I don’t have a lot of time and/or energy to write much of anything today, seeing as it’s now Day 3,405 of the boys’ Winter Break and we’ve now turned feral and are plotting against each other, but I still want to post something. Mostly because I have a lot of disjointed thoughts to share with someone and my husband is sick of hearing them. Or at least that’s the message I think he was trying to send when he gave me a Mexican wrestler mask with the mouth hole sewn shut for my Christmas present. (And don’t think I won’t be using that mask and calling myself “La Borracho Blondito” on the Juarez flabbyheavyweight circuit just as soon as I find a matching cape and boots, Chris.)
Anyway, at the risk of this turning into that weird newspaper column Larry King used to write where he said things like, “I wonder where clouds go on sunny days? Cloud vacation? Boy, howdy, that has my suspenders in a twist!”, here are a few random things:
Lately I’ve seen a lot of people say things on social media like this: CONFESSION: I’M GLAD CHRISTMAS IS OVER. Or this: CONFESSION: I REALLY HATE WAITING IN LINE.
Now, maybe I’m jaded, but isn’t a confession supposed to be like a deep, dark secret you’re finally letting out? Something that you’re maybe ashamed of, but really want to get out in the open so it doesn’t destroy your internal organs and brain parts? I mean, it definitely shouldn’t be something that 99% of the population also thinks. That’s just lame. Therefore, if you’re going to make a public confession, please do it right and make sure it’s something gross and disturbing enough to lose you friends and custodial rights to your pets.
CONFESSION: HOT COFFEE BURNS MY TONGUE.
CONFESSION: I HAVE A TATTOO OF ANTHONY MICHAEL HALL ON MY THIGH AND I SLOWLY LICK HIS FACE TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT. MMMMMMM. TASTE LIKE FARMER TED.
Make it worth our time, people. Disgust us.
2. Cheap Journalism
I briefly wrote about this on my Facebook page (which you should Like and why haven’t you Liked it? Is it because I capitalized Like? Is that also Lame?):
Here’s the story: For the past six months I’ve been a little confused about local news because the Austin newspaper’s website only gives you the first paragraph of a story, and if you want to read the rest, you have to pay for it. I’m too cheap to do that, so I’ve been making the endings up myself.
“The police captain said there was one big danger for residents.” AND THAT’S ROOFIES IN THE WATER SUPPLY.
“Next Tuesday, the commission will vote.” ON THE BILL TO LEGALIZE SUBURBAN PROSTITUTION.
“The Smith High School quarterback has only a few regrets.” LIKE WEARING LEATHER JEGGINGS DURING THE PLAYOFF GAME.
“The airport is excited to add new features in the coming year.” SPECIFICALLY, A MECHANICAL FOOT THAT CROTCH KICKS PASSENGERS IF THEY TRY TO USE A REFRIGERATOR BOX WITH A TAPED-ON HANDLE AS THEIR CARRY-ON.
Journalism is much more exciting this way.
Although I was a little confused when the City Council told me the Texas Rangers didn’t actually deputize all cats and Lola couldn’t have a pistol.
3. The Hallmark Store Guy
Right before Christmas, I was in the Hallmark store getting Marinka one of the I Love Snoopy! medallions she loves to wear for formal occasions and I couldn’t help but notice the older man in front of me. He was buying a Christmas card, an anniversary card and a Valentine’s Day card for his wife and told the cashier that he was giving her a “super big” present. The present was worth three presents, he said. So ever since then, I’ve been trying to figure out what it might be. A cruise? A luxury car? A diamond? A Mexican wrestler mask with the mouth sewn shut? IT’S DRIVING ME MAD, HALLMARK MAN. Please put the answer in the Austin newspaper. And be sure to keep it to one paragraph. Thank you.
4. It’s F-cking Freezing
It’s cold in Austin and I’m not talking about your wussy type of cold. I’m talking 17, 18 degrees cold. Like, plants be dying and shit cold. Our TexMex has a layer of frost on the frijoles cold. My toilet seat feels like the chilled salad plate at Sizzler cold. The longhorn bulls have Snuggies on their horns cold. It muthaf-cking cold, babies.
Unfortunately, I seem to have totally forgotten how to bitch about the cold because I usually spend most of my time bitching about the heat. I’m awesome at bitching about the heat. It’s kind of “my thing.” It’s in “my wheelhouse.” It’s “my jam.” Like this gem:
“I just lost five layers of skin from sitting on my scalding leather car seat. Jeezus, it was like a non-chemical ass peel.”
“Can we go to Africa to cool down for a few weeks? This tribesman on Snapchat told me it was only a brisk 120 degrees there and I think that’d be great for my complexion.”
To my great shame, my cold weather bitching is nowhere near that witty and comes across more like this:
And then I stick my hands in a 350 degree oven for 20-30 minutes or until they’ve reached a crispy light brown on the top and pass the clean toothpick test.
5. Where do clouds go on sunny days?
Tell me, Larry, you sweet bastard, tell me. Because I think I want to go there, too.
Especially if school is back in session.