I’m Reasonably Sure the Weiner-Shaped Bubble Gum Shipment Was Just a Happy Accident

So I have this friend with a birthday coming up and I didn’t really know what to get him so I went to Amazon.com because they have, like, EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD THAT HAS EVER BEEN CREATED SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME but it turns out, it’s kind of hard to sort through EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD THAT HAS EVER BEEN CREATED SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME when you don’t have any idea what you’re really looking for.

So I asked myself, What does this guy really NEED? and then I thought, Well, he’s kind of an asshole, he could probably use some help with that so I searched Amazon for “Books on how to NOT be an asshole” and MOTHERFUCKER would you believe they actually HAD ONE?

So of course I ordered it.

And then I kind of forgot that I ordered it, and we came home yesterday from the grocery store to find a small box on the front doorstep and the Big Bean was all, “Look, there’s a little package” and I was all “That’s what she said” and he gave me a fist bump and then I saw the package was from Amazon and I was all “Oh! That must be my asshole book!” and the Big Bean didn’t even blink, he just stepped over it and took the groceries inside and that’s how you know he’s used to me.

But then, as I was carrying the box into the house I realized it was awfully small for a book about not being an asshole.  Although now that I think about it, I guess a book about not being an asshole could be pretty small, depending on who’s writing it – like for example, I could pretty much fit everything I know about not being an asshole on one page or less.  And yes, I realize that probably makes me an asshole.  But anyway, when I opened the box I saw that Amazon got my order wrong and instead of the book about not being an asshole they sent me this:

HOLY SHIT, Amazon!  It’s like you’re in MY HEAD, or something!  I was JUST thinking to myself, I really need some bubble gum that looks like weiners, and WHAMMO! Here it is! Right on my doorstep!  It’s like fucking MAGIC!

The only thing that’s NOT perfect about this is the lack of buns.

But now I’m completely torn, because what do I do?

• Option 1: Send the bubble gum that looks like weiners BACK to Amazon and demand overnight shipping for the book about not being an asshole
• Option 2: Give my friend the bubble gum that looks like weiners for his birthday and tell him I’m sorry that it couldn’t be a book about how to not be an asshole
• Option 3: KEEP the bubble gum that looks like weiners for myself and order another book about not being an asshole for my asshole friend, and possibly one for myself because after I admitted I could fit everything I know about not being an asshole on one page it became painfully clear that I, too, am an asshole.

So far, I’m liking Option 3.  Thoughts?

Tags: How many times can a person say the word "asshole" in one post?, I only wrote this because I like saying "weiners", Torn between assholes and weiners (again)

So today I had lunch with a bunch of people that I went to school with a thousand years ago and one of those people was my friend Paula, who has new boobs.  Paula is awesome despite the fact that she was a willing participant in the Duran Duran Fan Club that kicked me out in the 6^th grade because I did something stupid.  I don’t actually know what stupid thing I did but whatever it was it pissed off the leader of the group, this girl with big glasses and a mullet who was in ABSOLUTE CONTROL of the group at all times (think the 11-year-old sandbox version of Heathers) and could just snap her fingers and make everyone else hate you in an instant.  Which is what she did.  To me.  Because of the stupid thing I did.  Which I cannot remember.

Maybe Paula remembers.  Or maybe not.  My unceremonious ousting from the Duran Duran Club might not actually have been the same earth-shattering, life-altering experience for her that it was for me.

Either way, I forgive you Paula.

Anyway.  My point is not that I was kicked out of the Duran Duran Club, although maybe it should be because the more I think about it that was horrible and really reinforced a budding inferiority complex that plagues me to this day. And also made me terrified of mullets.

And now I’m unreasonably angry at an 11-year-old mulleted, four-eyed girl from 1983 for ruining my life.

GOD I’m so fucked up.

What was I saying?  Oh yeah, Paula’s boobs.

They’re awesome.

See the thing is, Paula had breast cancer 12 years ago and was successfully treated with radiation and chemotherapy, but after ten years of remission she had a test done to determine whether she was genetically predisposed to get breast/ovarian cancer and it turned out that she was actually, well, I’m not sure what the clinical term is for Completely Fucked but whatever it is, that’s what she was.  So she made the very smart, very brave decision to have a double mastectomy, essentially saying “SUCK IT, CANCER!  You might come back and want my tits but HA HA HA THERE ARE NO TITS HERE, SUCKAAAAA!  You’re fucking STUPID! HA HA HAAAA!!” and I’m sorry, but any way you slice it that just makes Paula a total BAD ASS.

And the badassiest part of all of it is that when she had the old, bad boobs removed, she got shiny new boobs put in their place.  And they look fabulous.  And I got a complete education on fake boobs and how they put them in and where the scars are and how you have to go back for nipples later and how even then you have to have the coloring of the nipples tattooed on and Holy Shitballs WHO KNEW it was such a pain in the ass to get nipples? Really! But it certainly made me appreciate my OWN nipples, which I have shamefully taken for granted all these years.

(I’m sorry, Nipples.  I love you.  Thanks for being you.)

I also learned that new boobs are hard at first and take a while to soften up and feel more natural, which sucks because Paula won’t let me feel her up until they’re soft and I probably won’t see her for at least another month so that’s a whole MONTH I’m going to be wondering what Paula’s boobs feel like.

Also, our friend Ross was there (badmouthing Twitter, by the way, which is stupid because he doesn’t even USE Twitter, his last tweet was August ‘09 and THAT was just a link to some article about chicks who ride motorcycles, complete with the obligatory photo of a girl in a bikini next to a motorcycle.  Which kind of makes me want to hurl.  So you should follow him and tell him that’s lame, and also convince him to love Twitter and be awesome like me). Ross was the only guy out of a group of six and he kept staring at Paula’s boobs and interjecting things into the boob conversation like “Oh, riiiight,” and “That makes sense,” which was hilarious because he doesn’t actually HAVE boobs (well, I mean, obviously he has BOOBS, that would be super weird if he didn’t, he’d be like an android or something.  But he doesn’t have LADYLUMPS, which WAS the topic at hand, if you’ll pardon the expressin.  He doesn’t even have MOOBS, and believe me, I looked) — and watching him try to navigate the fine line between acting interested in all the boobs at the table but not TOO interested, made me giggle.

Our other friends The Movie Star,  The Rock Star, and The Artiste were all there too, and there was a point to telling you that but now that I’m writing this I’m realizing just how incredibly talented and amazing these people are and Jesus Christ what am I DOING with my life?

SHIT.  Now I’m depressed again.

Anyway, we all agreed that Paula’s new boobs are magnificent and I think more than anything it’s just an incredibly wonderful thing that she’s in good health and giving Cancer a huge Middle Finger Salute which, as anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis should know, I personally enjoy very much.

Side Note:  I really have no idea why I just called it the Middle Finger Salute.  I think my dad called it that once?  Is that a military thing?  Well, whatever you call it, I’m a BIG FAN of giving other people (and also inanimate objects that have wronged me, horrible diseases, and often Karma) the middle finger.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah.  CONGRATS ON THE NEW RACK, PAULA.  And also on telling Cancer to fuck off.  I kind of love you.

Tags: cancer can suck it, I clearly need more therapy, steer clear of girls with mullets

Tags: I really DO have my priorities straight, I used to have a life now I have laundry

Just a few totally random things about me (wink, wink) that I felt like sharing today, not for any particular reason (wink) but just because I like you and want you to know me a little better (wink, wink).

1. I have a superduperawesomefantastichilariouslyfunny new column over at FunnyNotSlutty.com.  This month’s piece is called 9 Reasons Why “Haute Couture” Sounds Like Someone Coughing Up a Loogey and it’s so funny that when you read it the sun will shine even though it’s midnight and you’ll have tears streaming down your face, not so much from laughing but because it’s midnight and you don’t have any sunglasses and your allergies are also acting up.
    
2. I have a cat named John Robie who likes to eat human heads, but only at 4:00 AM.  I love him anyway.
    
3. Several months ago another cat just showed up at our house one day and moved in.  We let it hang out but refused to check to see if it was a boy or girl, because that just seemed like such an “owner” thing to do.  One day the Bean asked if the cat had boy parts or girl parts, I said I didn’t know, and then he asked what its name was, and I said I didn’t know that either.  I asked him what HE thought its name should be and he said “Pat.”  And that’s how Pat got her name.
     
4. One day the Big Bean pointed out to me that Pat was sleeping in his closet and he said, “This cat thinks it lives here,” and I said “This cat DOES live here, where have YOU been?” and that’s the day we made my mom check to see if Pat had boy parts or girl parts.
    
5. Did I mention my hilariously awesomely funny new column over at FunnyNotSlutty.com?  You should totally check it out.  Totally.  Seriously.  Go.  I’ll wait.
    
6. Was that shit funny or WHAT, yo?!!?  See?  Told you!  HA HA HA HAAAA HA HA HA!
     
7. Sometimes I say stupid things like “yo” and “tru dat” and then realize I’m just entirely too white to be using those phrases, even with irony.
     
8. I have what some people might call an “overinflated sense of self.”  And by “might’ I mean “definitely” and by “some people” I mean “probably most people who have ever met me.”
    
9. I almost shit my pants at Target the other day because I refuse to use public restrooms.  At one point I actually had to bend down and pretend to look at something on the floor.  But I made it, and I’m really proud of myself for that.
    
10. I like to make lists, which is why my awesomelyfantasticsuperterrificwonderful new column over at FunnyNotSlutty.com is so perfect for me.  You should go over there and read it and see.  You’ll love it.  Wear your sunglasses.
      
11. I never fart. Ever.
      
12. Sometimes I lie.
      
13. The scene in There’s Something About Mary with the franks and beans made me laugh so hard I farted and it was so loud that the guy sitting behind me actually got up and changed seats.
     
14. There is an alternate version of me running around in the real world making a complete ASS out of herself, and I’m powerless to stop her.  I call her AlternaMe.  I’ve never actually seen There’s Something About Mary, but AlternaMe is a HUGE Ben Stiller fan.  She’s also writing this post.
      
15. If you read this blindingly hilarious, side-splitting, uproariously funny column over at FunnyNotSlutty.com and then press the pretty buttons at the end for things like StumbleUpon and Digg and Reddit, a unicorn will fly out of your computer, land in your living room, blow you a kiss, and shit a pot of gold on your floor before flying away.  Go ahead.  Try it.  I’ll wait.

Tags: cats are weird, everybody farts, I'm in desperate need of validation

You know how sometimes you hate something SO MUCH that you just want to stab it in the eyes with a thousand knives and then laugh a terrifying cackle while you stand over it and watch it bleed out?  And if it was an actual person you would totally do the stabby-cackly thing without a second thought, even if it meant you’d have to go to prison for a thousand years, where you’d suffer a hell custom-made to your own personal demons, like 24 hours a day of forced cross-stitching and scrap-booking and Crock-Potting to a soundtrack of nothing but shitty Nickleback songs and Christian rock? 

And you know how, even though everybody else around you is all smiles and hearts and candy, and they keep telling you to lighten up and embrace the love (which just makes you want to stab THEM, too), you’re STILL consumed with bitter disgust and blinding hate for this ONE THING that you HATE SOOOOO MUCH that it makes you want to murder everyone in the world?  

You know?

Yeah.  Well.  That’s me and Valentines Day.

Every year around this time my frenzied, outraged rant begins.  I write elaborate fantasies in which I slaughter the sheep who feed the St. Valentine’s Beast.  I rage to anyone who will listen (and also some who won’t) about the ridiculousness of this so-called “holiday,” its commercialization of love and demeaning effects on people who dare to be unattached on February 14^th. 

I spout depressing statistics about wasted resources, pagan rituals, and suicide.  I imagine myself gleefully piercing the hearts of the fake cherubs at the grocery store with their own arrows.  When the local paper runs a “Cutest Couples” contest, I threaten to staple all their heads together.

Basically, I turn into a giant asshole for about a week.

But this year?  This year, things are a little different.  Because this year, I have this:

Aww, hell.

Fuck it. 

Happy Valentines Day, everyone. 

Tags: it's still a bullshit holiday, my kid could kick Cupid's ass

Dear Sprint:

The Big Bean and I have been customers of yours for like ten years and that’s mostly because we’re lazy but for the purposes of this conversation let’s call it “customer loyalty.”  Over that time we’ve been through lots of phones and talked to you a lot on those phones for help with those phones and for the most part you’ve been pretty helpful, at least, you haven’t completely FUCKED US like some other people (cough*AT&T*cough) have. For example, YOU’VE never forced me to talk to 28 (not an exaggeration) DIFFERENT ASSHOLES (one of whom HUNG UP ON ME OH YES HE DID) to get an issue resolved that YOU created, right before Thanksgiving, when you’re supposed to be nice to people and give them presents and candy and customer credits and stuff instead of making them cry and scream and beg.

I might be getting my holidays mixed up but you get my point. 

What I’m trying to say is that over the years I’ve developed high expectations of you, Sprint.  And by “high expectations” I mean “I expect you to not fuck me.” 

But then my new phone, the phone that I love and want to marry and make babies with because it’s so amazing and solves all the problems of the world with a simple touch of the screen – you know, kind of like Jesus, but better – THAT PHONE DIED this weekend.  JUST LIKE JESUS.  Well, not EXACTLY like Jesus, but still.  They’re both dead, aren’t they?  They might as well be related.

So I went to your store with my dead Jesus phone and high expectations but you just scoffed at me, Sprint — and by “scoffed” I mean “made me wait while you helped other customers.”  Which is LAME.  Jesus thinks so, too.  He says you’re going to hell unless you get some more stuff in your store to keep people entertained while they wait, like a few magazines and maybe some Sudoku or Jenga or something.  Jesus LOVES Jenga.

Also, if you have a big screen HD-TV in your store it’s just WRONG to show nothing but your stupid marketing video with the fat guy.  You can’t expect people to NOT die of boredom when all you give them to stay entertained for 45 MINUTES is a bunch of Sprint phones that don’t even work half the time (like the WORST MARKETING STRATEGY EVER, by the way) and a fat guy in HD hawking whatever crap you’ve got out this week to try and compete with Apple (which, whatever it is — FAIL). 

So basically it’s like you’re murdering people.  With boredom. 

And don’t think Jesus and I didn’t notice that you spent WAY more time with the cute girl in the short skirt (which, really?  It’s 30 DEGREES OUTSIDE, idiot) than you did with the weird smelling guy who was there before her.  We noticed, Sprint.  It’s why I flashed my boobs at you.  Because you’re skeevy and that was obviously the only way to get your attention.  And also because Jesus told me to.

And then when I finally HAD your attention you just scoffed at me again, and this time by “scoffed” I mean “stared at my boobs while I explained that my phone was dead like Jesus and needed resurrecting.”  SO disrespectful. To both me AND Jesus.

And THEN you told me you had to order a new phone and it would take at least 24 hours for the new one to arrive and during that time I WOULD HAVE NO PHONE, and when I started the ugly cry and threatened to punch you in the nads you just covered your groin with your clipboard and asked me to put my boobs away.  No hug or anything.  It’s like you didn’t even CARE that you were hurting Jesus.

And now it’s been 24 hours and I tried to wait patiently, I really did, Sprint – but I think I might have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Just like someone who’s lost a limb, you know how sometimes they can still feel it like it’s there?  Well I keep having these phantom vibrations but when I reach for my phone it’s not in my back pocket and then I remember that it’s dead like Jesus.  I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is.  Otherwise, I have no idea how to explain all these ass vibrations.  So obviously I HAVE to call you every fifteen minutes to see if my new phone is there yet.  I don’t have any choice, it’s part of my illness. Stop being such a DICK about it, okay?  Show some compassion, for Christ’s sake. 

What I’m trying to say is, it’s been well over 24 hours now and I still don’t have my phone and JESUS IS PISSED AT YOU, SPRINT.  This is fair warning.  Get me my phone back so I can start mating with it.  The sooner I start making half-breed human-phone babies, the sooner I can sell them on the black market and put Apple out of business because hey, Steve Jobs may be the shit but even HE can’t top half-breed human-phone babies, and then WE ALL WIN, Sprint. You and me and Jesus. 

Otherwise, you’re gonna BURN, dude.  I’m just sayin’.

Sincerely,

  .                   

  .                 

UPDATE:  It should be noted that my new phone DID finally arrive, and Sprint Store Dude wasn’t skeevy at all when I went to pick it up.  In fact, he was kind of awesome.  That didn’t stop me from publishing this post, though, because I’m a bitch  writing a new post would’ve involved work, and I think we all know how I feel about that  I felt it was important to document the experience, which of course was all true except for the parts about Jesus, Jenga, my boobs, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and murdering Steve Jobs.  And some other bullshit that I totally made up but can’t remember right now.

Anyway, because I obsessively sometimes stalk keep an eye on my blog stats, I saw today that someone FROM SPRINT had read this post, and in a sick  pathetic  desperate attempt to drive more people to this blog, which some people would call incredibly funny and insightful  and by “some people” I mean “me and absolutely no one else”, I tweeted this:

I know, right?!  It’s CONFOUNDING that more people don’t read this blog, with how hilariously funny I am!  But the thing is, someone from Sprint actually saw that tweet, and they tweeted this back to me:

And I’m all, Are you KIDDING ME right now?  Sprint seriously wants to HELP me?  What happened to the shitty customer service I totally made up spent an entire day writing a blog post to bitch about  document?   They’re jacking with the whole superior-to-the-multi-billion-dollar-corporate-conglomerate vibe I had going!  SHUT UP SPRINT DAMMIT YOU ARE HARSHING MY GIG. IX-NAY ON THE USTOMERSERVICE-CAY.  KAPEESH?

And they were all

FUCKING TOUCHÉ, SPRINT.  Humor points.  They even included the little semicolon smile to show me that they mean business.

And that’s when they stopped but I’m pretty sure it’s just because now they’re busy exploring new ways to credit my account with hundreds of dollars because I’m so hilarious  murder Steve Jobs  provide excellent customer service.  And whatever they decide to do, I’M IN, SPRINT.  I’M TOTALLY IN.

And so are my boobs.

And so is Jesus.

The End and Amen.

Tags: god loves me, Jesus has a brother and his name is my cell phone, Steve Jobs is dead if I ever figure out how to mate with my phone

So last week I wrote this post, about how the people of IKEA shun forks and refuse to eat anything but soup and ice cream because of their weird, fucked up Switzerlandish culture.  And also, about how the Big Bean’s an asshole. 

I’m paraphrasing, of course. Mostly.

Anyway, in that post I included a picture of the insanely disproportionate cutlery set the Fork Bigots forced me to buy, and it was hilariously funny, if I do say so myself.  Which I do.

See?  Hilarious, right? Especially that part about the spoon being the size of my head.  THAT was fucking HYSTERICAL.  Because it was HYPERBOLE, people.  I was exaggerating for comedic effect.  I do that sometimes to be funny.  The spoon wasn’t really the size of my head! That would be ridiculous!  My head is SOOO MUCH LARGER than that spoon!  Get it?  Ha ha ha haaaa! 

GOD I’m funny. 

BUT.

My husband’s 40^th birthday was this weekend and, as anyone who knows me or follows me on Twitter or Facebook or ran into me at the grocery store or met me for more than five seconds over the past couple of weeks knows, I threw him a BAD ASS surprise party.  I mean seriously, it BLEW his mind.  It’s amazing he didn’t have a heart attack because you know, a surprise like that? At his advanced age? Kind of a heart attack just waiting to happen.  But he survived it, and the food was spectacular and the wine flowed freely and everyone had a good time and my ass looked FABULOUS in the jumpsuit I wore—

Yes, I said jumpsuit.  Okay, yeah, it sounds weird but trust me, it wasn’t.  It was cute.  No really! Shut up.  Stop snickering.  YOU WEREN’T THERE.  YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE ME AND MY ASS AND OUR JUMPSUIT.  

BUT.

I digress.

The point is, I had this party for the Big Bean, and everyone was amazed at how wonderfully marvelous I am to have pulled it off, as they should be.  And I was the big hero and they all lifted me up on their shoulders and chanted “Beej! Beej! Beej!” while tickertape fell from the sky (finally) and I got to wear a superhero cape and the Big Bean promised to clean the toilets and do the laundry for the rest of our days together, to repay me for my incredibleness, and everyone forgot the Big Bean’s birthday while they celebrated the amazingness of ME.

Okay, that’s not really the point.

And none of that actually happened. 

BUT.

It should have.  At least the laundry part.

Anyway, the point is, LOTS of photos were taken, and the Big Bean and I appeared in a lot of them, because he was the guest of honor and we’re married and stuff.  And the next day I was going through them and found myself pleasantly surprised because in at least one or two of them I didn’t look like a circus freak, which is how I usually appear in photos, especially the really important ones documenting major life events that I wish to share with family and friends.

So I was happy.  I didn’t even flinch as they uploaded, uploaded, “Upload complete!”

BUT.

As I clicked through my new Facebook album, tagging photo after photo – “Here I am!” “Look at me and my jumpsuit!”  “See? I’m NOT a circus freak!” — I started to notice a pattern. 

Do you see it?  You see it, don’t you?

My head is alarmingly tiny.

I mean, no kidding, that noggin is CRAZY small!  Look at me!  I look like Pepe the Prawn from the Muppets!

THE HELL?!?

WHO SHRUNK MY HEAD??!!??

And before you say it’s not my head that’s small, it’s the Big Bean’s head that’s HUGE, let me just point to Exhibit C:

Note similar, normal head sizes of husband and husband’s friend. 

Note abnormally tiny head on Beej.

I don’t care HOW smoking hot I might have looked in my super groovy jumpsuit – with a head that tiny, I promise you, nobody was looking at my ass.

OHMYGOD HAS MY HEAD ALWAYS BEEN THIS SMALL?  Jesus, it has, hasn’t it? How could I not have known?  Why has no one ever told me?  This is really the kind of thing you should tell someone, you know?  If my BFF’s head was this fucked up, I would totally tell her.   It might be hard for her to accept at first, but I wouldn’t just let her run around looking like Beetlejuice dude without realizing it!  That’s SO wrong!

(now accepting applications for new BFF)

Shit! I think that spoon ACTUALLY MIGHT BE the size of my head! 

I’m thinking maybe I owe the Switzerlandish people an apology. 

.  

.

P.S. Just to add hellish injury to rapidly hurled insult, in the few photos where my head doesn’t look like it’s been shrunken by voodoo ninjas — I look scared.  I mean, like really scared.  Like, I’m pretending to be happy and having fun, but on the inside I’m fucking terrified.  Just look:

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ME AT THIS PARTY?!?

Call me if you have info.

Tags: abnormally large heads, clown hookers, jumpsuits

IKEA: Hi there! Can I help you?

ME:  Yes! Finally!  I’ve been walking around this store for half an hour and I’m completely turned around. I’ve never seen so many secret passages. It’s like the house from Clue.  I keep looking for Mrs. Peacock, but she’s probably in the men’s room.  har har Get it? *snort*

IKEA: Yes. Well. Is there something specific I can help you find?

ME: Yeah, I’d like some forks please. 

IKEA: You bet! Follow me… Cutlery is just right through this secret closet compartment and around the cafeteria – did you want a meatball? No? Cinnamon roll?  No? Okay, well, here we go… through this little pretend bathroom pantry, you might have to suck in your tummy a bit and oops! watch your head! and… All right, here we go.  Here’s a 60-piece set of flatware with 12 forks included.

ME: Yeah.  Great, but listen, I don’t want an entire SET, I just want forks.

IKEA: Right. Here they are. Along with the rest of the 60-piece set.

ME: No, I don’t want the other stuff – I just want the FORK part of the set.

IKEA:  Just the fork part?

ME: Did I stutter? 

IKEA: (disapproving look)

ME:  Yes. Just the fork part. Michael Jordan’s been sneaking into my house and stealing my forks and now I have to replace them.

IKEA: ?!??

ME:  (using fake sign language, speaking slowly) Mi-chael. Jor-dan. Stole. My. Forks. He’s in cahoots with Kanye West and Jay Leno to drive me bananas and together they all teamed up to distract me and steal my forks. ¿Comprendé? 

IKEA: ???!!!???!

ME:  Just give me some fucking forks.

IKEA: Well I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t sell just forks.

ME: Why not?  You sell just SPOONS, I see them right there. A package of eight spoons, right there.  See it?  I want exactly that, but with forks instead.  Get it?

IKEA: Yes, but we don’t sell forks like that. 

ME: Why not? 

IKEA: Well, we just don’t.

ME: Why not?  Is it because you’re Switzerlandish?  Do Switzerlandish people have something against forks?  

IKEA: Actually, we’re based in SWEDEN.

ME: Whatever. What’s your problem with forks?

IKEA: We don’t HAVE a problem with forks.

ME: Yet, you refuse to sell them.

IKEA: We DO sell them. Just not alone.

ME: This all sounds very prejudicial against forks, if you ask me.  The Switzerlandish people have a lot of explaining to do.

IKEA:  Ma’am, we’re SWEDISH.  Also, “Switzerlandish” is not a word.

ME: BUT DO YOUR PEOPLE USE FORKS?

IKEA: Yes, of course we use forks!

ME: So why don’t you SELL the forks?

IKEA: We DO sell the forks, just not on their own. We sell them as part of this nice 60-piece set.  See? 

ME: I don’t want your shitty 60-piece set.  It doesn’t look right, anyway.  Those spoons are unbelievably HUGE.

IKEA: All the better to enjoy a hot bowl of delicious soup!

ME: Look. I don’t want to ladle delicious soup into my mouth with a spoon the size of my head.  It’s weird.

IKEA: Well you’re in luck, because this set ALSO comes with much smaller spoons!

ME: Those spoons are incredibly tiny!  What do I want with incredibly tiny spoons?

IKEA: Well, they’re perfect for stirring things like coffee and tea.

ME: Can’t I just use a regular-sized spoon for that?

IKEA: You can if you HAVE one.

ME: Huh. (processing)

So then what’s up with the tiny forks in the set?  What are THOSE good for? 

IKEA: You’ve got me there.

ME: So, let me get this straight.  You sell regular-sized forks, but only as part of a 60-piece set. 

IKEA: Yes.

ME:  The 60-piece set also comes with really really HUGE spoons, really really TINY spoons, and really really tiny forks that no one can explain. 

IKEA: Yes.

ME:  If I want regular-sized SPOONS, which I don’t, I can only have them if I purchase a separate package of just spoons.

IKEA: Yes.

ME: But I can’t get regular-sized forks that way.

IKEA: Yes.

ME: A sphincter says yes?

IKEA: (dead silence)

ME:  Fine. Just give me the stupid fucking goddamned 60-piece set.

IKEA: You bet! Great! That’ll be fifty dollars, please!

ME:  You’re an asshole.

(later, at home)

BIG BEAN:  Did you get forks?

ME: Yeah.

BIG BEAN: What’s this?

ME: It’s a 60-piece set of flatware, okay?  I couldn’t get just forks because apparently Switzerlandish people really love their soup and have something against forks, so they forced me to buy this 60-piece set, okay?  I was LOST and CONFUSED and the IKEA guy was a big sphincter and he didn’t laugh when I said “Mrs. Peacock” even though I snorted to show him how funny I was, and I just didn’t know what else to DO, okay? I just wanted some FORKS, okay?  So don’t give me a hard time about it, okay?  I had NO CHOICE, OKAY?!?

BIG BEAN: Who’s supposed to use these tiny forks?

ME: You’re an asshole.

BIG BEAN:  Why are these spoons so big?

ME:  (head explodes) 

Tags: I just wanted some forks, I'll never understand the Switzerlandish

 
The actual lyrics to this song, as performed by Golden Earring: 

Somewhere in a lonely hotel room there’s a guy starting to realize that eternal fate has turned its back on him. It’s 2AM.

It’s two a.m., the fear has gone
I’m sitting here waitin’ the gun still warm
Maybe my connection is tired of taken chances

Yeah there’s a storm on the loose sirens in my head
I’m wrapped up in silence all circuits are dead
I cannot decode, my whole life spins into a frenzy 

(chorus) 
Help I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone
The place is a madhouse
Feels like being blown
My beacon’s been moved under moon and star
Where am I to go
Now that I’ve gone too far 

 Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone

I’m falling down a spiral, destination unknown
A double crossed Messenger, all alone
I can’t get no connection, I can’t get through, where are you?

Well the night weighs heavy on his guilty mind
This far from the borderline
And when the hitman comes
He knows damn well he has been cheated 

(chorus)
Help I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone
The place is a madhouse
Feels like being blown
My beacon’s been moved under moon and star
Where am I to go
Now that I’ve gone too far 

 Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone

(Repeat chorus to fade) 

The way I’ve been singing this song since the 1980s: 

(mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble)

It’s 2 AM, the feeling’s gone
I’m somewhere wailing, so go on, stew on
Picking my confection, tired of taking iffy chances

Yeah there’s a stone on the loose, sunrings in my hand
Wrapped up inside and saw the circus, all dead
Cannot tea cold, my whole life spans see two one friends yeah 

(chorus)
Hell I’m stepping into the twilight zone
The flesh is a mess
And it feels like beaming coned
My bean man can’t move
Under moving scars
Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?

So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone
So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone

I’m falling down a sty roll, destination unknown
Fell across a messenger, all alone
Can’t get no connection, can’t get through, where are you? 

Well the dike plays heavy on its kilty line
Vest’s far from dahpohrrrawrhhine
When the hip man comes
HE KNOWS DARNELL HAS BEEN CHE-HEE-TEEEEEEEEAD

(chorus)
Hello I’m stepping into the twilight zone
The vest is a mesh
And feeds my beanie flow
My pee man can’t move
Undone moonounshpar
Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?

So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone
So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone

(Repeat chorus to fade)

I am an idiot.

Tags: I really have no idea what I'm doing, still confused by that whole "wrapped up like a douche" song

New Year’s Resolutions, 2010:

1. I resolve to lose my keys or glasses or some other item essential to my daily life at least twice a week and then embark on a mad search through the house while uttering vile curse words under my breath but just loud enough that the impressionable child who likes to repeat everything will be sure to hear them. 
    
2. I resolve to later find said object(s) either in the door, on my head, or in some other painfully obvious place, which will then unleash a second round of under-the-breath-but-still-too-loud cursing.
    
3. I resolve to feel terribly guilty when the Bean repeats, in mixed company, the curse words he heard when I was searching for/finding my goddamnedbitchassmotherfuckingshitty keys/glasses/important-life-related-object.
    
4. I resolve to whine about a lot of stuff.
    
5. I resolve to walk around with a letter, check or other item that I’m supposed to mail to someone but can’t because I don’t have a stamp and keep forgetting to buy one, only to find it a few weeks later at the bottom of my purse and throw it away, defeated — five times or more this year.
    
6. I resolve to spend way too much money on iTunes.
    
7. I resolve to forget the name of every single new person who starts work at my office this year, knowing them instead by the names I assign them in my head.  Past examples include: “Eyebrows,” “Jabberwocky,” “Pornstache,” “Creepy Dude,” “Way Too Happy to Not Be High Guy,” “Myrtle,” “Wouldn’t You Be Happier in a Nursing Home?” and “MakeMeWannaYawnaYvonna.”
      
8. I resolve to piss off many people with my driving inabilities.
    
9. I resolve to forget the birthdays of at least three people who matter and then try desperately to make it up to them by spending way too much on belated gifts and overnight shipping.
    
10. I resolve to sit at my desk, having to pee, until I absolutely can’t stand it anymore, then race to the bathroom and *almost* pee my pants – at least once a week.
     
11. I resolve to eat my weight in cake during my birthday month.
     
12. I resolve to fly backwards off the treadmill at least two more times this year.
     
13. I resolve to make it through the entire year without winning ONE blogging award (not counting the ones I award to myself).
        
14. After the winners of each blog award are announced, I resolve to obsess for at least two days over what those people have that I don’t.
     
15. I resolve to find a new kind of food that I really like, then eat it every day for several weeks until I find it completely disgusting.
16. I resolve to totally screw up the alignment of this blog post.
      
17. I resolve to kill at least four plants through sheer neglect.
     
18. I resolve to commit myself to at least ten tasks that I’m sure at the time I will do but then will forget all about until the people I’ve promised ask me about them, causing me to smack my head with my hand and go “FFFFFFFUCK!”
19. I resolve to kiss the asses of those people for at least three weeks, post-head-smack.
     
20. I resolve to post at least 50 totally annoying and assholish status updates on Facebook, motivating at least 30 people to hide my updates or unfriend me altogether. 
      
21. Beginning in September, I resolve to ask the Big Bean at least 20 times to explain the game of football to me, only to immediately forget everything he just said so I can ask him to explain it again the next time a game is on, probably at a point in the game when big things are happening and he will be the most inconvenienced.
     
22. I resolve to finish a whole bunch of sentences with prepositions.
     
23. I resolve to get hopelessly lost in my own hometown, forced to call the Big Bean for directions and thus endure his incredulous “Seriously? You’re lost AGAIN?  But YOU GREW UP HERE” comments, at least once a month.
     
24. I resolve to hold my cell phone up to my ear and pretend that I’m having an important conversation with someone when I’m really singing an 80’s song at the top of my lungs in my car at least 37 times.
     
25. I resolve to trip or fall down in a public setting at least seven times (at least two of which will involve the explosion of my purse and random dispursion of its contents, especially tampons).
     
26. I resolve to feel old, ugly and inadequate every time I walk past an American Eagle store.
     
27. I resolve to cringe and cry every time someone posts another photo of me looking like a chinless goose-man on Facebook.
     
28. I resolve to laugh and snicker at unflattering photos and profiles of other people on Facebook, once again begging Karma to smack me around like its bitch.
     
29. I resolve to watch obscene amounts of television at unreasonable hours.
     
30. I resolve to ask at least 143 really, really stupid questions.  
31. I resolve to be unbearably obnoxious about how amazingly smart/funny/awesome my kid is, regardless of how much the person or people I’m talking to might care.

(see?  totally justified)

Tags: I can't remember SHIT, I look like a chinless gooseman in MOST of my pictures, my kid is amazingly awesome despite me, not really my new years resolutions