Next week, I must undertake a very long and somewhat (extremely) stressful road trip; I must take this journey alone because Jess has prior commitments. To take the sting out of all that driving, and to make up for the sheer horror of what she posted today, she brought something home for me today that serves the dual purpose of protecting and amusing me.
I've been totally stressed out and distracted for a number of reasons lately, and knowing that I will have Buddy Christ on my dashboard while I drive to Flint and back really has helped my mood. Thank you, baby - you always know just what to bring home for me in a plain brown wrapper.
Another saving grace for my nerves is the fact that yesterday, I received my DVDs of the complete three-season set of Strangers With Candy. I spent last evening drinking bad chianti, definitely not Dr. Lecter's nice chianti, and immersing myself in the truly fucked-up world of Jerri Blank and company. Remember: The retarded don't rule the night. They don't rule it - nobody does.
God, I can't wait for the movie to come out. I may just piss myself in anticipation. Or maybe just for fun. You'll just never know, will you?
While I was in Grand Haven last weekend, my brother Tardist presented me with a DVD containing clips from a video made in February of 1987. Because I am clearly not in my right mind, I thought I'd share some of it with you tonight.
Here you will see me at the unwrinkled age of 21, mugging for the camera, lip synching with Tardist to one of his songs, and asserting that we are the way we are because our parents were brother and sister. Good times!
Snakes on a plane? Feh! Not nearly as frightening as cramps on a train.
I spent the weekend seeing family in Michigan, and because I just didn't feel like driving, I took the train over. Well, more accurately, the train took me over. Because I wasn't spending too many days, I made a valiant attempt to pack light, even forsaking my laptop for the weekend - you have to understand, that is akin to Linus deciding to leave his blanket at home. It was a leap of faith, but I wanted to be as efficient as possible this time, and it's not like I have zero access to 'net-connected computers at my siblings' homes. Besides, I needed to have a free hand to carry my Sponge Bob body pillow, because it's just easier to sleep on the train if one has a giant, soft pillow instead of a tiny little toilet-seat-shaped neck pillow. There's also the added bonus of the doubt and fear in the eyes of strangers when they see a middle-aged woman toting around a giant yellow pillow with a goofy face on it.
Well, one thing my careful calculations told me I could jettison when I prepped for the trip was any sort of, ahem, feminine that-time-of-the-month products. Because, after all, those four tampons kicking around the bottom of my purse would've weighed me down incalculably. No way would I need those, according to my count. Damn, I'm smart!
Except, um...I'm not.
I was feeling pretty wretched on the train this morning, but I thought that could be the cumulative effect of drinking all weekend and suddenly being thrown into a first-shift schedule so I could see everyone while I was over there. I must say, I'm really spoiled to staying up until four or five in the morning and then having my breakfast while General Hospital is on. My body clock is just a little fucked up today.
No, I decided it was really fucked up when I realized, somewhere around the Michigan/Indiana state line, that I had started that which wasn't supposed to start until next weekend, and I had no supplies with which to be prepared for it. Well, no wonder I felt like I'd swallowed a chain saw. I spent the rest of the ride feeling miserably uncomfortable and gross, and was doubly glad I had both seats to myself.
When we got into Union Station in Chicago, I made for the restroom by the South boarding lounge. To my dismay, my utterly pissed-off dismay, I found that the tampon machine bore the "OUT OF ORDER" sign in just such a manner as to taunt me. I, however, would not be thwarted, and pointed myself toward the restroom upstairs by the food court. I had to wait in line there, and just as I thought I would hear the angels sing, I came face-to-face with another sign that said not only "OUT OF ORDER", but if I read between the lines, it said "FUCK YOU, KATY."
Fucked I was. I had to go and plunk down five bucks for a small box of beaver dams in one of the magazine shops in the terminal, which really irritated me since I have several nearly full packages of them at home. Then I had to go wait in line again to go in the restroom and take care of things.
Upon entering my stall, I beheld the following sight, and felt compelled to take a picture. Now I feel compelled to share that picture with You, the Internet as a Whole.
I hoped, really and sincerely hoped, that someone had just mixed some Crystal Light in a water bottle and forgotten it. But I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that someone who had taken lots of vitamins in the morning had left behind a specimin. Yes, I have to tell myself it was a specimin, because I don't really care to think about the other reasons someone might carry urine in a water bottle (unless it's to throw on door-to-door salesmen, and then I'm 100% in favor of it, and would recommend upgrading to a spray bottle).
Needless to say, when my bus got into town and Jess brought the Betards to pick me up at the station, I was more than ready for pain killers and sleep.
Oh, I promised you a look at some beaver, didn't I?
This beaver seems to be mugging a computer terminal.
I think he's raping a pad of paper, and adding insult to injury by drawing a smiley face on it, but I'm too scared to know for sure.
This beaver had bonus boobs. Everything I like, all in one place!
Listen, when I promise beaver? I cough up the beaver, baby.
Inanimate objects I would marry (you know, the kind I can mention on this here family-friendly site):
All these things are modern conveniences, and one thing they all have in common is that they allow me a certain freedom to eat or entertain myself on my own schedule. The CD player and the iPod in particular are wonders of science to me. They entertain me, they keep music in my ears, and they have many times kept me from committing acts of violence and murder.
Perhaps I should elaborate.
I don't know when this trend started, but somewhere along the way, program directors at rock stations decided that the listening audience wasn't content to just hear rock music. They decided that we needed on-air "Personalities" to keep our attention. Does this happen with other genres? Do country DJs do this? Hip-hop DJs? Calypso DJs? Polka DJs? I've listened to Opera Gal's show, and she doesn't feel the need to mix broadcast hijinks with her very informative commentary on the classical and opera selections she plays. So why is it that rock stations think I can't listen to music without scripted non-hilarity?
It seems like the worst of this plague happens during morning radio. In the early '90s (yes kids - in the last millenium), I used to listen to a Flint rock station that would actually just play music in the morning while I got ready for work, and I loved that. The gal who was the morning DJ was informative about the music and upcoming concerts, and any humor she threw out there was totally off the cuff and was - take a deep breath - actually funny! Of course, that little party didn't last for long, and soon enough, alas, too soon, the station bowed to the formula of two male DJs with a morning show that was as spontaneous as a princess wedding and as funny as grandma's varicose veins.
This irritates me on a number of levels. First of all, I tune in to a music station on the radio because I want to hear music. I'd tune in to talk radio if I wanted to hear someone yammer, but I don't. I have a need to get my groove on while I get ready for my day. What I do not need is formulaic, sophomoric humor of the lamest sort - and this from the woman who always laughs at a well-told fart joke - recited by two men who then bray like donkeys at every single one of their own utterances, and then throw a song or two out there once in a while as an afterthought.
I would imagine the skeleton for the morning crew "script" is something like this:
Joke about fat people. HAW HAW HAW!
Clinton joke (because they fail to realize he's not in office anymore). HAW HAW HAW!
Male caller complains about foreigners. HAW HAW HAW!
Homo joke, should be about a straight male, and should end with some variation of "That's pretty gay." HAW HAW HAW!
Repeat for four hours. HAW HAW HAW!
Christ on a Japanese serving spoon, somebody give the fucking jackasses some straw so they will have to cease talking while they chew. What's even worse is when a station is too lazy to hire their own hacks to recycle this material, and instead feels the need to broadcast a syndicated show along the lines of Bob and Tom. All I can figure is, rock stations must think 12-year-old boys are their target demographic, because I can't imagine anyone with a more sophisticated sense of humor, say, a 14-year-old, would find this shit to be knee-slappingly funny. All I get out of it is an intense desire to drill through my eardrums with a rusty screw and then set fire to the empty shells.
Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge proponent and purveyor of immature humor. I mostly object to the complete lack of originality. Plus, I just wanted to hear some music, you lame-ass motherfuckers. This is why I can't watch MTV anymore, either - somewhere along the line, they went from a station that showed music videos to a dungheap of "original" programming and bad fashion examples.
Luckily, I have an iPod whose capacity for songs is even larger than Paris Hilton's capacity for genital warts. (Oh, god - does this now mean that Paris and I will never be bestest friends?) The iPod saved me from trying to jump radio stations as I drove from Michigan to Illinois, and kept me from having to pull over to change a CD every 80 minutes*.
Sometimes, though, when I dash out to the store or some other quick errand, I forget to throw the iPod in my purse. When that happens, I try to find a local station that doesn't make me gag too much, because I must have music when I drive. It's the law. Of course, it's a whole new market for me over here, and finding a station is a matter of trial and error. When I finally happened upon a local hard rock station, I just left my radio there. I realized my error the next time I turned it on and the music stopped.
It wasn't just the DJs who were obnoxious, though they were. It was the ads that made me crazy. It was as though every second of air time was aimed toward frat boys who had imbibed so much alcohol that their brain cells had dwindled into the single-digit range. One promo campaign revolved around using the word "rock" to replace the word "fuck" - a cardinal sin, in my opinion - and consisted of spots that offered clever sayings like "Go rock yourself" and "Yeah, we'd rock Britney Spears."
I could almost forgive that, but then they came on with a promo that made my head explode. It proclaimed, "You won't hear any Backdoor Boys or N'Suck here!"
Mmmmmmmm'kay. Not only are those particular slurs on the boy bands done to fucking death long ago, but...but...but...when is the last time Backstreet Boys or N'Sync even made a record? Couldn't they slander any current bands that suck? I mean, it's not like there's ever a shortage of new bubblegum rot, is there? Did they not ridicule H.I.M because they're secretly jacking off to the posters?
That's it. On short trips, I'm just going to whistle quietly to myself. It's safer for everyone.
* I should clarify here - my car doesn't have a CD player installed, so I have a walkman-type CD player that I plug into the cassette deck. Just a little too much for me to do safely while I drive.
Apparently, people are starting to wonder if I've been replaced by the pod Katy, due to my excessive mushy sincerity. Well, let me remedy the fuck outta that.
For my first trick, I'd like to talk about something close to my, um, heart: monkeys. Now I know there are some who would disagree with the equation monkey equals vagina, and to them I say, you gonna argue with Einstein? I didn't just pull that theory outta my ass, you know. Monkey will always equal vagina. Just so you know. Monkeys were close to Einstein's heart, too. Do not laugh in the face of Einstein.
The other day at the hardware store, I was shocked and delighted to see that they carry a Do-It-Yourself Monkey Ring Kit. No more professional piercer dependency! This is monkey independence! The beauty of it is that it's only 50 bucks for five rings, which I think is a sufficient number of rings for any monkey. Too bad they didn't have this when Jess got the rings in her monkey. I sure hope it comes with a good mirror and an autoclave, though.
On to the second act, which revolves around my beloved tchotchkes and their sex lives. I know I've been remiss in my duty to show you the low-down and dirty details, but frankly, I don't have my tchotchke porn studio set up here yet. Many of my tchotchkes are still boxed up, having their dirty little buttsex out of my sight. However, for the edification of the Internet as a Whole, I have set up an impromptu photo shoot. I'll have you know, I had to pay the participants time and a half due to lack of proper working conditions. I also had to chip in for transportation and medical costs. I sure hope you appreciate the sacrifices I've made to bring you toy-on-toy fucky fucky.
Looks like Gollum has a new Preciousssssss.
I think he's found the One Ring. It's pink and grabby.
Somebody get this poor bastard a towel.
There. Happy now? I've just taken pictures of my tchotchkes fucking in front of my pillow and balanced on top of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. I sense bad karma in all this.
Ever have one incident that just fucking sets you off for the day?
I had occasion to deposit a check at my bank today, and on the way back, I stopped for gas at a fairly busy intersection. It's a pretty, sunny day, I've got a new haircut that everyone is being super nice about, I'd just put enough money in the bank to take care of my bills...it should be a great day, right?
But as I was leaving the gas station, I had to wait a considerable amount of time for traffic to clear. When it finally did, I went to make a right out of the driveway, and out of fucking nowhere, some idiot fuck on a bicycle was nearly on top of my car and I avoided hitting him by inches, literally by fucking inches. He had cut across the street, well away from the intersection where he should have been crossing. I was so shocked and upset that I almost lost it right there, because you know if I'd hit that mongoloid motherfucker, somehow I would've been the one in all the trouble for it. I really couldn't decide whether I should cry or I if should turn the car around, jump out, and kick the living shit out of him. It wasn't a kid, either - it was an adult, probably some inbred fuck who doesn't have a license because of DUIs.
So, it's an hour later and I'm still totally agitated. And when I'm like this, everything that bothers me just starts to invite itself into my thoughts and builds me a wall of bullshit. I can't stop thinking about how much I'd like to pummel that fucker on the bike, or the fact that I have to face reality soon and look for a real job, or all the red tape I have to go through for changing my license plates and identification, and all the shit that still needs to be sorted out for my divorce. I'm angry and frustrated that a good friend of mine is having health problems and I'm powerless to help. And I'm feeling my age and then some today. When I get this upset, I become obsessed with my own mortality, and all the things I haven't accomplished yet, and all the awful things that could happen.
I think I need to drink a huge amount of tequila and curl up with Wobbles and his magic purr machine.
Today, I'm not terribly enamored of either doctors or pharmacies.
Truthfully, I can't place all the blame on the quacks and the drug dispensers. I've put off seeing a doctor here and getting a new prescription for a different allergy medicine. Wednesday, I realized that I only had on Clarinex left, so I figured I'd just bite the bullet and get my refill on that. Then I looked at the label: 1 refill before June 7, 2006. Since it was actually the 7th, I didn't think it would be a huge deal, so I took it to the pharmacy at Target. About ten minutes into my aimless shopping, I heard myself paged to come back to the pharmacy. Turns out they'd have to call my doctor on this, and his office had long closed for the day. They promised to contact him Thursday, so I took my Season 1 DVD of Robot Chicken and left.
I was a little busy yesterday, so I never got around to returning to Target. When I went this afternoon, however, I was informed that my doctor had never returned their call. So, I'm hoping they'll get this shit all straightened out by the time I go back there on Monday. In the meantime, I'm taking some over-the-counter allergy meds for the weekend, and hoping that wards off the cat cooties.
Seriously, though - I know pharmacies have rules they must follow, but it was on the 7th, and it's not like it was a 'scrip for oxycontin or something. And my doctor back in Flint can just blow me. He's never gonna look at my monkey again, anyway.
Now...on to the fun part of this bitchy, crabby post.
The reason I was too busy to go to Target yesterday is that I was taking care of something that was looooooong overdue.
Remember that mass of poop-covered horses' tails I used to call my hairdo? Well, I finally went to a real salon and had it lopped the fuck off. When the stylist got done cutting, there was a pile of damaged hair on the floor large enough to construct a Yeti with split ends.
I was going to hold off on posting a picture until Jess could dye it for me, but my impatient nature would not allow that kind of restraint. So here ya go.
It was a big leap of faith for me to have that much hair shorn, but now that it's done, I feel so much better, and my hair feels soooo much healthier. I'll post pics after the dye is on, as I'm going even redder than last time.
ps: I also went to the waxer this week, and I believe I have shown remarkable restraint by not giving you yet another monthly monkey update.
Just last weekend, Jess traumatized me with some damn plastic surgery TV show, Dr. Jekyll 90210 or some awful thing. When I walked in, they were parading a woman who had multi-tiered hips and ass. Seriously, she had a tea party ass - just put a doily on any layer, put out the teapot, invite the Mad Hatter, you're all set. But that wasn't the scariest part...the next feature was some bitch having a tummy tuck. "Tummy tuck" sounds so innocuous, doesn't it? Ha! It was like a goddamn butcher shop on there! They had her boobs and monkey blurred, but the ripped-open stomach was crystal fucking clear. Her belly was completely splayed open; it was like cattle mutilation was being performed onscreen, just for my edification. I can guarantee you I will never, ever have any sort of plastic surgery after that scary shit. Sadly, that ruins my plans to build myself a set of DD knockers.
You know what I think is even more repulsive, though? Botox. People willingly, eagerly flock to the doctor to have botulin injected into them for the temporary smoothing of wrinkles, or to keep their armpits too paralyzed to sweat. Botulin causes botulism, and in case you didn't know how delightful that is, here's what dictionary.com has to say:
bot·u·lism n. A severe, sometimes fatal food poisoning caused by ingestion of food containing botulin and characterized by nausea, vomiting, disturbed vision, muscular weakness, and fatigue.
Wow. How completely retarded are Americans when someone dangles the hope of temporary eternal youth?
Actually, that's what I'm counting on when I bring out my new line of You Are Nothing If You're Old and Fat products.
First, we have a vomit face cleanser. Guaranteed to, um, make your face as fresh as bottled vomit. Can you afford not to try it?
Then we'll be injecting dog poop into your pesky, fatty spots. It's not just any poop, either - it's Saint Bernard poop. So you know there'll be lots of it. I guarantee, it smells so ripe your fat will shrink from it in horror.
Finally, we'll close with a skin-quenching bath of urine and jizz. All your worries about your own body image will melt away while you wonder just how cloudy that urine was before we added the jizz.
It's not perfected yet, but still in the laboratories: calico venom and diarrhea body wash.
Man, I just re-read this, and it appears I've been testing my own products a little too intensely. Cheers!
I think Nick totally wins the I Wish I Could Poke My Own Eyes Out award for what he done saw this week.
If I had to judge from the commercials they show, I'd have to say the ad execs think all General Hospital viewers have overactive bladders and do a lot of laundry. Come to think of it, that makes a lot of sense. Oh, hell - I just pissed all over my office chair. Who's got the bleach?
Never before in my life have I found reality television to be worth my time. Then I moved in with the evil Jess, and suddenly I'm hooked on What Not To Wear (in all seriousness, I can't believe no one at work ever nominated me for that), and feeling a huge void in my soul because Top Chef is all done for the season. Luckily, no one here has any inclination to watch Shalom in the Home or American Idol, so I won't have to go vomit while we're watching TV.
When I moved here and saw soy chicken (chik'n) in the freezer, I was completely skeptical. How could something that had no relation whatsoever to poultry masquerade as chicken and be palatable? However, once I made myself try it, I loved it. It's very tasty, and there is no chance for surprises like there is with real chicken. There is no gristle in soy products. Now, if no one makes soy chicken for a few days, I'll go get it out and make it myself. I also put my stamp of approval on turkey bacon. No weird, chewy, gummy, gelatinous surprises with that, either. Come to think of it, maybe all this healthy food is why my boobs have grown.
As I look around my room at all the tchotchkes which have not yet been featured in one of my video clips, I feel the overwhelming need to right that wrong. Everybody could use a little dancing Gollum in their online experience. The Trailer Park Homies are itchin' for their chance at stardom, too.
Remember the Play-Doh Buttsex House? Well, my always-helpful sister has found the child's equivalent - the training buttsex house, if you will. Looks like they have the Wonderbread couch inside, too.
What? You think you just grow up and move into the Play-Doh Buttsex House with no training?
I might've expected it from the young ones. Perhaps I wouldn't feel so shocked and betrayed if it had been Weebles or Eleven, because really - I don't put anything past those two. But to come home and find the awful secret of the cats' evil matriarch, well...it's just plain disheartening.
Maybe it was silly and naive of me to think I could go out shopping and leave the cats unsupervised. My first clue that I was totally wrong was when I came home and found Wobbles, trapped inside a box.
As I nearly rushed to my little buddy's aid, but took pictures instead, I asked him how he'd come to be in this predicament. Why wasn't the matriarch looking out for poor, innocent little Wobbles?
Wobbles replied "Mauw woe wow mauw mrrrauw!" Roughly translated, that means, "Smidge put me in here for her own evil amusement!"
Smidge? Surely that couldn't be right. Smidge may be the Evil Cow Kitty of Doom, but she's also The Mamas, mother figure to all the house's cats. Wobbles must be mistaken.
I caught Rowdy prowling the halls, and asked whether she knew if there was any substance to the rumor that Smidge had been remiss in her chaperone duties.
Rowdy curtly replied that the interview was over, and threatened to break my camera if I didn't stop nosing around, asking things about her mother which weren't my affair. I know what side my starfish is buttered on, so I discontinued that inquiry.
When I walked around the corner, however, there was no more need for questions or doubt. I could see with my own four eyes the trap into which the Cow Kitty had fallen.
It was the nip.
I had to face the fact that Smidge, my favorite evil bowling cow kitty, was an addict. She was ripped to the tits, all eight of 'em, and I'd left her in charge of the other cats. How could I have been so blind?
Surely this was not the first time.
I stared in horror as Smidge immersed herself in the drugs, rolling herself up like a big, furry catnip doobie.
It was like she was having a drug-fueled orgy with herself. Leave it to Smidge to pull off a solo orgy. Kudos, my well-toasted little friend.
Then she spotted me. I stood frozen in terror as her eyes tried to focus on me. She stared unsteadily for a good long time, then she said:
"Dude. Ya gotta try this."
Inside my mind, I fought the idea with every fiber of my fiber. I had come to intervene, not to be sucked into the nip vortex.
I'm a little hazy on what happened after that; all I know is, this is a lot funnier than it was before:
Though I realize I am not flatchested, I've never thought of myself as a busty girl. The way I saw it, Squirl got the boobs in the family, and I got the filthy mouth.
For the longest time, I've been guessing at my size, and wearing a 38 C. Well, I was recently informed by Jess that my bras are too small, as my nipples are always trying to jump overboard, even in the Vickie's Secret pushups for which I shelled out $45 (that's $22.50 per boob).
Today, I had a visit from the Bra Fairy. She came into my room with about a half dozen of her bras for me, D cup bras. D cup, people. D as in delightful debauchery. I was sure they would be too massive on my breasteses, which are nothing in comparison to her magnificent bazongas. Mine are just middle-aged funbags, where hers are the boobs of legend, the kind of cha cha bingos for which men gladly go off to war, the tits that launched a thousand ships. I would surely be swimming in these enormous boulder holders, would certainly have space for rent, would definitely have room to smuggle kittens next to my puppies in those things.
They fit me. They fit me well. Do you know what this means, good and purehearted people of the Internet as a Whole? Let me whisper it as modestly as I'm able...
I'M A FUCKIN' D CUP! MY TITS ARE OFFICIALLY ENORMOUS! WOOHOOOOOO!
I would jump up and down and do cartwheels from the excitement of it all, but I certainly don't want to give myself a black eye. Oh, yes - I will be impossible to live with for a while now. At least, until I start exercising in earnest. Then, I fear, I will not only shed the inches I need to lose around my waist, but I will also forsake my precious D cups that I only now realized I possessed.
Or maybe I'll just eat some more cake and ice cream, and then be distracted by my own breasts.