It's not hard to confuse me. Really, it's no challenge at all, so most people don't even try - it just kinda happens organically, no pushing required.
That said, maybe some of you will be less confused by this than I am. Is mother nature fucking with me, or are these common and I just never noticed? That's entirely possible, as I spend a great deal of time with my head up my ass. Either way, this was on my door yesterday:
Moths? I've seen plenty of 'em, but never one with bunny ears. This one was perched about eye level on my door, gazing in at me as I was on my way out to feed the neighborhood cats.
Normally, I'm no fan of bugs (insects, flying creepy things, whatever the hell category a moth is filed under...I never said I was a goddamned scientist), but this one was just oddly fascinating to me, so I grabbed the camera. The thing just stared at me as I got the shots, neither flinching at the flash nor cowering in the face of technology.
No, this is not Photoshopped; if it were, don't you think I'd have added a carrot and buck teeth?
So I'm left to wonder: is this a freak of nature? Did a randy moth stick his proboscis in a bunny's hoo-hoo one drunken evening?
Help me out here, folks. First of all, tell me you see it, too. I'd hate to think people were right all those years ago about acid flashbacks.
My dad was the king of the shaggy-dog story. He could take a thirty-second joke and stretch it out for five minutes. It got to the point where he'd start and we'd all roll our eyes and beg him, "No, Dad, not the corn-borer joke again!" or "Please, no, not 'Leroy VanHoosiegickle knows everybody' again!" I'm sure our mortification and discomfort were all part of the fun for him, as evidenced by the fact that he never once stopped his drawn-out retelling in spite of our agonized pleading.
The man had a great sense of humor, except when it came to religion. You did not fuck with the Catholic church in his presence. I blame my grandmother for a lot of that attitude. What can I say about Nanny? The best example I can think of is that she sincerely believed the baby Jesus would never, ever have dirtied his diaper and inconvenienced Mary like that, even when my uncle Bob, a priest, tried to argue with her that he was a baby and that's what babies do. She just wasn't having it.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to bite your tongue when you're a Catholic-raised, smart-ass teenager who's lost all faith in the infallibility of the church? I'll tell you how hard it was: it was nigh unto impossible, and when the inevitable irreverent comment would slip out in Dad's presence, we'd be subjected to an immediate stony-faced and stern lecture about showing respect for God.
One of the biggest challenges for keeping my mouth shut was my Dad's peculiar little habit of greeting Jesus every time we passed a Catholic church. Seriously, and Squirl can back me up on this one, each and every time we drove past St. Patrick's, or any other franchise in the chain, Dad would say "Hello, Jesus." If there was a hat on his head, he doffed it while saying howdy to the Prince of Peace. We were not only expected to refrain from laughing about this; we would be scolded if we did not join him in this spiritual salutation.
Is this a common Catholic thing, or did that year in the seminary just seep a little too deeply into Dad's brain?
All I know is, Jesus never once said "Hello!" back to us, and in my book, that's just plain rude.
The baby boy was beautiful, just gorgeous, with big, soulful brown eyes that were deep enough to drown a whole camera crew of full-grown women, which they damned near did.
He was such a mellow little guy as we fussed and clucked and cooed over him during the photo shoot, unashamedly making asses of ourselves in the presence of his quiet yet overwhelming air of Cute Enough to Kill Us All. His willingness to endure all our poses and prop changes only made us all love him more, and we were all a bit sad when the session was done and we had to relinquish the little fellow to his mom and grandmother.
After the lethally adorable pictures were transferred to the computer, mom and grandma came over to review the set with us, to make that most difficult choice of which poses would be purchased and which would be left in the bit bucket. My heart did a double flip when we came to what was undoubtedly my favorite image in the whole batch: Baby Boy with a soft blue blanket draped over his head, framing his cherubic face. We all simultaneously squealed in delight, a collective squeal that caused all the windows in the store to shatter, and all the car alarms in the parking lot to begin sounding.
Well, grandma didn't squeal. Grandma was the lone voice of dissent on what was, to my mind, the genius picture of the day. We were all genuinely confused, and wanted to know why she didn't love the blankie picture like we did.
"I don't like it," she repeated. "He looks like the Virgin Mary."
Okay, that was completely unexpected and hilarious. All of us broke up with laughter, and I figured that this would go down as the quote of the day. But grandma wasn't done yet.
"No, really," she continued. "He looks like a faggot!"
OH, NO, SHE DI'IN'T! But yeah, she did. This woman had just used the word "faggot" when describing a photo of her mega-cute infant grandson.
Needless to say, they didn't purchase that particular shot. It had kinda been ruined for the mom at that point.
When they come back in to get their finished pictures, I am so tempted to give that boy a tiny purse. For grandma's sake.
It's not very damned often that I have a graphic sex dream, but I was finally visited by the angel of subconscious erotica as I enjoyed my glorious sleep-in on Monday morning. I'll spare you all the details, because a lot of my readers probably have an active gag reflex, but let me just say: Young lady, I don't know who you are, but thank you, thank you from the bottom of my cold, shriveled, lecherous heart.
I will, however, share the post-humping part of the dream, because it's actually more bizarre than the thought that I could get laid.
After the let's-not-get-into-the-filthy-and-delicious-details sex, in my dream, I returned to my apartment, which I happened to share with Sarah Jessica Parker. I have no idea why SJP was a part of my subconscious carnival; it's probably because we're both so fucking sophisticated and glamorous that it's only natural that we would be roommates. You know, she's not nearly the whore that Carrie Bradshaw is. But, apparently, I like her anyway.
Anyway, in my nighttime involuntary fantasy, roomie SJP and I had the following conversation:
Me: Well, I got some tonight! SJP: Was she a stripper? Me: Yeah. SJP: That's our Bucky!
That's all I'm willing to divulge. I'm thinking about putting the first part of the dream on a pay-per-view site.
We now return to our regular, not-getting-laid programming.
