ADDENDUM: Seriously. HAPPY WOO WOO NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!
(For your sake, I hope I don't do this all night -- but I might. I smoke up here in my office, 'cause it's got the sucking fan thing and all, so every thirty minutes or so, I take a smoke break, which, I'm sure, irritates my guests, because, God knows, a minute without Ms. Lori is a minute in eternity, but hey, it's better than blowing puffs of doom in their faces and stuff and things, sooo...
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!! 2007! And shit! YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SOBER ADDENDUM, 8:00 a.m., January 1, 2007: Hmmm. Apparently, I was bombed out of my gourd last night, and I don't even know what "gourd" means, or whereabouts on my person a gourd might possibly exist, but there you have it.
A couple of interesting observations: 1) I did not, in fact, take a smoke break every thirty minutes, as exhibit A will show. I present to the jury this ashtray with no more than ten butts in it, the sum of the entire day's worth of smoking.
2) I'm positive that my guests never have felt nor ever will feel that "a minute without Ms. Lori is a minute in eternity."
3) Taking into the account the above statements, I can safely surmise that I am an egotistical liar while under the influence of cheap beer and greasy finger food.
Well, hello! I’m back, as you can plainly see. Hope your holidays went well, and that you’re all looking forward to a gluttonous New Year’s Eve.
Thought I’d take a few minutes here, while I can, if I can-- got four kids home from school (plus one -- my oldest daughter’s boyfriend’s dad went in hospital on Christmas Eve morning, and so has been staying with us) -- to post a few unimportant yet extremely irritating things I either noticed or experienced during the holiday weekend. Let’s begin, shall we?
1) I still can’t stand Patti LaBelle’s voice. Although I like and respect her as a human being, and know that many people believe her to be one of the best singers alive, I nearly had a brain aneurysm on Christmas morning while listening to her destroy “O Holy Night” when she performed her version of it on Good Morning America. Even my children, who had been deep in gift opening frenzy, unmindful of anything going on around them save for the gleaming boxes and loot-filled stockings, froze with terror soon as Ms. LaBelle began to howl. My boy, however, quickly broke free of his fear, brave little man that he is, then turned to me and said, “Mommy, you told me werewolves aren't real!”
2) Extended family who call every ten minutes to report incredibly idiotic things that I nor anyone else in my home care about, should really just get a grip. Step away from the phone, noodle-noses. Back away from the phone and be silent.
3) Why is it that sanitation workers take an extra day off, even when a holiday does not fall on their work day? We now have a mountain of trash so high, my husband, embarrassingly enough, disappeared somewhere near the summit late yesterday afternoon.
4) Instruction manuals that give instruction only in foreign languages, which results in a child’s ineptly put together Christmas gift. I’m sorry, dear, Daddy and I didn’t realize that speaking French was a parental responsibility. Now go play with your new block of plastic fromage -- it beeps when you press the mysterious blue button!
5) Rain, rain, go the hell away. Don’t you understand that this is Western New York, man? Did you, perhaps, take a wrong turn on your way to Virginia or something? I can’t shoo the kids out to play in the mud, for Christ’s sake! Children don’t want to build mudmen or decorate the budding lilac bush with Christmas ornaments! Jeepers, but you’re stupid!
6) A certain mailman who is quite nonchalant about delivering the goods on Christmas Eve day, and was two hours late, thus missing the intended recipients because they, you know, had places to go at four o’fucking clock in the afternoon and couldn’t wait around for the packages, will receive no tin of homemade cookies next year from this annoyed mother of a disappointed sixteen-year-old whose main Christmas gifts were ordered online. Merry Christmas, darling girl -- enjoy your little yellow “Sorry we missed you” slip.
7) Patti LaBelle’s voice is the stuff of nightmares. Yeah, I already mentioned that, but honestly, I’m still traumatized.
8) What’s worse than having four (plus one) kids stuck in the house for a week? Four (plus one) kids who are all sick.
9) What’s worse than having four (plus one) sick, cranky kids stuck in the house for a week? Dealing with that after a night of no sleep due to a four year old whining and sniffing and coughing and kicking my head -- on top of not sleeping the night before because wrapping presents keeps parents up till two a.m., and children rise on Christmas morning at exactly five a.m.
10) My house is awash in tiny Styrofoam balls and scraps of metallic paper -- all stuck to the floors and walls with unidentifiable gooey substances and cookie crumbs. And I’m too tired to give a damn.
Interesting side note: After researching the origin of Patti LaBelle’s voice, I discovered that her vocal chords were created sometime in the 1860s by one Thaddeus S. Beaumont of Baltimore, a notorious and decidedly insane anatomist cum barber who was known to have once styled the hair of Edgar Allan Poe. Beaumont, while under the influence of absinthe, built those vocal chords with snippets of Poe’s hair, some tree bark, and a bit of dog jowl. His evil creation was originally intended as a form of military scare tactics, requested by General-in-Chief of the Union army, George Brinton McClellan -- ostensibly some sort of sound-augmenting implement placed in the neck of a bugle to terrorize the opposition during company advancement -- but had somehow escaped from Beaumont’s workshop and remained in hiding until 1944, whereupon the vocal chords reappeared in the throat of a child named Patricia Louise Holt, better known as Patti LaBelle.
Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah, straight ladies and gay gentlemen -- may you receive your own dick in a box this holiday season. And if you're of the reverse persuasion, my heartfelt wishes that you all receive a lovely, gift-wrapped box of poon.
Stop whoring your whorey blogs to this particular high-priced, very exclusive lady of the evening.
Look, I don’t have a lot of time to diddle around the Internet, okay? I’ve got four kids, a cat that pukes every five minutes, an Internet provider run by folks who eat snail testicles (as evidenced by how slow my connection is), a brain that can’t handle much of anything lately, a book to write (hahaha, I kill me), and some sort of weird horn-like appendage that popped through my forehead last night -- it has rudimentary fingers at the tip, and bends this way and that way at will, perhaps something that'll be useful for weeding the garden come summer…
Hey! I’ve got a Weed Whacker on my forehead! Cool.
But forget about my Weed Whacker for a minute, if you can -- what I’m trying to say here is this:
If you don’t subscribe to my blog, or even just read it and comment once in a damn while, DO NOT invite me either by E-mail, Z-mail, passenger pigeon, or pony express, to link or subscribe to yours. I don't have the time, I don't have the interest, and frankly, I just don't like you.
Also, if you happen to be a Christian bloggers site, be sure you read my blog postings carefully before inviting me to join your gang. Do you really want some anti-organized religion, foul-mouthed, beer-loving, Weed Whacker-headed nutcase featured on your otherwise sweet site? DO YOU?
Sorry I haven’t posted lately -- one of my kids hasn’t been well, and we’re going through the lovely process of CAT scans and witch doctors wielding large rain-making sticks, and all that stuff…Will post something more substantial soonishly. Maybe.
Till then, have a drink on me, think good thoughts and send 'em on over here, will ya?
Boogie oogie, you bombastic, beautiful bastards and broads.
Have you hugged a radiologist today?
I did. Picked up that poor old, frail, wonderful, god-like, gorgeous bag of bones in my arms and swung him to and fro like a rag doll.
Should’ve seen the look on his precious face.
But the moment called for a hug, as I was in love with the world -- still am.
I love you, world, and everything’s gonna be okay. ANOTHER UPDATE! (Which I should've posted the other day, but, y'know, hey): My girl is on the mend! Scans showed that she was suffering from preseptal cellulitis, but it was caught early (I can't imagine what she would've looked and felt like had it been caught late in the stage -- I shudder to think...). Her poor eyeball seems to be going back to where it belongs (like, inside her orbital socket), and she's feeling much better. Gawd bless the man or woman who invented Augmentin.
All right, then, listen up -- bi-curious is cool, unless, that is, a certain bi-curious individual has a face like a horse whose mouth was implanted with fifteen extra horse teeth by an evil scientist named Doctor Julius Bastardo.
Let me explain.
Last night, I was flipping through the channels, came upon a VH1 documentary about bi-curious women who are married. Okay, interesting enough. What made it even more interesting was that there is a place in the Bahamas where these married bi-curious babes can go mingle with other bi-curious babes, and, perhaps, get it on…As their chagrined albeit excited husbands stand on the sideline (literally) and fiddle nervously with their crushed self-esteem while at the same time find a comfortable position in which to hide their confused and perky wieners.
Yes, it’s a wonderland, this place. Full of magical hopes, and fantastical dreams wherein girls mack on girls and men get to watch their girls mack on other girls, then go masturbate in the bathroom. Really, quite romantic.
I can’t tell you how fascinated I was. Seriously, I can’t tell you. My oldest daughter reads this blog sometimes, so, you know…
But I digress like a fat kid love cake.
Anyway, one of the focus couples, a seemingly lovely pair from Wisconsin, put a bit of a damper on my…er…fascination. Mostly because the bi-curious wife was butt fugly to the point of obscenity. Had a face like a jigsaw, she did -- nice hair, though, but my sweet Madonna, what a fucking awful pity about that face of hers. Yet…I liked her. She seemed like a fun person, an open-minded lady with a boring life -- kind of like me, actually -- and she had a cute figure on her, I’ll give her that, but I just couldn’t get past that face.
Oh, that face! It is a face that blew up a thousand ships, a face that makes angels cry, then throw rocks and garbage. It totally ruined any….fascination ***ahem*** I may have had with this program. All I kept thinking was “No one in their right mind would dare put their lady parts near that row of garden shears, I don’t care how desperate they may be. No one will want to kiss that picket fence for fear of splinters, no one would want to taste the yellow, smell the tartar, bruise their tender lips -- or worse, have their lips completely ripped off, then swallowed and digested. Would they? Naw…”
But someone did, and I swear on Dorothy Parker’s grave, I gagged. I gagged and looked away as some hottie tongued the massive maw from Hell, I choked on bile when the kissing-clacking-ripping-shredding sounds permeated my being, murdered my very soul.
It was the wrongest thing ever. Wronger than wrong. Wronger than using awkward adjectives like “wrongest” and “wronger.” It was wronglacious.
I turned off the television, then quietly vomited into my teacup.
The moral of this story is a simple one, ladies and gentlemen: The dentist is your friend.