tub?), or one could begin two years ago tonight, when one was flippantly out for a pasta dinner while in labor, unaware of dire twists and impending abdominal surgery, but at any rate, one could say it has been a most intriguing run-up to this year’s ybab birthday celebration.

Martha Stewart be damned! Martha Stewart would have known to pencil in “salmonella,” and she would have hired someone to get sick for her and her entire household. That person would have barfed in a hand-turned ceramic bucket with a pleasing shade not unlike the egg of a young Buff Orpington. Then Martha would have been free to make a monkey cake with a face fully articulated by sixteen colors of buttercream icing. A ybab has an incredibly long memory when promised a monkey cake, so a monkey cake was obtained through back channels. I am ashamed to say what actually took place. It may have contained real monkey.

At least I had the foresight to have cart loads of toys arrive UPS in the days leading up to ybab’s birthday, so once she was feeling better just as I was becoming completely incapacitated, she was able to enjoy learning to use a box cutter and diving into piles of bubble wrap. It was like her birthday all week! And so efficient. I will never wrap again.

My parents are also in town, which is a story in itself for another time. They arrived one morning wearing matching lime green shirts, but not exactly matching: one was more of a kiwi than a lime. “Did you feel I was not already sufficiently nauseated?” I asked. “Oh, we didn’t plan it.” “But surely you looked at each other before you left the hotel room?” This line of questioning was fruitless because my sister had told me about the matching lime green shirts making an appearance weeks ago. They know exactly what they are doing!

And they would be the only ones to know what they are doing, but somehow Mr. H and I rallied and pulled off a birthday party. Mr. Whole Foods may have helped. For my re-entry to solid food, I went with sangria. Vitamin C is good for what ails you. A good time was had by 100% of the ybabs who live in my house, and a cat has barfed a festive coil of pink ribbon, so we will count this as successful, even though the poor monkey is never getting back from space.