*Today's post is dedicated to Clay because, without even realizing, he totally helped me pull it together by reminding me yesterday morning about The Neverending Story, which –– if you're not familiar –– is the tale of a boy named Atreyu who's stuck in a world that's slowly disappearing because it's being systematically consumed by The Nothing and oh, hey! That sounds an awful lot like what's been happening to me during the last four years with The Porcupine! First I was a Mars Rover and now, apparently, I'm a kid who talks to rocks while trying to outrun a gigantic black hole! Oh, just forget it.
And speaking of The Porcupine, I offer you the same standard disclaimer this time around that I do for all self-involved, annoyingly non-specific posts on this subject: You should totally just skip it. Which, if you think about it, is probably the exact same disclaimer I should offer for ALL my posts, regardless of the subject matter, where subject matter equals HAHA! None of the subjects matter around here because this blog is totally like an Interwebs Black Hole Nothing: sucking in material from anywhere and everywhere yet remaining totally empty. I know. IT'S A GIFT.
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Welcome back, everyone! Today we'll be featuring the long-awaited second installment in our Ongoing Adventures in Porcupining series! (You: Okay, seriously? No one waits for anything around here. Mostly we just try to hide from you.) Oh whatever. ANYWAY. This series is basically a comic strip of sorts about life with The Porcupine where life equals most all of it has seeped out of him over the past few years and now it's like he's totally dead inside. Romantic!
I know it's been a while since I've posted much about him, but I've been very, very busy blogging about more important issues such as sending cows through the mail and trying to figure out what Stinking Buggers are (I still have no clue) and worrying about our country being run by people whose names look like the word "BONER." (I mean honestly: How am I supposed to take any Boner-generated legislation seriously?) Of course, I also haven't blogged much about him because doing so forces me to also do very unpleasant things like actually thinking about how a bad turn of events on top of another bad turn of events on top of yet more bad turns of events has changed The Porcupine into a retreated, isolated, former shell of himself and SEE?? Love is FUN!! Or not. Or something. OH, I DON'T KNOW.
And with that I present the following:
My Ongoing Adventures In Porcupining –– Installment #2* (Or: The Um What?? Comic Strip –– In Two Installments Which, If You Do The Math, Equals Two Installments Too Many!) *The first can be found here.
THE (apparently it will never) END.
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P.S.: So, in conclusion, sometimes this:
But most of the time, this:
Wow. I could've spared you guys all that "Adventures in Porcupining" crap and just posted these two pictures instead and basically given you about the same amount of useless useful information. I totally have this blogging thing NAILED!
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P.S.S. Did you all know that today is National Pit Bull Awareness Day? In honor of this, I offer the next two pictures. Because despite all the above evidence to the contrary, love really is a many, many splendored thing:
Buster and his Boy: A Neverending Love Story They're also the best possible PR team this group of often misunderstood and wholly wonderful dogs could ever hope for. And The Boy will never need his own luck dragon as long as he has Buster around.
This post took way longer to publish than I originally expected because I got completely hung up on my friend Lori's illo. I just went to dinner and the movies with her and yet I still couldn't remember if she currently had bangs or didn't have bangs because that's the kind of totally attentive friend I am: the kind who pays absolutely zero attention! So then I asked Maureen if Lori currently had bangs or didn't have bangs and guess what? Maureen had no idea either AND MAUREEN WORKS WITH HER FIVE DAYS A WEEK.Very helpful. Maureen. So then I went back and forth and back and forth and finally decided on some half-bang thing that would sort of work either way because this small detail was very, very important on account of the way it had absolutely nothing whatsoever at all to do with this post.
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This is my lovely friend, Lori:
Because I have only the best-looking friends! And Chris.
I recently ruined Lori's life went to the movies with Lori to see District 9. And by recently I mean two weeks ago and wow! Compared to how things normally go around this blog, that IS recent. I have totally focused my blogging chi!*
*Yeah, yeah. So it's really been three weeks now. Sue me. (You: Okay!!) You could win this blog in the settlement! (You: Oooh. Forget it.) That's exactly what I thought.
Lori and I try to catch dinner and a movie together semi-regularly because we like movies and we like dinner and we like each other and oh, hey! Friends are like flowers in the garden of life. Or whatever. ANYWAY. I chose the movie this time around, and I had several reasons for deciding on District 9: like how it was being touted as forever changing the face of science fiction and how Chris highly recommended it, telling me it was "great!" (OMG why did I use this as a reason?? TACTICAL ERROR FORESHADOWING) and how it had a very important and relevant social message which I assumed at the time as anyone would have was probably something like "YAY! Aliens are awesome!!" Or whatever. Because really: Who doesn't love aliens? Right??
Wrong.
WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG-ITY WRONG WRONG.
Listen: Before I go on, I know: District 9 is an exceptional movie with seamless visual effects and an inspired documentary shooting style and top-notch acting and a hauntingly delivered commentary on the darker instincts of human nature and SO WHAT NONE OF THIS IS ENOUGH TO TRUMP THE HORRIFIC, HUMAN-INFLICTED ALIEN BABY MURDERS AND AWFUL ALIEN TORTURE AND ABUSE AND RAMPANT XENOPHOBIA AND PEELING FINGERNAILS OFF ROTTING FLESH AND HAHA, who am I kidding?! The part where the main human character starts peeling off his fingernails from his rotting fingers was awesome! As a matter of fact, I can't think of a single movie in history that couldn't be made better by adding a fingernail peeling scene. Or Dwayne Johnson.
District 9's plot, in a nutshell, is this (Warning –– Spoiler Alert!): A big spaceship full of aliens gets marooned over earth blah blah no one knows why just go with it, then humans make first contact in sort of a Welcome-Wagon-meets-Home-Invasion-Robbery kind of a way and determine said aliens are low-life, bottom-dwelling "prawns" that must be imprisoned into a horrible, slum-like internment camp despite the fact they're already sick and suffering and need kindness and mercy and then something, something human-dude-who-looks-like-Hitler-this and something, something alien-father-guy-who-is-ugly-but-beautiful-that and then a whole bunch of other stuff happens who cares and then TA DA! It turns out it's the human race that's filled with the most miserable and vile bottom-dwelling creatures who ever lived THE DESPAIR-FILLED, GOD-AWFUL, SUICIDE-INDUCING END. Popcorn, anyone?
So. If I was a professional movie reviewer –– which I'm not although I think we all agree I totally could be –– I would give this movie two thumbs down stuck up my butt because that's how uncomfortable I wasJABBED VIOLENTLY AND REPEATEDLY INTO MY EYEBALLS UNTIL I'M RENDERED
TOTALLY BLIND AND OH DEAR HOLY GAHHH WHAT I WOULD'VE GIVEN AT THE TIME
TO BE RENDERED TOTALLY BLIND. Or dead.
OMG WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO WATCH THIS CRAP?! OH. OOPSIE! (Heh. Butter Face. "Everything looks good but her fa...oh, never mind.)
I knew I was in serious trouble when a few minutes into the movie, a teeny-tiny, empathy-inducing alien boy appeared on the screen at the exact same moment my brain chose to register the fact that Chris loved this movie and all of Chris's favorite movies are the ones where everybody totally and completely dies. Gahhhh. I turned to Lori at this point and whispered something that began with some profanity followed closely by a very famous Han Solo/Luke Skywalker/Princess Leia/C-3PO quote. (Oh dear god why was I not at home watching my Star Wars DVD box set instead?? WELCOME TO MY BIG, FAT TACTICAL ERROR.) Now, what Lori said was that she also had a bad feeling about this. But the horrified look on her face told me what she really meant was "I rue the day I ever met you." Which seems pretty bad but was actually kind of awesome because do you even know how much longer it took her than most everyone else I know to arrive at this conclusion?!
OH, IF ONLY.
In the end it should be noted (and this would be a real spoiler alert except for the fact it's totally irrelevant just trust me since you should never, EVER see this movie) that none of the souls at the center of the story dies. This is good news when it comes to the father alien and his son who manage to escape the clutches of "humanity" –– both of whom you'll find yourself beyond emotionally invested in unless, of course, you have no heart and then oh, hey! This is the perfect movie for you and also? You're Chris. This news is disappointing, however, when it comes to the main human character, who –– I don't care how much redemption he finds in the last 37 seconds –– has done so many awful and sickening things leading up to that point (Hello One Man As Symbol For The History Of Humanity) that all I could think the entire time was DIE A$$HOLE. He did end up turning into an alien though (don't even ask) which, in my opinion, just adds further insult to injury because haven't the aliens suffered enough indignities already??
Anyway.
Speaking of suffering enough indignities, all I can say to my dear friend Lori –– who told me she was up until 4:00 in the morning after the movie because she couldn't turn off her brain FROM THE HORROR –– is I am so sorry. But it really wasn't my fault. Because if you think about it, besides being sort of the fault of all of the rest of humanity, it was mostly TOTALLY CHRIS'S FAULT. Which, if you think about it further, is pretty much the explanation for every other horrible thing that's ever happened around here. Like this post.
THE END. And this explains the OTHER reason it took me so long to get this posted: I DIED.
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P.S.: THIS:
Just another example of why I spend so much time wondering why my blog doesn't have its own wing in The Louvre. BLOGGING AS FINE ART.
P.S.S. Also: For anyone who may have noticed that blog regular MC has been conspicuously absent as of late, don't worry: He's still around, he's just been temporarily banned from this blog due to a little thing I like to call punishment.
RUDE.
I'm not going to get into the details here (shunned me on Facebook) but suffice it to say (specifically shunned this blog on Facebook) I was extremely hurt (untagged himself in all blog-related illustrations posted on my Facebook page so other people wouldn't know of his involvement here) because I've never done one thing to warrant this kind of behavior (JERKTARD) except for accidentally being the kind of person people totally rue meeting. Something I cannot do anything about. Obviously. Which reminds me: I keep e-mailing the Facebook developers to suggest they change their motto to "FACEBOOK: No Good Can Ever Come Of It" but for whatever reason I can't get anyone answer me. No wonder they're only the second biggest site on the interwebs. No vision. ("Um...What??" is number one. I'm guessing.)
Anyway, no matter! Because my friend Chris, on the other hand, is totally proud of his involvement here.
Chris: Proof that there truly is no more hope for humanity. IT'S JUST SAD.
Today's post is dedicated to the lovely Mary of Twitter's seamusandmaggie fame! And guess what? She has her very own blog now and it's introspective and insightful and delightful and each time you visit there she offers you something pleasant like coffee or raspberry Sangria tea or a Gin and Tonic or Lorna Doone cookies or...huh. Now that I think about it, I never offer you people anything. Well, of course not. Do you think I'm going to waste my time saving cookies for you when I could be stuffing them down my yap by the fistfuls instead? EXACTLY. Anyway, speaking of blogs, Mary recently went through this one and read like each and every post I've ever published, and then afterward she told me she had a stomach ache from laughing so hard. Which, I'm assuming, is code speak for your blog makes me sick. Well, of course it does! Welcome to the club, Mary –– population Everyone Who's Ever Been Here; club president, Ryan. (He's been getting sick here since almost the beginning.) Please note, however, that as a public service to my readers, I do try my best to keep posting to a minimum so as to ensure that none of you actually dies from this crap. So really? It's like I'm blogging and SAVING LIVES. My pleasure.
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Welcome back, everyone! For today's post we'll be getting interactive as I answer some of your fan mail. Because, as you can imagine, I get a lot of fan mail. And not just from my mother either. As far as you know. HAHA! Of course my fan mail isn't from my mother. That's absurd. It's from, you know, other people. Who aren't my mother. Because this blog has completely taken over the interwebs. And by taken over the interwebs I mean nobody reads this crap, not even my mother.
Okay. Let's get started:
"Hi, Lesley! I totally love your blog more than any other blog in the world! I mean Camilla has a blog but it's all, "Blah blah I bought a new hat today" and "Boo hoo, I didn't get to have tea until 4:30 this afternoon" and honest to God does anyone even care about these things? I KNOW I DON'T. Anyway. I was wondering if you had any updates on Buster? Because I LOVE that dog!! By the way: Did I mention how much I love your blog, too? If you were in my country, I'd totally make you Queen." - Charles, Prince of Wales*
* SEE????!?!?!?!? I TOLD YOU.
Hi Charles! To begin with, I think we can all agree that I was pretty much born to be a queen. Because –– speaking of pretty –– I totally am, and I also happen to look AMAZING in a crown and what other talents could I possibly need to be a successful queen? That's what I thought. So, you just say the word and I'm there. I mean can you imagine how this blog would totally take off if I moved "Um...What??" headquarters to a castle?! Because do you even know how great the acoustics are in a castle??? Which of course has nothing to do with anything, except for the fact that few things guarantee a blog's meteoric rise to success the way having good acoustics does. I'm assuming. Well, except maybe for Photoshopping. OH! And having a cat to write about. Anyway. I'll change my blog's name to, "Um...What Did the Queen Say Again?" and then I'll write all kinds of brilliant and royal things in it, after which I'll run around every day offing various people's heads and eating crumpets (WTF? I have no idea) and then ordering more people's heads to be offed because if you had any idea at all what my life is currently like, you'd totally understand how much I would really appreciate being able to OFF SOME DAMN PEOPLE'S HEADS.
Okay, seriously: What was I talking about again? OH! Buster!! Well, Charles, I'm so glad you asked. Of all the topics I've ever covered on this blog, where covered equals writing while having absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, Buster is the subject people most often ask about.
So, Charles, I offer all of you this little glimpse into what Buster's been up to as of late:
Some pictures are worth a thousand words, but this one is worth about TENTEEN GAGILLION. (I mean, seriously: LOOK AT THIS.)
On the subject of royalty, Buster has gone from a homeless, kazoo-playing dog on the side of the road to, well, a king –– with a castle and a kingdom and a family all his own. And in that family is a boy. Buster's boy. The one Buster loves above all others. The one Buster enthusiastically and loyally defers to because in Buster's world, his boy is his king. Once misunderstood and mislabeled as vicious and dangerous because of his particular breed, Buster has gone from a prisoner on doggy death row to the steadfast and loving and gentle protector of his boy and his boy's world. (Chris totally loves this part, by the way. SOMEBODY PLEASE GET HIM A TISSUE.) Because while Buster loves everyone, he totally lives for his boy.
And if you don't think this curls my toes and waters my eyes and swells
my heart, well, you're either new here or you're clinically dead. And in the case of the latter, you'd probably be better off somewhere else, anyway.
Buster's boy and his wonderful parents had to go away for a few days recently (and by recently I mean like a couple months ago BECAUSE THAT'S HOW I DO IT AROUND HERE), so Team Buster had a reunion of sorts: Buster went back to stay with Kim (who had previously taken him in while we were searching for his home), and then I came over for THE BEST PLAY DATE EVER:
Plus, I totally forgot who I was for about 17 minutes. And no, I am not flipping you off. Unless you're Jared, and then really? You will never know.
Oh dear god. These are like the worst pictures of me EVER. How am I going to be Queen looking like that? Wait. Do I really look like that?? For those of you who are suddenly concerned that I actually might, don't worry...I am too. So on that note, I just went and took these pictures of myself to assure us all that sometimes I am actually very, very pretty:
CRAP. Why hasn't anyone ever told me how pointy everything is on my face? Also, I am so yellow because I DO NOT KNOW WHY I AM SO YELLOW. Damn camera settings. Aperture? WTF? And you can thank Jose for the picture on the right. If I can't take pictures like him, I'll take pictures that look like him. In addition? PARKAY.
OH WHATEVER. Enough of this nonsense. There is one more thing that should be noted about Buster before we move on to our next letter: In the event of an emergency (or a non-emergency, or any time at all, really), Buster will become a flotation device:
Swimming laps around his castle's moat. Or his grandma's pool. Whichever.
As it turns out, Buster loves the water so much that if given the opportunity, he will swim a lap and get out and jump back in and swim a lap and get out and jump back in and swim a lap and get out and jump back in over and over and over and over until his muscles are so fatigued he'll hobble around the entire next day like an old man who's lost his cane. "Wouldn't you just love to know what he was thinking?" his mom asked me the other day.
Indeed.
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"Dear Lesley: So what's that Chris guy been doing lately? His life seems totally fun and exciting!! I think he's who people really want to know about, not some dog. Although they probably want to know about the dog more than they want to know about you." –– Chris Christine P.S. Your blog kind of sucks.
Hi, um, Christine. First of all, yeah yeah, this blog sucks. BLAH BLAH SEE OPENING PARAGRAPH. Secondly, if you've been around here for any length of time, you can probably already guess what Chris has been doing. The same thing he's always doing. This:
This was just a little while ago. Look familiar? Also, I'm very concerned about these poor girls having to play football without protective gear. Or their clothes.
For those of you who have asked me what "this" is that Chris is always doing, it's called accounting. HAHA! Good one! Like anyone can do math with so many boobs everywhere. The nearest I can figure after all these years is that Chris has taken it upon himself to be some kind of savior-slash-superhero to scantily-clad women everywhere. Ladies? Have you've misplaced your clothes? Or worse, has someone stolen them? Never fear, Chris is here!! He will faithfully stand by you in your hour of need and then take a picture of both of you while he does so he can e-mail it to all his friends and put it up on his Facebook page. It should be clarified, however, that I've recently confirmed via the scientific method my suspicion that Chris is a savior-slash-superhero to scantily clad women everywhere except the ones who are me:
And then I caught pneumonia and died. Which is why it took me so long to get this post up. BLAME CHRIS.
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"So. You haven't blogged in like fourteen years or something. I'm thinking of using the Mayan calendar (Editor's Note: I HAD NO IDEA EITHER) to track your posts even though I think doing that will just assure you never get anything else up before the world ends. What gives??" –– Maureen (OH! But totally not your BFF Maureen though!) (Because a BFF would NEVER give her friend so much crap!) (Um...yeah.)
Hi Maureen! First of all, I had to look up that Mayan calendar thing on Google and I see what you did there. An unknown number of elapsed days from a mythological starting-point? Clever, really. Second of all, PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS ITEM ABOUT HOW I DIED OF PNEUMONIA. Third of all, I am a very, very busy person and cannot just sit around blogging all the time. For example, just a week or so ago I traveled all the way to Edinburgh, Scotland (THAT IS IN ANOTHER COUNTRY, BY THE WAY) to visit cherished Um...What?? family member, Mr. Farty!:
You: WTF?? That's not you. That's JOSE.
Okay, FINE. Jose was the one who met Mr. Farty. Not me. But it should've been me, too! On account of, you know, THIS:
Do you all know my interwebs boyfriend #1 and interwebs boyfriend #2?
HOWEVER, even though I didn't actually go to Scotland, that doesn't negate the fact that I am very, very busy doing other things like that one time when I....hold on, it'll come to me...OH! Okay, the other day I...alright honestly, WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME? Sometimes when you are very, very busy (AS I AM) it's hard to keep track of everything you're doing and so you write things down but if you don't have your calendar in front of you then you can't always remem...OKAY FINE I NEVER DO ANYTHING WHATSOEVER AT ALL. Why don't you try doing nothing whatsoever at all and then tell me what it is YOU would write about in your blog? Exactly.
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And now for our final letter:
"Dear Lesley: You're so pretty and so funny and so good at Photoshop, all of which are very important qualities in a wife. Will you marry me???" –– Name Withheld So As To Save Author Any Embarrassment
No, I will not. JARED.
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P.S. I totally love this picture but couldn't find a place to work it in, so I decided to stick it on the end of the post here because that's the kind of thing you do when you have a black belt in blogging. WHICH I DO:
Yeah, right. Brad Pitt wishes he was this good looking.
P.S.S. That letter from Maureen is TOTALLY TRUE except for the part how it wasn't actually a letter but instead was a series of tweets back and forth between Jose and her that were all "Mayan Calendar this" and "OMG growing old that" and blah blah blah IT IS VERY, VERY HARD TO BE ME. Obviously.
6/9: I've decided to close the comments on this post. Who knew a post on giving to charity would end up being so controversial? I blame me for "writing" something that was totally devoid of any actual service-oriented information due to my desire to save room for other things like pyramids made out of cows. But since the people at Send A Cow know about this post, I want them to be happy it's up and not look for rocks to throw at my head. HAHA! The people at Send A Cow would NEVER throw rocks at people's heads. Obviously. They'd throw cow pies. They have read this post though, and are no doubt monitoring it closely all day every day. Never mind their actual charity work. So, you know, if you're waiting for a cow right now and it's totally late? I apologize.
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So the other morning I got this Twitter DM from Ryan where he was all, "Hey! Send a cow!" To which I was all, "WTF do you need a cow for? And do you even know how much the shipping charges are going to run me for something like that? We don't even live in the same country." Then I had to spend all this time trying to find a damn cow, which I thought would be totally easy except for did you know that Petsmart doesn't even carry cows?? Way to go, Petnotsmart. THEN I had to spend even more time figuring out how to wrap up the cow ("Large" box? I don't think so FedEx), only to get an e-mail from Ryan later on that said the cow wasn't for him it was for charity and you don't really send the cow, you send the money for the cow and HAHA! I TOTALLY KNEW THAT, WHAT AM I AN IDIOT??! And then I was stuck with this cow that was probably going to end up living in my bathtub or something until I suddenly remembered that Maureen has a very nice yard and she also loves milk and so I generously gave her the cow because I am the best friend ever:
Thanks a lot, RYAN.
Also, I thought it would be a good idea to give Maureen a cow because she's always saying things to me like, "OH MY GOD, I AM A COW" which leads me to believe she has no idea what a cow really is so I figured it might help her to have a visual reference nearby. This is probably the same reason I'll eventually get her a pig.
ANYWAY. On to my main point here, which is all about...hang on, it'll come to me...something about...OH! Right! Charity. Specifically, the UK-based charity, Send a Cow. (The UK? Do I have some large Ukrainian readership I'm not aware of?) Ryan asked me to write up a little piece on them to hopefully increase awareness of their cause (Uh, do I have some large anything readership I'm not aware of??) and bring in some much-needed donation money. Because, apparently, nothing brings in much-needed donation money like the use of excessive, nonsensical Photoshopping which I will deftly demonstrate here:
Maybe these two pics just brought in tons of pounds for Send A Cow??!! Because, by the way, they use "pounds" not dollars in the UK (WHEREVER), and I'm figuring tons of pounds is a lot of money but I don't really know for sure on account of I am not a human currency converter. And, to be honest, I'm not even that familiar with my own American dollar due to the fact I DON'T HAVE ANY OF MY OWN AMERICAN DOLLARS. Usually.
For those of you who don't know anything about Send A Cow you're in luck because neither do I, I'm the world's foremost leading expert on the subject! This is due to a little something called I Have An Advanced Degree, which in some circles is also known as Feeling Lucky On Google.
In a nutshell, Send a Cow's mission is to enable disadvantaged families in rural Africa to have access to food and a secure livelihood by developing sustainable farming systems that integrate both crops and livestock. A donation to Send A Cow results in some of the poorest families in nine African countries receiving training in sustainable farming as well as life-saving resources like livestock, seeds and trees. Wow! This sounds like an excellent idea, right? And I'm sure it is, but to be honest I don't even cook, so the idea of also having to GROW my own food seems practically overwhelming so maybe we should just send microwaves and a bunch of Lean Cuisines? Oh, I don't know. Anyway. Integral to Send a Cow's success is their "pass-on" system, wherein each recipient of a cow pledges to pass on their first female calf to another needy family, and then that family does the same thing and so on and so forth and etc. and COWS ARE FUN!!! Not only does this system help to expand the number of families that benefit from your donations to Send A Cow's programs, it's also pretty much exactly like that commercial that's all, "Then you tell two friends and then they each tell two friends and so on and so on" only it's with cows. Which means, if I'm understanding correctly, that if you send a cow to someone, and then HE sends a cow to someone and so on and so forth, one day TA DA!: 497 cows show up at your door!!
WHO WOULDN'T WANT IN ON THE GROUND FLOOR OF THIS ACTION?? (To be honest, I'm not completely certain this is how it works, but common sense would dictate that I'm right.)
SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? Send a cow, people!!! It's good for impoverished families in Africa, it's good for the earth, it's good for your soul and it's good for the animals. And you know how I feel about the animals. So please –– do it for the cows! Because cows need good homes and love, too. Okay, people are hungry and need food. That's totally important, I know. But mostly? COWS NEED GOOD HOMES AND LOVE. I cannot stress this enough. Donate now! Send a cow to a good home, filled with love.
Send A Cow: EVERYBODY'S DOING IT.
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P.S. Seriously. This is a great organization. Send A Cow imagines a world where hunger is completely eradicated and they're forward thinking in their ideas of how to get there. Besides cows (all bought locally in Africa), they also provide goats and chickens and bees and farming equipment and fruit trees. But more importantly –– through their training programs and community support groups –– they provide people with the ability to become self-sufficient, which in turn provides people with the kind of gifts that money can't buy: dignity and pride and self-worth. That's a big difference you can make with a small amount of money.
Click to donate! Donations are just in pounds though. Which I don't know anything at all about. So, beyond this post you're totally on your own. Just so we're all clear on that. Because I cannot do everything for you. SHEESH.
P.S.S. Yesterday Chris was all, "Uh, your blog? What's up?" and then I told him I was about to post something kind of about cows and I also told him it was going to be totally awesome because sometimes I lie to Chris SO WHAT and then he was all, "OMG I HOPE THERE ARE OTHER ANIMALS IN IT TOO I AM SOOOOOO RIVETED!!" and he didn't even TRY to hide his sarcasm (RUDE), so I think it's totally obvious who's getting the next cow:
Updated 3/25 to add: Apparently, besides being the Charles Schulz of Bloggers, I'm also just like David Lynch. Or so says XUP. Which, not that I need to point it out, IS AWESOME. But it does remind me to mention that you should skip this post entirely. DO NOT BOTHER. It's one of those Porcupine-themed posts that goes on and on while saying pretty much nothing and hey –– what do you know?! That is just like every single other post I've ever written! Because –– in cases like this anyway –– when I "write" (HAHA!) about The Porcupine I never actually "write" about The Porcupine due to a little thing I like to call The Porcupine is very, very private or YOU DO NOT EVEN WANT TO KNOW IT IS SO BORING. Trust me.
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Welcome back, Um Whaters! Remember how I wrote in my last post that this blog smells like a massive fart? (You: We don't need reminding WE'RE SMELLIN' IT RIGHT NOW.) Well, that got me to thinking about other things that totally stink around here (NO, NOT CHRIS but, you know, good one!), which caused me to accidentally* Photoshop the following pictures in the form of a short, graphic tale depicting how the last two weeks have stunk like a massive fart! OH, WHO AM I KIDDING? If only they smelled half that good.
*I swear I don't know how these things happen. But there's no way any of it's my fault. Obviously. And the fact that I would MARRY PHOTOSHOP if someone would let me has absolutely nothing to do with anything I'm talking about here.
Anyway. On with the pictures. Because yes you have to look at them, so STOP WHINING ABOUT IT. And don't worry –– the story has a happy ending (YOU: OMG. ZZZZ.):
My Ongoing Adventures In Porcupining –– The First Of Many Installments!! (Unless this is the only installment I do.) (Which is highly likely on account of most of the time I can't remember I even have a blog, let alone that I'm supposed to follow up on something for it.)
Curin' what ails me.
Havin' my back.
I honestly have no idea how this helps me at all.
I totally love these people. I hope all of you people have people like this.
And by the way: To clarify, this is all symbolic of the latest in my situation with The Porcupine. It's the situation that's been kicking my a$$ –– not the actual Porcupine himself! Because The Porcupine is the singular best person I know (which is saying a lot when you consider these three people here), and he would spend all day flogging himself in order to spare others pain and that is a huge part of why we're in this situation and blah blah blah never mind the details, just know that none of this is literal, and by none of this is literal I mean can anyone loan me a medically-induced coma?
But don't worry everyone! (You: WE'RE. NOT.) No matter what gets thrown at The Porcupine and me, we always manage to find our way through it. Because we go together. Like Mo and martinis. Like peanut butter and jelly. Like rama lama lama ke ding a de dinga dong. Oh yeah: And like hugging and bodily injury:
And by the way part two: Am I the only one who noticed that this post is totally like Um...What: The Comic Strip?? I KNOW!! Sure to be syndicated any day now in ZERO newspapers and on even fewer websiteseverywhere.
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P.S. Updated a few hours later to add: The Porcupine has lipstick on because I just KISSED HIM and not because he's into that kind of thing as far as you know. HAHA! Not really! The lipstick is there to symbolize how even when it all sucks butt there is still love and la la la come over here and doo doo doo lemme kiss you and if this update was any more tragically romantic it would totally have to come with a barf bucket. Which, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't really know how to pull off unless these things have already become a reality. (Wait. Have they? Anyone? Scientist Laurie?) OH I DON'T KNOW. As usual.
The first is to loyal and much loved Um What?? family member, Debra. Debra's been here since the earliest days –– you know, back when this blog was simpler. And posts were shorter. And they didn't have any Photoshopping in them. In other words, Debra has stuck around to witness this blog's downward spiral into total crap. Poor Thanks, Debra!
The second is to my friend Jared who I think is a reader here, though I can't be totally sure due to the fact that he's never actually admitted it. Just like my friend MC. Because admitting in public that you read Um What?? basically has the same effect on people as telling them you have Bird Flu. Or the Black Death. Or that you're going to massively fart in their general direction. It sends everyone running and screaming from the room. Apparently.
Despite this, Jared has actually appeared here once before. Anonymously. Pictured on a coffee cup. FOR NO REASON. Which of course is ridiculous and doesn't really make any sense at all because if Jared's face belongs anywhere for no reason it's not on a coffee cup. This is an error I will fix immediately, and by fix immediately I mean this:
And Maureen actually publicly admits she reads this blog. Jared. And not only when she's drinking martinis, either. Hopefully. But just wait, dude: You'll be singing a totally different tune when Um...What?? becomes totally, hugely popular one day. HAHA! GOOD ONE!
Okay. Enough of all this. Let's get down to the actual point of this post. And by actual point I mean oh dear god, of course this post has no point. Are you new here? But there WILL bepicture after picture after pictureof the exact same chair. It's going to be just as awesome as it sounds. Trust me.
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Welcome back, everyone! I know, I know. Posting's been way light around here, even by our standards, though this really shouldn't matter much to you because if you come here you obviously don't care at all about standards. Regardless, please accept the apologies of everyone at Um...What?? headquarters. It's just that we've been bogged down in work and there are seriously not enough hours in the day. Because just like back in 2008, this new year finds us equally overwhelmed with so, so, so much to do. I mean, honestly: It's a wonder this post is even getting published at all.
I seriously need an assistant.
Among all the recent developments around here, the most noteworthy would certainly have to be this:
The arrival of the new chair!! (Pictured above! Pictured below! And then pictured below after that! And then yet again after that and so on and so forth and I am a blogging Sensei. Learn from me.)
If you've been around here for any length of time, it may have previously come to your attention that I have no a$$*. And not in an I'M BRAGGING LOOKIT MY PRETTY PETITE LITTLE HINEY kind of way, but more along the lines of it never ceases to amaze me that I can ever manage to successfully sit down.
*Of course I am not totally without ass on account of, you know, THIS:
We have all met Chris by now, yes?
And speaking of Chris? He was doing this all last week –– which really has nothing to do with anything I'm talking about here except for the fact that who doesn't like a good pair of boobs, right? How about eight pairs? That's SIXTEEN BOOBS, people:
Poor Chris. It really is as horrifying as it looks. (This gratuitous use of boobs in a blog is brought to you by my shameless attempt to grow Um What's male readership!)
ANYWAY. Before the arrival of the new chair, my poor, bony, sad excuse for a butt was forced to write in this blog while sitting on any one of the following:
Oh, of course it's not really made of concrete. CONCRETE WOULD BE SOFTER.
User Tip: Down couch cushions are NEVER a good idea. Take it from me. Eventually they just end up squished beyond all reason –– bony butt or not. I don't sit on this couch so much as I slump down into it. It's designed less for relaxing and more for being slowly eaten alive. It's like having a couch made of quicksand WHICH WOULD BE AWESOME, except for that there's not really any quicksand involved, so instead of being awesome, it's really just ergonomically incorrect or a big-a$$ piece of sh*t.
That's right. I sit here. On All The Above Monstrosities. And blog. FOR YOU PEOPLE. I am seriously like the Patron Saint of Uncomfortable Blogging. Only more saintly. And way more uncomfortable. WAY.
So after much waiting and wishing and scrimping and saving and then having to start completely over on the scrimping and saving part due to my tendency to lose focus and accidentally spend what I save on Michael Kors handbags and Belvedere vodka (oopsie!), I finally got my hands on the extra cash I needed to bring home the world's most enormously awesome and comfortable chair!
WHICH I THEN COULD NOT EVEN SIT ON DUE TO THE FACT MOSES THE CAT APPARENTLY TOOK OUT A MORTGAGE ON IT. Or something.
Five seconds after chair was delivered.
Basically every single subsequent second for the following week:
Of course, I'm just kidding. HAHA! Moses The Cat isn't the boss of me, obviously, because that would just be ridiculous and I am the one in charge here and I can sit on my big, new chair whenever Moses The Cat lets me I want to!! SEE??:
And before you say it, YES I KNOW THIS BOOB SHOT ISN'T EXACTLY THE SAME. Seriously. I'M DOIN' THE BEST I CAN, PEOPLE. Also? I can't understand why I don't blog more often, considering how infrequently I nap.
But these days it really is share and share alike here in New Chairville. As a matter of fact, Moses the Cat and I are sitting together on it right now as I slap together craft this piece of sh*t amazing post!:
View from my side of the chair. This shot originally looked pretty bad. Then I added a special filter layer to it in Photoshop, and now it looks totally worse.
And all this togetherness got me to thinking about my really big, super-huge, enormously awesome chair and how having just Moses The Cat and me sitting on it seems like such a waste. We can all fit on here, people! Climb aboard! Let's set sail!! Because the bloggy family that traverses the bumpy seas of life together probably just ends up barfing all over each other. Fun!
Slightly more doomed than The Titanic. The above image was updated 3/25 to addDonna, the very lovely and adorable and loyal Um...What?? family member I inadvertently left off the first go 'round. I blame the failing economy. And Chris.
And on the subject of fun? Now I can blog, blog, blog in total and utter comfort!!
Awesome. You: OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NOBODY WANTS YOU TO BLOGBLOGBLOG.
And finally, I'm pretty sure my next new chair's probably going to be one of these:
Solvin' two of my problems at once.
And speaking of big butts:
Oh, like this is some kind of a surprise.
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P.S. So, how many of you spotted the hidden zombie?? This post is totally like "Where's Waldo?", only in this case Waldo's undead and wants to eat your brains out. Gather the kiddies 'round!
P.S.S. Okay, so seriously: Jared probably doesn't even read this blog and I'm all, "Why don't you admit it, jerk?!" and "Hey, yer a BUTT" and I bet if I ever said anything to him, he'd be all, "I don't even know WTF you're talking about! It's bad enough I have to work with you. You think I'd read your stupid blog too? And anyways, I didn't even know you HAD a blog." And then he'd give me the finger and leave and go back to his office and blast some Metallica until a lesser person's ears would bleed because Jared LOVES Metallica and then –– OMG! –– I would start a second blog all about Metallica and then maybe he'd read THAT. It probably wouldn't be very good though, since I don't really know a lot about Metallica. Then again I don't know shi*t about anything I write in this blog either, but that never stops me.
P.S.S.S.: And just to put a period on this whole post, on Friday I tweeted something about tattooing a bunch of people's Twitter handles on my butt. To which the lovely and aforementioned Debra answered the following:
So, this weekend I decided to look up the word "meme" on Wikipedia. Mostly because I didn't even know how to pronounce it, but also because Mr. Farty gave me one to do (WHATEVER –– MR. FARTY IS LIKE TEACHER FARTY GIVING ME HOMEWORK) and so my entire life has been falling down around my ears because I've had to keep saying things like, "No I cannot have dinner with you because I have to write my meme" and "Sorry, I don't have time to talk on the phone because I have to sit and think about my meme" and "No, I totally cannot marry you as I'm busy with my meme." Only sometimes I'd say "meemee" and other times I say "Mee-may" and occasionally I'd try "meh-mee" because I didn't really know which one was right but figured no one else did either so I'd probably be in the clear regardless. But then eventually I decided I needed to know for sure because I can't very well keep bragging about my PhD in blogging (I TOTALLY HAVE ONE) if I don't even know what the hell a "meme" is since "memes" are central to blogging. Apparently. Just like having a blogroll and also totally inflating your blog stats when reciting them to your fellow bloggers. (In some circles this is referred to as lying. In blog circles, lying is referred to as blogging.) Here's what I learned:
"A meme (pronounced /mi:m/- like theme) (OHHHH. "MEEM.") is a unit or element of cultural ideas, symbols or practices; such units or elements transmit from one
mind to another through speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena. The etymology of the term relates to the Greek word minema for mimic. Memes act as cultural analogues to genes in that they self-replicate and respond to selective pressures."
Not that I need to point out the obvious, but by here's what I learned I mean that beyond the pronunciation I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I LEARNED BECAUSE WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEME MEAN??? There were several more paragraphs by way of explanation, but I'm not even going to copy them here because they do not help the matter at all. Trust me. So, basically this tells me that pretty much nobody knows what a meme is and if they say they do it's just like an Emperor's New Clothes thing and they are totally lying. Also known as blogging. SEE ABOVE PARAGRAPH.
Anyway. Unimportant details aside, I will now do the meme given to me by Mr. Farty, entitled "10 Honest Things About Myself." And speaking of unimportant details, that's exactly what this meme will be filled with. Because honestly? Nobody cares. I don't even care and it's all about me.
Honest Thing #1: I have a blog. I KNOW! Most of you are probably unaware of this fact, but it's true. You can find it at www.umwhat....er, www.lesley.umwhat...OH WHATEVER. But trust me I get TONS of hits every day LIKE IN THE GAGILLIONS. (SEE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH ABOUT LYING.) I originally started my blog thinking I was going to write deep, profound, meaningful things about myself and my life. Until I realized I had little interest in writing deep, profound, meaningful things about myself and my life I'M BORING and instead what I really wanted to do was just Photoshop sh*t. And I don't even know how to Photoshop. And I'm seriously on the verge of an aneurysm right now because look at how far down I've gone into this post without one Photoshopped image in sight! Dear God.
Honest Thing #2: I really cannot stand having very many people around in my life. This should not be confused with "I am a loner" because I don't want to be alone –– I do love being around those I'm closest to. Just ask Chris, who cannot get away from me despite the fact he continuously tries. But it's my natural inclination to keep my group of friends small, because human connections are pretty profound to me, and all the emotions and feelings and experiences that make up those connections can completely overwhelm me if I'm not careful. The Porcupine says it is because I am an empath like Deanna Troi ("You just feel everyone's feelings like they're your own") and regardless of whether or not that's true, what is completely true is that when The Porcupine makes geeky sci fi references it totally gets me hot. AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON HIS CHEWBACCA IMPERSONATION. Basically, Sylar said it best last week on Heroes: "Look. You're really gonna have to stop trying to be my friend or I'm gonna have to kill you." Exactly! OMG Lesley and Sylar are like soulmates!! And by the way, for any of you who are not familiar, Sylar is a homicidal maniac serial killer who takes out people's brains butnever mind that particular part.
Honest Thing #3: I am a direct descendant of Robert Louis Stevenson. He was the uncle of my great grandmother on my mother's father's side. Which of course totally goes without saying because have you even READ my blog lately? I clearly got the fineliterature genes. And by fine literature I mean this is a crap sandwich served up with a side of crap chips on a plate made out of crap. (You: What's for dessert? Me: CRAP.)
Honest Thing #4: My head hurts. I was born with my left eyeball turned out so that all you could see was mostly the white part. And yes: It's just as attractive as it sounds. So when I was so small that the thought of putting me through any major surgery was enough to terrify my parents practically to death, they braved the terror anyway, so they could get my eyeball repositioned. So I could do things like, you know, see. The surgery involved disconnecting muscles and nerves and taking my eyeball all the way out which you have to admit is so many kinds of awesome and maybe it was rolling around on a table at some point or sitting in a beaker? ALSO AWESOME. Then there was some reconnecting somehow and putting the eyeball back in and blah blah WHATEVER, I AM NOT A DOCTOR. Currently. But it was the first surgery of its kind (I am in the medical anals, people) and while it was for the most part quite successful, I was left with a little side effect I like to call Surplus Vision. I actually see separately out of each eye, which results in my always seeing two of everything. Since it's the only type of vision I know, it seems normal enough to me. For the most part my brain disregards one image and then said brain and eyeballs and I go about our business just fine. But I do get some big-a$$ headaches fairly regularly since all of this action is a huge strain on the muscles around my eyes. Most of the time this doesn't at all affect my ability to function and most people around me have no idea anything's going on. But occasionally? I have to stop the world and get off. BE BACK LATER.
Honest Thing #5: I am an only child. This fact –– which is totally not my fault, by the way –– caused this blog's favorite MC to put me on Friend Probation, which he announced to me (JERK) way back at the beginning of our relationship because he usually does not like only children because he thinks they tend to be spoiled and self-centered and did I mention he thinks that they are spoiled? Just because he comes from a family of sixeightfourteen one bazillion siblings is no reason for that kind of attitude. But luckily it became a non-issue as I was none of those things because I am lovely and wonderful and caring and unselfish and never mind all that I HAVE A NICE RACK, so, you know, friends forever!
Honest Thing #6: I watch way more Sci Fi Channel programming than should be allowed by law. And I'm not even talking about just the good stuff either –– like Ghost Hunters or Battlestar Galactica. I'm talking about the kind of movies that are on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Because if there are giant puppet spiders with visible strings or enormous, fake-looking plastic bugs or exploding heads that are clearly made of lettuce and stuck on the top of a stick or horribly written lines delivered via colossally bad acting, I am so there. And probably watching whatever it is for like the third or fourth time.
Honest Thing #7: I am always slightly amiss. You know those women who are always perfectly put together and coiffed and poofed and polished and manicured and coordinated and, you know, whatever else perfectly-put-together women are? I am not one of those women. Those women look good. I look good enough. As in OH WHATEVER, I GIVE UP. Today? My hair is full of enough static electricity to probably power my laptop. And underneath my cute little short-sleeve, violet-colored sweater I am wearing a black camisole. With a hole in it. Some days it's cat hair all over my clothes. Oh look! Like today. Or coffee dribbled on my top. Or leftover lunch dangling in my hair. Or chipped nails or scuffed shoes or lipstick on my teeth or gray roots or YOU GET THE IDEA. Last week I walked around all day with only one earring in. While wearing a ponytail. And not because I lost the earring either. But because I only put on one to begin with. And it wasn't a subtle earring, either. It was a gigantic hoop practically suitable for a bird to perch on. How does a person just, you know, not notice that the other one is missing?
Honest Thing #8: I am the whitest person you know. And by white I don't mean I can't dance, I mean literally. White. As in the color. As in if Nicole Kidman and Marcia Cross had a baby (I have no idea) and then rubbed White-Out all over it, that baby would still look slightly more tan than I do.
Honest Thing #9: I am the singular most direct person you will ever meet. It's the only way I know how to be, and 99% of the time it serves me well. I don't understand passive aggressive, I don't understand beating around the bush, I don't understand hemming and hawing, I don't understand people who are vague and/or hesitant and uncomfortable saying what they think. Of course you can imagine what this must sometimes be like for the people around me. Take a recent exchange I had with Mo, for example, which maybe didn't go word for word like this but was still the general gist:
Me: But why wouldn't you tell me something like that directly?
Mo (patiently and not unkindly): You know, everyone is not as comfortable as you are just speaking their minds. YOU ARE A FREAK.
Okay, so that freak part might have been implied. Or maybe I just inferred it. But either way? It's totally true and all I can say to everyone who has to put up with this trait in me is I apologize. And, oh yeah, IT'S NEVER GOING TO CHANGE. This is called I Apologize, Part Two.
Honest Thing #10: This meme is a perfect example of why I've never done one before and will never do one again!! OH MY GOD no one cares that my eyeball was moved and I'm blindingly white and blah blah sometimes I wear only one earring OOPSIE and I like puppet spiders and I have been on Friend Probation yadda yadda everyone who isn't now in a coma, please raise your hand.
That's right. NO HANDS.
Oh. And in conclusion? This:
OH LIKE YOU REALLY THOUGHT I'D GO A WHOLE POST WITH NO PHOTOSHOPPING.
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2/25 edited to add: Now that you're all done with this nonsense, go visit Mr. Farty if you haven't already. You will NOT be sorry!
The NASA Space Program is very exciting! Just ask the Mars Spirit Rover: Thanks to the NASA Space Program, Spirit has spent five long, tedious years totally marooned on Mars.
If you do the math, that's more than EIGHTEEN HUNDRED days stuck on a mission that –– by the way –– was originally slated to last only 90 days. So Spirit has been there more than TWENTY TIMES longer than expected which, if you stop and think about it, means I have done two complicated math equations in one paragraph, or I am basically a NASA scientist now.
Spirit's mission –– as part of the overall NASA Mars Exploration Rover Mission –– has been to study the history of water on Mars. Well, of course. What else would you look for if you were on Mars?
"Um...What??": Wildly popular everywhere in the universe!*
(*excluding Earth)
But honestly? Ninety days? To study the water on a barren, desert planet that almost doesn't have any? Shouldn't that take like zero time at most? OH, WHAT DO I KNOW? I've only been a NASA scientist for a few minutes so far.
Unfortunately, the answer to the little rover's question was the same then as it is today: NO. Because Spirit still had a 90-day1800-day totally long-a$$ mission to complete! (OH WHATEVER. EVEN NASA SCIENTISTS CAN ONLY COUNT SO HIGH.) So all these years later Spirit is still left wandering around on the Martian landscape which, according to abcnews.com is "a cold, hostile place, far away from home."
Huh. I hadn't really thought of it that way until now.
What's next, ABC News? Online videos of baby seals being bludgeoned?
At first I was all, I CANNOT FUNCTION I AM WAY TOO SAD and then I was all OH MY GOD HOW CUTE IS THE SPIRIT ROVER WAS HE DESIGNED BY DISNEY and then I was all FOCUS, LESLEY, REMEMBER THE SAD and then I was all WAIT A DAMN MINUTE because of the way I suddenly realized just how similar Spirit and I are, where similar equals I think I might be a part of the NASA rover program? And no one bothered to tell me? THAT IS TOTALLY MESSED UP. NASA.
And so was born this brief overview of Spirit's mission thus far, as compared and contrasted with my own personal effort to survive my current predicament, or Mission OMGWTF:
MISSION BEGINNINGS:
The Spirit Rover Mission:
Officially began when Spirit first landed on Mars January 4th, 2004.
Mission OMGWTF:
Began on December 5th, 2005, back when The Porcupine first officially lost his mind. MORE THAN ELEVEN HUNDRED DAYS AGO. Is also taking place on barren, desolate, uninviting, freezing cold Mars. Apparently.
MAIN MISSION OBJECTIVES:
The Spirit Rover Mission:
To look for water on Mars –– which is, if you ask me AND I AM A SCIENTIST SO I TOTALLY KNOW THINGS –– another way of actually looking for proof of life on Mars. Its original goal to last at least three months in the hostile Mars environment has been replaced with its current goal to last as long as it possibly can.
Mission OMGWTF:
To look for proof of life, you know, pretty much anywhere. I don't usually have much luck, to be perfectly honest with you. Most days I'm fairly sure I'm wandering around out here all by my pathetic scientific self. My original goal to spend about two years helping The Porcupine through A Super Tough Time has been replaced by my new goal of trying to find the way out of this desert wasteland we've somehow landed ourselves in BEFORE EVERYBODY ENDS UP TOTALLY DEAD. You know. As opposed to the current way we're only kind of dead.
Also: Notice how there's a empty line of space above "To look for proof of life...?" This is called as hard as I try and try, I can't figure out how to override the damn auto-formatting that keeps randomly popping up here or science is obviously useless.
MISSION TEAM MEMBERS:
The Spirit Rover Mission:
Spirit has hundreds of people back here on earth supporting its mission
on Mars including scientists and professors and drivers and navigation managers and robotic
engineers and orbital engineers and even a Knowledge Engineer. (I am totally one of these myself.) (Like I even have to explain this.)
Mission OMGWTF:
I've got people supporting me too, you know –– helping me do things like navigating around tough terrain, cleaning off some of the sh*t dust that lands on me on a daily basis and prompting me to perform various diagnostic tests on my many systems, such as when Chris says things to me like, "What the hell is WRONG with you??" Oh! I'm not sure...let me check! Just because I'm
sometimes 100% certain I'm totally alone, doesn't mean I actually am. I guess. Or so people tell me. I don't really know for sure though. OH WHATEVER. Me: "If you love me you will all put on these glasses." Team OMGWTF: [Collective blank staring.] Me: "But I've seen scientists wear these. SCIENTISTS." Team OMGWTF: [More collective blank staring.] Me: "OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I HAVE NO IDEA BUT JUST PUT THE DAMN THINGS ON."
MISSION CHALLENGES SO FAR:
The Spirit Rover Mission:
Poor little Spirit has had nothing but trouble throughout its mission, where nothing but trouble equals "HEY I THOUGHT I WAS DESIGNED BY WORLD-RENOWNED SCIENTISTS AND NOT MRS. POOLE'S THIRD GRADE CLASS??" There have been the problems with the unrelenting dust storms that no decent rover has ever been expected to endure. (Spirit is solar powered and just like paper covers rock, MARTIAN DUST COVERS SOLAR PANELS.) Then there's the broken right front wheel that stopped working entirely on day #779 of the mission and has forced Spirit to navigate backwards ever since, essentially dragging its bum limb behind it. And there have been several computer glitches, including the most severe instance yet where just over a week ago Spirit abruptly and spectacularly lost its mind. In people-speak? Spirit suddenly had no idea where it was, and no memory of what it had been doing. Have I mentioned lately that this was while it was all alone? In a cold, hostile place, far away from home??
But Spirit –– the little rover that could –– has since regained its faculties and after a series of successful diagnostic tests is once again moving around normally, where normally equals "OHMYGOD I AM SO LONELY CAN I PLEASE COME HOME NOW HAAAALLLLLLP!!!???"
Mission OMGWTF: Also fraught with difficulties and setbacks. My navigation controls are clearly broken as I all I seem to do is constantly go in circles until I'm just this side of vomiting. Also broken? EVERYTHING ELSE. My reserves are low (energy, endurance, resolve, vodka) and my outlook is even lower. Just like Spirit, I've also lost my mind, but that was somewhere back around day #568 and big fat deal: I've beenfunctioning just fine without it ever since. Obviously, BECAUSE DID I MENTION I'M A NASA SCIENTIST NOW?!
Oh. And by the way? This:
BUT MOSTLY VODKA.
MISSION OUTLOOK:
The Spirit Rover Mission:
Because all of the smart, sciencey people follow NASA on Twitter.
Considering I just received the above tweet, I'd say things in the immediate future are looking up for Spirit. Long term is another story, however, since –– in case no one here has figured this out yet –– there's no way to get Spirit back home once it's done with its mission.
It's the elephant in the living room nobody really talks about: Spirit has been sent on a one-way trip to (you know what's coming, right??) a cold, hostile place, far away from home. In the end –– after all it's endured and after all the challenges it's risen above and after all of the pictures it's taken and data it's collected and work that it's done for all of us –– it will be left to slowly shut down and eventually disintegrate into the Martian landscape.
Actually, I may not completely understand the details of the mission's end since I can't find them spelled out anywhere. Not to mention I have no idea if shut-down robots left on Mars actually disintegrate. As disintegration is not my scientific specialty and whatnot. But you know I'm right because have you ever heard of even ONE Robot Rescue Mission anywhere? And I would TOTALLY pay more taxes for that kind of thing because, you know, SAD. And even if I'm wrong about all of this JUST NEVER MIND because that would only ruin this part of my post and I can do that kind of thing without anyone's help.
SEE???
Mission OMGWTF:
DOOMED. Duh.
Yeah. Just like Spirit, I was pretty much jettisoned to my current locale without any kind of plan to get me safely back out either. OOPSIE! But, you know, it seemed like a good idea at the time. OH OF COURSE IT DIDN'T.
Anyway. Against all odds –– because against all odds is WHAT I DO –– I'm not giving up. And besides: The whole landscape could change soon since President Obama is set to appoint a new head of NASA any day now. A few key names are being bandied about, but I think we all know who the obvious choice is here:
Because William Shatner was an admiral in Starfleet, people. I mean do I really have to explain this?
Help get Spirit and me safely home, Admiral William Shatner. You're our only hope.
* * * * * * * * * *
P.S. Exciting!!
P.S.S. Yesterday when Mo and I were talking about this post (YES I SUBJECT HER TO THAT KIND OF CRAP ALL THE TIME), she said, "A dead porcupine belly-up with XX's in his eyes? On Mars? I know it all now. You don't have to finish." For those of you who wish I'd listened to her, TOO BADI apologize.
So: I just published a new page on this blog (See above? In the navigation bar? "The Um...What??" store?) (OH, NO ONE CARES) in which new page equals this thing you work on just as hard as you work on all your posts but that doesn't get picked up in anyone's "readers," so then nobody sees the new page, which essentially means "readers" make me lose readers. WTF??? This is called irony or what previously wrinkled clothes now look like.
And as if this wasn't bad enough, the new page activity doesn't get registered in my blog calendar either, so in my sidebar it looks like I haven't published anything since January 11th which is incorrect and I do not appreciate that, Typepad. This makes me seem like I only blog every 11 days at best and what kind of lame-a$$ blogger does THAT? I blog every 8-9 days. JERKS. So then in order to alert you I have to publish this quasi-post which isn't even worth getting picked up in anyone's readers but still does anyway and then you log on and find THIS and you're all, "WTF IS THIS STUPID-A$$ CRAP??" So then I'm all, "Vagina mittens!" and "Elephant porn!" because it works for The Bloggess, and then you're all, I'M DELETING THIS NON-BLOGGING, PLAGIARIZING, IDIOT-A$$ BLOGGER FROM MY READER!!!!" which sucks for me because it's not my fault I have to write crap like this because everyone's "readers" DON'T WORK RIGHT. F*ck off, "readers!!!!"
Oh, good grief. This is just ridiculous.
Did I mention I published a new page on my blog?
Also: Next time I'll be blogging about snowboarding, which I know even less about than "readers"...if this gives you any indication as to how that's probably going to go.
Personally? I think the entire world of blogging might be tragically corrupt. I also think my blog is broken.
Today's post is dedicated to loyal (and suh-mokin' hot) "Um...What??" reader Lisa, whom I inadvertently neglected to mention in a previous post when I called out some of my favorite blogs. This is in NO WAY a reflection of Lisa's site and is instead completely reflective of the dullness of my brain. Sometimes I forget about my own site because I am busy trying to remember things like where I put the cat and also The Alamo. This one's for you, Lisa!
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While innocently minding my own business last week something very, very deeply disturbing happened to me.
Specifically, I accidentally watched this. For three and a half hours:
I'm going to tell you anyway. This is called I Have A PhD In Blogging.
For those of you who are unaware (oh dear God, please tell me it's all of you) Operation Repo is a reality television program currently airing on TruTV. TruTv used to be Court TV. But, apparently, when you abruptly change half of your previously quality programming to stupid-a$$ sh*t like Speeders and Hot Pursuit and The World's Wildest Vacation Videos you also have to change the name of your network to include a misspelled word because incorrect spelling equals yoreyouryou're stupid and so are your shows.
By the way. Did I mention this?:
Seemingly, anybody can now get a show. Hello? I WANT A SHOW.
In a nutshell, the premise of Operation Repo(hno) is that basically Southern California is filled with deadbeats who like to "have" new cars but don't like to "pay" for them, so these deadbeats need to have their cars taken away from them by people who look like even bigger deadbeats.
Enter the cast of Operation Repo(hdeargod), whose motto is "It Ain't No Joke If You Don't Pay The Note!" And trust me –– it isn't:
"Peek-a-boo! I'll repo you!" (This would be my motto.) Although I'm not sure sure I look the required "deadbeat", but I do look
"hot" which, obviously, is close enough. Come to think of it, why
didn't anyone ask me to be a part of the Hot Blogger Calendar? Jerks. Maybe it's not too late for me to get into the Hot Repo-er Calendar? I'm assuming they have one because, well, the above picture? Sonia? Matt? Do I really have to explain it?
As far as I understand it –– and believe me, it's hard to understand much of anything when you're on sensory overload to the point you're just this side of having a moderate to severe stroke –– Lou is the father of Lyndah as well as the big brother of Froy. Froy –– who I'm guessing is named after some Middle Earth-y thing (A hobbit? A hobo?) –– either is currently or used to be married to Sonia. (What's next? THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE??) I don't really know how the hell Matt fits in, though. Some kinda repo freeloader or something. And they all do repo-y things together and live Happily Ever After! Or something. Seriously: I could be making up half of this crap for all I know. There were a lot of distractions going on. Like this one:
And also this one:
Also, at one point I got seriously distracted thinking about this:
Sonia: Operation Repo(MG WTF)'s answer to Beth Chapman! Honestly? I probably lost 20 minutes of my life all caught up in this line of thought. My days are very, very full and eventful. So in case you ever wonder why it sometimes takes a week or so for me to get up a new post, first of all, what is wrong with you people? Don't you have something more important to spend your time thinking about (??) and second of all I AM VERY BUSY.Obviously.
And now, Everything I Need To Know About Repo-ing, I learned from Operation Repo(hmahgah) and will now pass along to you:
1. The first rule of repo-ing is that to be a successful repo agent, you need to make sure you have the correct tools at your disposal: a reposession order (I'm pretty sure this is the least important part paperwork blah blah boring), a tow truck BEEP BEEP, pepper spray (more on this in a minute) and a tutu.
That's right. A tutu. It's the uniform of choice of all the most successful repo peopo. HAHA! See what I did there? Maybe I can have a show where I just do a whole bunch of rhyming and whatnot?? OH NEVER MIND. Back to this:
Trust me: If you could hear what was going on in this moment, YOU'D HAVE YOUR TV ON MUTE TOO. And yes. I actually recorded this. So I could recreate it here for you. This type of thing is called I Give And Give And Give To You People Until I Bleed.
And in case you think I'm taking creative license and the above is just Sonia stopping to do a repo on her way to a Costume Gala, IT'S NOT. Because look! Here is Sonia doing a whole DIFFERENT repo:
Because seriously? The language involved in this profession embarrasses even me, and I don't know how to say ANYTHING without using the F word at least five times. (HI MOM!) And another thing: If you're gonna repossess my car wearing this kind of getup –– fine. But you'd better perform some damn Swan Lake for me before you take my wheels because I Brake For The Arts.
2. The second important rule here is that when repo-ing, you should keep in mind the fact that for whatever reason people tend to get slightly annoyed when you try to take their cars away from them, where slightly annoyed equals they point guns at you and attempt to beat you over the head with baseball bats. (Big deal. This is exactly what happens to me every time I go into Chris's office and try to get him to look at the page bags that died on his desk hours earlier.) This is why, to be safe, you have to make sure you bring with you the pepper spray I mentioned earlier, because everybody knows that pepper spray totally beats both bullets and baseball bats and also? Paper covers rock. And of all the crazy, psychopathic, loan-defaulting deadbeats, never forget that women are the most totally insane of all and by that I mean you do not even want to know what I mean. I'm going to tell you anyway though, because I honestly cannot be expected to be the only one with the misfortune of knowing this crap.
The very first episode I saw is the perfect example of this: Matt, Froy and Sonia show up at some chick's house to repo the car she hasn't made payments on in months. Or ever. Or whatever. I'm kinda unclear on that part as I was too busy being hypnotized by Sonia's eyebrows.
LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BE EQUALLY SPELLBOUND.
Anyway, they all run up her driveway and start hurriedly hooking up her car to the tow truck wheel lift. (Or, you know, whatever the big hook part is called. Who knows! I found this term on line when I Googled "parts of a tow truck" because –– as it turns out –– I don't really know that much about tow trucks except for the fact that they "tow" things and they're also "trucks.") (Oh! And most of them are made by Tonka.) (Wait...right?) So the repo-ee chick catches wind of what's going on and comes running out of the house –– all 95 pounds of her –– SCREAMING HOLY HELL BLOODY MURDER and gyrating and wailing and flailing and cursing and sobbing really desperately (okay, this one was me) and slapping and kicking at anyone who tries to come near her or her car. And then suddenly she's SCREAMING HOLY HELL BLOODY MURDER while gyrating and wailing and flailing and cursing and slapping and kicking andthrowing herself dramatically and messily all over the hood of her car.
At first I was all, holy crap this b*tch is batsh*t crazy, but then I was all, wow, that's actually kinda sexy in a Tawny Kitaen/Whitesnake video kind of way and then I was all OMG, WTF IS WRONG WITH ME (???) and THEN –– and even Stephen King couldn't make up this kind of horror –– she pulls out a Taser gun from even God doesn't want to know where on her person and tries to zap the hell out of Matt (which you know probably isn't a bad idea regardless), forcing Sonia to finally put a much-needed end to all of the girl's insanity not by pepper spraying her but insteadBY SITTING ON HER. HARD. And at that point the room started spinning and I think I blacked out for a minute.
Oh, and by the way? Did I mention the car at the center of this repo was a 1994 Honda Civic? First of all...SERIOUSLY? Second of all, who the hell can't afford to make the payments on a 14-year-old car loan? Someone who spends all their money keeping up with the latest in stun gun technology, that's who.
3. And all of this brings us to the last important rule of repo-ing: If you've done one repo, you've pretty much done them all. You're never just going to drive up, take the car and go. And if I'm wrong about this, NEVER MIND because boring repos result in everyone being really bored and nobody wants that. It's boring. Instead, there's always going to be BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP-ING and BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMING and VERY EXCITING VIOLENCE-ING. Quick! Gather the kiddies around! OH! And there's also going to be a whole lot of "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM??"-ing, because seriously? At least three people asked this question during various repos I watched. What is this? Some kinda repo trivia game? Ooh, ooh! I think I know who you are!! A deadbeat. I do, however, need to give honorable mention to the below woman for elevating herself to a level above the every day deadbeat crowd when, in an attempt to keep the members of Operation Dumbo Drop Repo from taking her car, she made the uber-defensive, Ninja-style move of pulling out her own pepper spray and promptly pepper spraying herself:
To be more precise, she actually pepper sprayed both herself AND her husband which means, for those of you keeping score, that she managed to attack everyone on the scene except for every single member of Operation Repo(bi-wan Kenobi). Which –– not that I need to explain it –– is awesome. This is pretty much just like the time I tried to take a picture of the sunset but accidentally had the camera backwards and ended up taking a picture of my own eyeball instead. You know, except for the fact that I didn't need medical attention afterward.
And then, like any decent person would after experiencing more than three hours of this crap, I had an aneurysm and died. The End.
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P.S. Sorry I couldn't find any screen shots of Crazy-A$$ Repo-ed Chick laying around all over her car. I hadn't thought to record the show yet, and then I couldn't find anything on line. (I KNOW, right??? Why even HAVE an internet?)
P.S.S. to Lisa: Sorry the post I dedicated to you turned out to be, you know, this one. You deserve so much better. So did Jesus though, and look at what happened there.
P.S.S.S. to Maureen, who earlier today gave me certain amounts of lip for taking so long to post here. More specifically, she called me CHRIS which, as anyone who's spent any amount of time around here knows by now, is the ultimate of insults: I mean honestly, woman. That is fairly rude. You KNOW how much extensive research (none) goes into each and every post I, you know, post and how much time (none) goes into that kind of in-depth research. I forgive you, though, being that you're my best friend in all the world. Okay, a little bit for that but more so because you gave me an autographed Kathy Griffin t-shirt. SCORE!
P.S.S.S.S.: Speaking of Chris, Happy Boxing Day, dude! In celebration of that? This:
See, Maureen? It's called RESEARCH and it takes TIME.
P.S.S.S.S.S.: I wrote all of these P.S.'s before I died. Obviously.
But it's not just any door. This particular door belongs to my new neighbor who just recently moved in across the hall from me. Or does it?? This is called The Setup or trying to get someone (ANYONE) not to immediately click off after waiting more than a week for a post from me and then logging on only to find a picture of a door. By the way? Here's another one:
At least I'm assuming it's nice. I can't actually see it myself since I'm not a member of Facebook because Facebook is for people who actually do things like doing things, after which they brag about them online to people they know. Because Facebook is also for people who actually know other people. I know my cat, but that's called CATSTER and anyway I'm getting totally sidetracked at this point.
As far as I can tell, my neighbor moved in across from me about two weeks ago. At least that was when the new and festive doormat appeared. It was striped and colorful and kind of reminded me of the circus which made me think of clowns and how it would be kind of awesome to be neighbors with a clown, except for that whole part about how clowns are completely creepy. Not to mention the fact I've worried on occasion –– usually any occasion I happen to be watching Poltergeist –– that my death might end up being directly or indirectly caused by a clown. Which would be pretty embarrassing if you think about it. Way more embarrassing than, say, getting killed by a Samurai which would at least have some kind of dignity due to the fact he would have a gigantic sword. And I don't really know for sure, but I think a Samurai is a more polite version of a Ninja, and that's nice. Because if you're going to kill me, the least you can do is try to be polite about it.
Okay, honestly: Why are we on this topic? Enough about my death (You: Nooo! We love this topic!) and back to the subject of my new neighbor. Appearing next to his doormat on that first day was a cheery stone sculpture of a rabbit, which doesn't really have anything to do with anything except for how I know you guys like dead animals and whatnot and this is the closest I can come to including one in this post.
Anyway, you'd think a festive doormat and a cheery stone bunny would add up to a nice new neighbor, wouldn't you? WELL IT DIDN'T. Instead, it added up to this, where 1 + 1 = IS IT 2 LATE FOR ME TO JUST GO AHEAD AND OFF MYSELF?:
Meet! My! Neighbor! "Won't you be, won't you be, won't you be...MY NEIGHBOR?!" OH MY GOOD GOD. NO.
Also, it turns out I just found out this guy's real name. More on how I discovered this further down in the post. This is called Dramatic Suspense or THE SIX PEOPLE STILL READING THIS DO NOT CARE.
I'm not sure what issue my apartment complex has when it comes to doors, but our individual apartment doors slam just as hard as the one to our gym does. If you don't hold onto your doorknob to help guide your door closed -- and forget ever having your door stand open on its own -- you're going to knock pictures off your own walls. And this is not even a slight exaggeration since I am not exaggerating even in the slightest. All you have to do is accidentally let your door fly just once and you're not only going to realize that what results is way too loud and way too violent for civilized living, but you're also probably going to need some kind of resuscitation from your self-inflicted heart attack, but none of your neighbors are going to give this to you because you just slammed your door and, well, DIE, DOOR SLAMMER! (You'll also need a new picture frame for the picture of Moses the Cat you had hanging in your entryway that is now in two pieces on your floor.) And so for these reasons and also because you don't hate your neighbors, you're going to be careful when you close your door. Because you live in an apartment community where community equals a social group where each of you shares a certain locality with the others but you don't want to actually talk to or interact with anyone else but still want to know that someone will care enough to call the authorities should they smell something dead coming from your apartment, especially if no one has seen you go in or out of it for days.
But these rules of community do not apply if you're The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy! Because if you're The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy YOU WILL JUST KEEP SLAMMING YOUR DOOR. OVER AND OVER AND OVER. LIKE A DIPSH*T. Because, well, who cares? Because Dipsh*t Guy has nerves of steel -- you don't even know the half of it yet (this is called Foreshadowing or THE FOUR PEOPLE STILL READING THIS DO NOT CARE) -- and because Dipsh*t Guy should also have a totally different doormat -- like one with the phrase "I'm A Dipsh*t Guy" written on it. Or perhaps the slightly less poetic but equally appropriate phrase, "SCREW YOU."
Because it's one thing to slam your door every time you go in or out of your apartment. It's another thing entirely to slam your door every time you go in or out of your apartment when you have periods where you go in and out of your apartment an average of 20 times in an hour. At all hours including many times before seven in the morning and other times after midnight. Sometimes I'd have absolutely no idea what he was doing because I couldn't see where he'd go. Other times I'd have even LESS of an idea what he was doing because I could see him, and my brain simply couldn't process the information. Like, for example, when everything came to a head during last weekend's Beach Chair Incident.
(No, not this weekend that just passed. The weekend before that. Thanksgiving weekend. Because "Um...What??" is that busy. YEAH RIGHT. No one is busy here. This blog just SUCKS and it's THE BEST WE CAN DO and we consider it a miracle when we can even FIND the publish button. Or our pants.)
Anyway. The beach chair. Last Saturday afternoon, The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy slammed his door no less than 13 times in a half hour period. That's right. I took notes because I wanted to tell you all about it here because I knew you totally wouldn't care. Basically, he was moving a beach chair around. And moving his vehicles around. And did I mention he was moving a beach chair around?:
Exit apartment.
SLAM! (This is when I ran to the peephole and then ran to my front windows and then back to the peephole and I am a VERY, VERY busy person, by the way. That time before when I said I wasn't was just creative license.)
Go downstairs. Retrieve beach chair from back of truck and bring it upstairs into apartment.
SLAM!
Go immediately back outside, still carrying beach chair.
SLAM!
Go downstairs. Put beach chair back into truck.
Go back upstairs into apartment.
SLAM!
Go back downstairs, maybe 30 seconds later at most. Retrieve beach chair from truck again, this time stuff it into back seat of BMW. Stare at handiwork for a moment, then go back upstairs into apartment.
SLAM!
Immediately open apartment door again, glance around hallway for a bit, then go back inside.
SLAM!
(Seriously. WTF?)
Wait a couple minutes, then emerge from apartment to go back downstairs again.
SLAM!
Take beach chair out of BMW (I AM NOT KIDDING) and (do I even need to tell you??) put it back into truck.
Pull truck out of parking space and move it into visitor parking. Then move BMW into space truck was in. Even though BMW already in a legal, assigned space. TAKE BEACH CHAIR OUT OF TRUCK AND BRING IT BACK UPSTAIRS INTO APARTMENT.
SLAM!
BOOM-BOOM!!! Okay. This part actually had nothing to do with neighbor guy and everything to do with the sonic booms created by the space shuttle reentry. Only I forgot about the space shuttle reentry -- despite the fact I'd just been watching NASA TV online –– because I became momentarily distracted running around between my windows and the peephole. And since I was now certain that the booms I heard were the result of an explosion because suspicious neighbor had just BLOWN UP HIS PART OF THE BUILDING, I had a slight heart attack followed by the urgent need to breathe into a paper bag only I didn't have a paper bag because who makes brown bag lunches anymore and what else would I use a bag like that for? Oh. RIGHT. But then Wil Wheaton sent this tweet and I realized I didn't need a paper bag or a defibrillator:
Seriously: 70% of what I know is from Wikipedia, the other 30% is from Wil Wheaton. NOT REALLY! 85% is from Wil.Duh.
Until:
SLAM!
Stand out in hallway and look thoroughly concerned and perplexed. Obviously doesn't know what the sonic booms were. Clearly not enjoying LOUD, FRIGHTENING DOSE OF HIS OWN MEDICINE. Goes back into apartment.
SLAM!
Go back downstairs (NO BEACH CHAIR) and move truck into parking space where BMW was. So now (for those keeping track) both of his cars are back in his assigned spots...just reversed now. We are also at 10 slams. Get out of truck and stand and stare at it for a while. Go back upstairs into apartment.
SLAM! (Now 11.)
At this point I have had enough and I am writing A NOTE. There's another slam (SLAM!) but I don't see what he's doing because I am busy writing A NOTE that includes the word "PLEASE" 13 times (counting the extra one in parenthesis for effect) as in "PLEASE x 13 STOP SLAMMING YOUR DOOR." And the fact that the number of times I wrote "PLEASE" and the number of times he slammed his door ended up the same is either a total coincidence or it is foreshadowing of the evil that is to come because 13 is an evil number, right one whole person who is still reading here (or: Maureen)?
So while he was outside doing whatever, I ran across the hall and shoved the note in his door jam. Then I ran back inside as fast as I could because I'm not an idiot (well, I mean except when it comes to blogging) and I'm fairly certain this guy is BATSH*T CRAZY. He eventually comes back up the stairs, pauses to read my note, crumples it up and goes back into his apartment.
SLAM EXTRA SUPER-HARD WITH FEELING!
By the way: When he came back up he was holding THE BEACH CHAIR. No one could make up this crap. Which means he went down with it. Again. And then immediately brought it back up. Again. And I have NO IDEA what is going on. Again. And oh yeah: JERK! Deliberately slamming his door after one of his neighbors sarcastically politely asked him if he he could maybe please (x 13) stop?
So, I did the only thing left to do: I e-mailed the apartment manager to complain. And by Monday night when I got home, there was a note on each of the doors in my building talking about "increasing complaints of door-slamming" and citing various 1.23 blah blah codes in our lease about "noise regulations." Because where I live? They take your crap seriously. That...or the fact that the one person who actually shares a wall with Dipsh*t Guy and, therefore, might be the one guy more annoyed than me is theapartment manager. HAHA, World's Dumbest Dipsh*t!
The letter stated that if the door slamming didn't cease and desist immediately management could and would evict the offender(s). First off, this is the kind of balls-to-the-wall management style I can totally get behind. "PAY YOUR RENT ON TIME OR WE'LL BURN YOUR SH*T DOWN." Second off, they were NOT kidding because shortly thereafter the police showed up, slapped the cuffs on The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy and hauled his a$$ away! Because guess what??? It turns out that slamming your door repeatedly in the Santa Clarita Valley IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE.
HAHA! Of course it isn't.But running a multi-million dollar credit card scam out of your apartment is.
To be totally honest with you, I had no idea at all about the arrest at the time it was happening. Sure, I was in my apartment and sure there were like six cops milling around in the hallway outside my door (I found out later) and sure I could see the flashing cop car lights through my front window and didn't think anything of it. Because, apparently, unless door slamming is involved I cannot be bothered. For all I know there might have even been a shootout in the hallway (I'm not totally clear on this) but I do play my TV kind of loud and sometimes Moses The Cat can get all chatty and who the hell can hear the blaze of gunfire over the sound of the meow-meow? No one, that's who. And really? The only reason I know anything about this at all has nothing to do with either Wikipedia or Wil Wheaton this time and instead has everything to do with my friend Kathy who -- for the 14 plus years I've known her -- has had an uncanny ability to remember and put together the most random of details to observe things in the world most people miss.
This is what she did last week when, after I made a very passing mention of my door slamming dipsh*t of a neighbor and his two vehicles and his unhealthy obsession with his beach chair, she came across an article in her morning paper last week that instantly caught her eye. "Hey," she said to me. "Doesn't that guy have a truck and an older BMW? And didn't you say he still had a bunch of moving boxes stacked up inside his door?"
OH. MY. GOD. Yes and yes. And as it turns out? This guy was up to a lot more than slamming his door:
You do realize the irony of all of this, right? The door slammer? Going to the slammer???
Welcome, everyone who has hung with me this far (or: Maureen), to my neighbor's NEW door(s)!:
NO.
Innocent until proven guilty and blah blah blah GUILTY!!! All I know is three dudes showed up a couple days ago and hauled away all his stuff. Now the place is all locked up and I can't get in there to snoop around RUDE. And now I am left in blessed, slam-less silence to contemplate my two remaining burning questions:
1) What the hell happened to the beach chair? And 2) WHAT IF THE DUDES WHO LIVE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF ME ARE UP TO SOMETHING, TOO?? Oh, like I even care. The fact is they NEVER slam their door so I LOVE THEM.
If I have learned one thing from my blog stats, it's this: I seriously do not understand my blog stats.
Take this week, for example. This week my stats seem to indicate that, if given a choice between live animals and dead animals, you people would much rather read all about dead ones. Either I'm confused by the numbers and this is totally wrong, or you people are sick. Because after the whole dead lizard/dead bird post? MY STATS HAVE BASICALLY TRIPLED. Tripled.
Me: This is so exciting! I have rescued a super-cute doggy schmush face off the side of the road! Cute! Licky! Plays the kazoo!
You: Sound of snoring.
Me: Hey! There are dead animals everywhere I look!
You: OH MY GOD!!! Click click click click page view page view page view page view click click click e-mail link to friends retweet click click page view TIMES A GAGILLION bookmark click click page view page view click click click click SMOKE COMING OUT OF BACK OF COMPUTER click page view click page view DEAD ANIMALS DEAD ANIMALS DEAD ANIMALS click click click click clickclickclickclickclick WEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
Okay. While I'm pretty sure this behavior isn't normal and I probably should be worried for your souls and whatnot -- I am nothing if not deeply invested in each and every one of you -- HELLO? TRIPLED BLOG STATS? It turns out I'm busy so you'll have to tend to your own eternal selves.
HA HA!! Who am I kidding? Caring about stats is for people who actually, you know, care about stats and anyway, what do I look like -- a statistician? Truthfully, I have no idea. Maybe! Are they hot looking? Oh, never mind. This doesn't have anything to do with my actual point here which, if I keep typing long enough, I'm sure I'm bound to remember sooner or later.
You: Like maybe now?
Me:Blank staring.
Excessive blinking.
Eventual light napping coupled with slight drooling.
COMA.
Me: (17 hours later): OH! I remember! BUSTER! (Keep reading. CHRIS.) I have an update on Buster who is very much alive. Which makes me happy because I am a normal person who prefers my animals with a pulse. Learn from me. But don't worry. I've got you all covered, so just stick with me through the end of this post and you won't be sorry.
First, my Buster update. Remember this illustration?:
Well here's the real thing:
This is seriously the most awesome thing I've seen in as long as I can remember, where the most awesome thing equals THE MOST AWESOME THING.
Unless, of course, it's this:
Or maybe this:
That's right: This blog post is all about A-LIVE Buster and his happy ending! My blog stats can just suck it -- big deal! Plus, to be perfectly honest, I'm not completely convinced that lower stats aren't better. What
if blogging is like golf? Lowest score wins! Maybe I am the Tiger Woods of bloggers? Should blog wearing green blazer?
Regardless of how amazing I look in a blazer (think "professional" meets "sexy" where professional means sexy and sexy means even sexier), the moment M's mom told me how much it meant to her that I'd given her son the amazing gift of a best friend to grow up with (because that is what Buster and M have quickly become), I realized that if I do nothing else in my life that makes any kind of a difference, I've managed to do one thing in my life that's made a big kind of difference.
And second (because yes, there was a "first" -- it was just a while ago because SOMETIMES I GET SIDETRACKED...SO WHAT??? This isn't English class and anyways, if it was? A++++ for me!) I have this for you -- in case near-negative stats ARE bad (not that I care, but sometimes when I think about it, I get afraid Typepad or maybe the government will make me shut down my blog on account of it creates a GIANT BLACK-HOLE VORTEX OF USELESS SPACE ON THE INTERWEBS, except of course, for the days it's filled with DEAD ANIMALS) and also because I am here to make you happy, death-infatuated faithful readers:
There. Happy??Good! I will most likely burn in hell, but don't worry about that.
Seriously though. Who would draw something like this? And who are the other nine people who downloaded it before I did? Oh, like I don't already know it's YOU GUYS.
Next time? Stay tuned for BARBEQUED BUNNIES.
Oh dear god OF COURSE THERE WON'T BE ANY BARBEQUED BUNNIES. Not next time or ever. Get. Some. Help.
This is the gym in the complex where I live. Doesn't it look like a nice place to work out?:
WELL, IT ISN'T. Because people die gruesome, gnarly deaths here, and by people I mean lots of lizards and birds. And by lots I mean one of each. But, you know...so far.
This tale of death and destruction began about a month ago. I was minding my own business working out in this gym when in between sets I happened to notice something out of place on the floor near one of the elliptical machines. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be a GIGANTIC, DEAD LIZARD. And by gigantic I mean he really wasn't but DEATH IS SCARY and makes you feel really, really small in comparison. And he wasn't just regular dead, either. He was dramatic dead. With splayed out limbs and a wide open mouth and a tongue that was hanging out of one side of it and dangling just above the floor. His eyes were also open, which in no way made him seem any less dead and instead made me feel that much sadder about his fate. So I decided to name him Lenny The Super-Dead Lizard because it kinda sucks the way dying causes death, and no one should die alone without any identity or recognition. Plus, dying in a gym? Where people go to stay healthy? That is called irony, or something that tastes like iron. I know the last place I'd want to expire is in a gym. Especially my gym. Because considering how rarely I ever see anyone else in there (LAZY ASS NEIGHBORS), it could be WEEKS before anyone discovers my cold, dead, decomposing body. As if my ass didn't already look flat enough in my gym pants. Oh, who am I kidding. I would look totally hot, even dead. You: We'd love it if you were dead right about now. Me: Blah, blah, who wouldn't.
Poor Lenny The Super-Dead Lizard. He had to lay there on the floor of the gym for more than a week. Despite the fact I asked the manager -- twice...USELESS -- to have someone on the maintenance staff get him out of there. Because seriously? Looking at a dead lizard is depressing. And if there's a dead lizard anywhere in your field of vision, trust me you're just going to keep on looking at it. Not to mention the fact a dead lizard doesn't exactly inspire your workout since it's hard not to think, WE'RE ALL JUST GONNA END UP DEAD ANYWAY SO I SHOULD JUST LEAVE AND GO EAT A LOT OF CUPCAKES. Because I really, really love cupcakes.
But there was no way was I going to touch him myself. First of all because he was dead, and second of all because he was dead. (I don't really have to explain this, right?) The Porcupine suggested I might want to pick him up with a set of barbecue tongs, but this can be filed under Helpful Suggestions Made By The Porcupine That Are Actually Totally Gross And, As It Turns Out, Not Really Helpful At All. The size of this file is RIDICULOUS.
Eventually, someone did remove Lenny the Super-Dead Lizard and just like that my gym became a death-free zone once again. Which, in all honesty, is kind of what I'm looking for in a gym. That and a free martini bar. So you can imagine my reaction last night when, less than a month later, I walked into the place to find yet more gruesome and gnarly death, this time in the form of A DEAD BIRD BELLY-UP ON THE WINDOWSILL. The inside windowsill. You know...inside the gym. Where birds are not supposed to fly, let alone die.
Okay, seriously: How does something like this even happen? How does a bird get himself inside a room where none of the windows open and the door weighs about twenty tons and is designed to close quickly and violently five seconds after each and every time it's opened? Something I really don't see the point of, by the way, unless someone's trying to keep me from stealing the cable crossover machine which is ridiculous and slightly insulting frankly, because anyone who knows me knows if I'm going to steal anything, I'm going to have the good sense to make it the soda machine.
But all of this aside, WHY DO THINGS KEEP COMING INTO MY GYM TO DIE?? And maybe can this stop, please? Because if given a choice, I would rather not work out on the stairclimber while facing A DEAD BIRD BELLY-UP ON THE WINDOWSILL. (No, you cannot use the stairclimber with your eyes closed. Take it from someone who thought you could and then ended up dangling off of the left side of the machine's safety rail while once again staring at A DEAD BIRD BELLY-UP ON THE WINDOWSILL.) Did I mention his legs were sticking straight up? Like birdy rigor mortis? Nevermind -- let's just forget about that part.
Anyway, all of this just leaves me with two additional burning questions: Firstly, what will die in my gym next?? (Memo to God: Please not me.) I'm headed there again in just a bit, but I already know the bird is gone. You bet your a$$ I checked.
I'm guessing this is because while dead lizards make us sad, dead birds
make us sadder because of the way they spread AVIAN INFLUENZA,
something that a lot of people aren't that into for whatever reason.
Secondly, is it possible all this death will end up resulting in my gym becoming haunted?? Which would be AWESOME for reasons that are totally obvious if you've been paying any kind of attention around here lately:
Yes, I am still stuck on this. SO?
To be honest, the more I look at Steve, the less I really care what the answer to any of these questions is going to be unless, of course, the answer is STEVE.
Last week our country held a very, very important election.
That's right: The choosing of America's Most Haunted House in the Ghost Hunters Great American Ghost Hunt!! SCARY! Congratulations house-on-a-private-island-thingy in Thousand Islands, New York! And I have no idea if this island is the birthplace of the salad dressing, but if it isn't it should be. Right, French Dressing, France?? Congratulations haunted-est house, with your ghost of a little girl and your flying spoon (Maybe not flying? Maybe just hanging from nose of invisible ghost? So not as much scary as it is hysterical HAHA!??) and your weird, disembodied voices. Though honestly? Big deal. I lived somewhere haunted once* and I liked it. PEOPLE ARE WUSSY. And anyways, you know what makes any scary scenario way more romantic bearable? TAPS ghost hunter, Steve. Hold me, Steve.
*Seriously.
Also, in another, slightly lesser-known display of democracy last week, Barack Obama was elected this nation's first black tall, dark and handsome president. Which, of course, is no reason at all to vote for someone (What are you? Thirteen?) but is a perfectly good reason to write your name plus his name all over your notebook surrounded by big hearts.
Swoon.
In his acceptance speech, Obama said many, many sexy inspiring things, like:
"It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on
this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to
America."
And:
"It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so
many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to
put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the
hope of a better day." (Holy CRAP. Why don't people in my own life talk like this? Instead, they just say DUDE a gagillion times a day and SUCK IT almost as many and oh wait – that person is me.)
And:
"This is our moment. This is our time -- to put our people back to work
and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and
promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm
that fundamental truth -- that out of many, we are one; that while we
breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and
those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless
creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes we can."
Yes we canhave the highly inappropriate hots for our Commander-In-Chief. It's one nation under Oh-Mah-Gah.
Droools.
And then there was the quote that resonated louder than all the others combined:
"Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the White House."
Wait...WHAT? A puppy? THE OBAMAS ARE LOOKING FOR A DOG??? First of all, why doesn't anyone anywhere ever tell me anything?? This is called a huge oversight, or Well Played, Government Oversight Committee. Second of all, who are Sasha and Malia? HAHA! I'm just kidding. I know they're actually...wait. Does Obama have two wives? I CAN MAYBE BE WIFE #3??? And speaking of three, third of all...hello??:
Could maybe change name to Filibuster?
Dear other world leaders who aren't Prince Charles: Take a lesson from him and read this blog, because this blog changes lives and unites countries. You know, where changes lives = induces narcolepsy and unites countries = this reader is in Canada. If President-Elect Barack O-Mah-Gah-Droooools had been reading, he would have known about my determined search to find Buster a home worthy of his wonderful spirit. And our incoming first family would have had the chance to bring with them to the White House the singular greatest dog ever rescued off the side of any road anywhere. And – as a bonus! – on the heels of this historical election where we, as a country, have taken great strides forward in breaking through our racial barriers, we could have also taken an equally great leap toward stamping out America's horrible DOG BREED BARRIERS:
Pit Bull: From feared, misunderstood breed to cuddly international diplomat.
Plus...can you picture it???:
Yes, Buster talks like Scooby in the first picture and an English teacher in the second. Don't question it.
I have absolutely no earthly idea.
Hold me some more, Steve.
Steve, of course, has nothing to do with anything here really, unless maybe the White House is haunted? But either way: He's still hot. Duh. And, frankly, would also look good on a sandwich. Or with his lips stuck to my face.
And for those of you who think I've forgotten what my original point was here, I have. OH! Buster. Right. Notice how I said that Buster could have gone to the White House? It's true: Buster will not be available for underground bunker bowling or licking various visiting members of the House of Representatives (Nancy Pelosi, you'll have to find someone else to do this) because BUSTER HAS ALREADY FOUND HIS NEW HOME!!
So, it's not the White House. Who cares?! It's a house and it's white. Okay, it's actually not white either but it IS a house. Though, unfortunately, one that isn't haunted. At least as far as I know. Sorry Steve. This time I'll hold you. It also doesn't have 35 bathrooms but, again, who cares?? Buster likes to do his business outside anyway. What it does have is a wonderful family made up of a lovely woman I've worked with for years, her husband and their quite awesome almost-six year old boy. Who, by the way, is made that much more awesome by the fact that on the day I dropped off Buster he told me I was pretty multiple times and kept holding my hand.
Me: I'm giving you a new dog, M.!
M: Yeah, but are YOU staying? You're PRETTY. Grabs my hand. Giggles.
Me: But look! Doggy!
M: You're pretty.
This can be be called Kids Say The Funniest Things or, more accurately, The Most Action I've Seen In a Year.
What I like best about the family Buster has ended up with – besides the fact they all three love the crap out of him, of course – is the story of how he got there. I mean how he literally got there was in my car:
But how he really got there was by beating the odds. Because odds were against him on the side of the road. And odds were against him at the death-row shelter. And in a world where odds are already against most stray animals finding new homes, they were quadruple-y against Buster because of his breed.
And, oh yeah – one more thing (and this is my favorite part): Buster also beat the odds against this particular family adopting him since Lovely Woman's husband had the same reaction to the idea of a Pit Bull that so many other people did: No way. Not in my house. Not around my little boy. And I didn't blame him either, because I understood the stigma. But he hadn't met Buster and I felt endlessly frustrated that such a great dog kept getting this summary verdict rendered against him simply because of his breed.
But Lovely Woman did meet him on that first day we busted him out of the shelter. (Shelter Motto: Welcome to our shelter – where we don't actually give any) (Alternate motto: ANIMALS ANNOY US, WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OF THEM HERE??) She and her husband were already looking for a new dog, which is why she was so immediately receptive to Buster. Like me, she gave no strikes against him just because he was a Pit. She liked him. And she trusted my judgment of his personality (God love her) and, consequently, was just as disappointed as I was when her husband didn't go for it.
So Buster went off to live with my friend Kim for a week and then with fosters for a week after that. His fosters, by the way, totally fell in love with him and wanted to keep him, despite the fact the living arrangements weren't at all suitable for Buster in the long term. When they found out I was taking him back in the end, they told me in a fit of hysteria that I ruin lives. First of all, you people don't even know me. RUDE. Second of all, to all the people who do know me? Yeah, um...sorry about that.
So while the fosters were falling in (psycho) love and while I was still workin' it and trying to find Buster a permanent home, Lovely Woman was going about her business trying to find the right dog to add to her family. She visited adoption fairs (God love her MORE) and even tried to bring one dog home with her to see how she fit with them. (She didn't.) And all the while, in the back of her mind, was Buster. Buster with his big pink nose. Buster with his non-stop licking. Buster with his positive outlook. Buster with his addiction to spooning and complete over-the-moon love of people. Buster with that FACE.
So she kept asking me about how he was doing. And relaying the stories to her husband. And then they both started thinking about him. And then they did something I completely didn't expect: They decided to take a leap of faith and trust – to look beyond the stereotypes of Buster's breed and to look, instead, directly at Buster himself. Buster with his big pink nose. Buster with his non-stop licking. Buster
with his positive outlook. Buster with his addiction to spooning and complete over-the-moon love of people. Buster
with that FACE.
So with hope in all their hearts – and, understandably, a little bit of nerves in their guts – Buster came to stay at their house for a while to see. And then, not knowing the exact moment it happened, they all looked around one day and realized Buster had already come home to stay.
Welcome, loyal readers, to Buster 2.0. Where his life is pretty much like this now, every single day:
So congratulations all around, then! Congratulations to Thousand Islands, New York and your most haunted house in America. (Really? Flying Flatware is scary?) Congratulations to incoming President Barack O-Mah-Gah-Droooools. Sorry about Buster, but you can't win 'em all. Congratulations to Lovely Woman and Lovely Woman's Husband and awesome little M. for choosing such an amazing dog to complete your family. Your leap of faith did much to restore my faith in the idea that basically most people are good.
And congratulations most of all to Buster. Welcome to your happy ending!!
Good news, "Um...What??" readers! There have been many, many exciting updates in Buster's life since my last post!!
* * * * * * * * * *
Reader #1: "What last post?" Reader #2: "Was I old enough to read back then?" Reader #3: "Did you blog on a cave wall?" Reader #4: "OH. YOU'RE NOT DEAD??"
* * * * * * * * * *
Yeah, yeah, I know. Plus? I totally made up that third one. Wil Wheaton doesn't read this blog. But if he did? That would be so much cooler than even having
Prince Charles as a reader. And for those of you who are new here yes, Prince Charles totally reads my blog. Although I probably just screwed that up by writing that thing about Wil Wheaton being cooler. Idiot.
Anyway, back to my point WHICH I ACTUALLY DO HAVE. In a long line of many recent developments for Buster, the biggest one is THIS:
Buster?
Is FREE!!!
Cell phone images as pieces of sh*t art. Because seriously? I'm pretty sure my toaster would take better pictures than my "camera" phone.
It wasn't easy busting out Buster. It was actually just this side of damn near impossible. This is mostly because the fact that Buster is a Pit Bull ran up against another lesser known fact that an apparent job requirement for working at this shelter is that you need to be a total f*cktard. And to be fair I'm not saying every person who works there is a total f*cktard, I'm just referring to the particular ones I met WHICH WAS ALL OF THEM. This does not, however, include the volunteers who all seemed very sweet. Though they also seemed nervous and paranoid, which is something I deduced from the way they continuously said things like, "I'm not telling you this" (a comment that punctuated the endpoint of every single thing they told me) and "Don't tell anyone I talked to you," all while wearing those Groucho Marx glasses. Okay, obviously I'm just kidding about that last part. That was actually the dogs.
Witness Protection Program: This is not Buster. (Photo taken with camera toaster.)
You'd lay low too, if you were Buster, because – to review – he understands the volunteers are behaving like this because they are volunteering at a prison under the iron-fist rule of TOTAL F*CKTARD NAZI "SHELTER" WORKERS where shelter = GAS CHAMBER and workers = PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT DO ONE STITCH OF WORK TO ACTUALLY HELP YOU ADOPT AN ANIMAL because they do not care and they are county employees and they cannot be fired no matter what they doYAY!
Remember how I wrote earlier that I was totally wrong about the stereotype of the unfeeling, uncaring, menacing, Animal Control worker? Well, I was totally wrong about being totally wrong. And before all you Animal Control workers send me a bunch of nasty hate mail (because I have no doubt every animal control worker in the state of California reads this blog because, well, who doesn't?), no, I am not talking about you and I am sure you are lovely and wonderful and full of heart and all about putting the needs of helpless animals first. This is about all the other animal control workers who are not you. And now that we are all square on that, I will continue.
Buster's plight was two-fold: Not only did some idiot stick him in the C@st@ic animal shelter (AHEM) (and yes I am disguising the shelter name because I don't need those a$$hats finding this post) (again going back to the idea that every Animal Control worker in the world reads this blog blah blah blah SUCK IT, ANIMAL CONTROL), but he also had the bad luck of being a Pit Bull. But the thing is, he's not a full Pit Bull. He doesn't even seem to be half. He's a big old mushy mix which, as far as we can tell, includes some Pit Bull and a lot of Boxer and Staffordshire Terrier and Sharpei and, oh yeah, some TEDDY BEAR, too. In other words? He's as completely terrifying as you'd imagine:
(Photo taken with camera blow-dryer.)
Unbeknownst to me, putting a Pit Bull (mix or not) into this particular shelter is nothing short of condemning him to death. Only you don't actually put a dog into a shelter, you impound him because apparently dogs are just the same as stolen or illegally parked cars. And yes, I actually said the words (where said = had a Defcon 5 meltdown), "THIS IS A DOG NOT A DODGE!!" to the total f*cktard working behind the desk who told me, "THIS IS NOT YOUR DOG, THIS IS OUR PROPERTY!!" because I think we were having a noun-naming contest that I'm fairly sure I lost because do they even make Dodges anymore? I don't know. But if they do, Buster would love to ride around in one because Buster loves adventures in the car.
You see, different rules apply to Pit Bulls and these rules cause RED TAPE GALORE that not even a highly intelligent person such as myself could navigate within the five day "safety" window, after which they can put him down whenever they want because, "THIS IS NOT YOUR DOG, THIS IS OUR PROPERTY." And even if you could navigate the red tape, they really don't want you to, because that would require work on their part and they do not do that. Because you know something is seriously wrong when your question of "You would put this dog down before you bothered to even make one phone call to me?" is met with four faces staring back at you in one, collective DUH.
Pits never get back out. That's what one volunteer told me. In whispered tones. While wearing a bag over her head. And slowly dying on the inside.
Because I live in an apartment, they wouldn't consider releasing him to me. Most management companies don't carry the insurance required for vicious dog breeds such as Buster and you can't even begin to attempt to sneak him in because Animal Control will call your management company first to alert them that YOU HAVE A VICIOUS, KILLER DOG LIVING ON THEIR PROPERTY.
Vicious Personified. (Photo taken with camera vacuum.)
It didn't matter to them the seventeen different ways I tried to explain that he wouldn't actually be living with me permanently. It didn't matter to them how I tried to explain over and over I was working as fast as I could to find him a good home so could you please assure me that you won't put him down? It just didn't matter to them insert any possible phrase of your choosing here. Because while this is the current Animal Control logo:
It really should be this:
Sure, I could give them a friend's address, but that wasn't working either because they will immediately call said friend's homeowner's insurance company to let them know THEY HAVE A VICIOUS, KILLER DOG LIVING ON THEIR PROPERTY (even though he wouldn't be living there permanently and blah blah blah SUCK IT, ANIMAL CONTROL) and therefore you should be charged $200,000 more a year in insurance. Or whatever. I'm just making up the number. But trust me, it is close enough. And it really comes down to Animal Control covering their own ass in case your VICIOUS, KILLER DOG eats one of your neighbors while they are visiting. Case in point:
WARN THE NEIGHBORS. (Photo taken with camera garden hose.)
So in the end, after much fretting and scrambling on my part and daily visits to Buster whom the "Shelter" Nazis would not, by the way, even let me even take out of his cage TOTAL F*CKTARDS and numerous phones calls and MORE FRETTING and no sleep due to EXCESSIVE FRETTING, my very sweet friend Kim (who is now totally in my will which means she might one day get my entire net worth of about $300 and believe me, she has earned it) pulled some strings and got Buster's plight presented to Ace of Hearts, an incredibly wonderful dog rescue organization that stepped in and threw their considerable weight around (special thanks to Whitney) to get Buster IMMEDIATELY SET FREE. Their motto? "We rescue all breeds...and don't discriminate against any!" TAKE THAT, ANIMAL CONTROL! You can suck it. And another thing: It was amazing how quickly the total f*cktards became my BFF's forever after I had Ace backing my efforts. That is called still not giving a sh*t but being afraid of bad press, or BEING TOTAL F*CKTARDS. Also, if you can get to the actual adoption stage, the cost of bringing home a wonderful, new family member is a very nominal fee of $41.00, which includes neutering and microchipping. It's the best $41 you'll ever spend.
And now? Lesley and Buster are totally in love:
And NO I am not wearing Blueblockers sunglasses. (Photos taken with camera fire hydrants.)
So, tonight Kim and I are taking Buster to a lovely woman who is going to foster him for a couple weeks. Her name is Angel and YES, I'm pretty sure that's not a coincidence. Angel has previously adopted a big, wonderful Bulldog named Lily from Ace, so we already know what a huge heart and love-filled home she has. Up until now Buster has been staying with Kim, and words can never express how grateful I am to her and her family for stepping in the day that Buster busted out. Her parents took her dog while she and her husband took Buster, and her cats took to the bedroom while Buster took over the house. It's been no small effort by ever-growing Team Buster and my part in it has really been the smallest. And all of this has taught me something, too: While some people do totally suck, others can really surprise you. In the end, I think all hope for humanity might not be lost after all. But don't quote me when I totally change my mind on this subject tomorrow.
So in conclusion, "Um...What??" readers, I leave you with one more thing. It was inspired by my friend MC, who said the following to me in a voice mail message two days ago:
"I think your blog ratings are slipping, and we need to return to the fundamentals, and by that I mean MORE STAR WARS REFERENCES."
Alrighty then. Same story as above, done over sci-fi style:
Evil Animal Control DEATH ROW PRISON WARDEN.
Evil TOTAL F*CKTARDS working for the warden at Animal Control DEATH ROW PRISON CAMP.
Heroic Ace of Hearts swoops in and comes to Buster's aid!
Today is Blog Action Day! On Blog Action Day,* thousands of bloggers get together to use the power of their blogs (you know, blogs that actually have power which obviously doesn't include this one) to speak on one specific subject – in today's case, poverty. Past Blog Action Day topics have included the environment and I'm sure many other very interesting topics that I can't immediately find record of after clicking in one place and immediately giving up because I am very, very busy and do not have the kind of time necessary to actually research any of the things I'm talking about in this post. Or any other post for that matter. But it doesn't make any difference. Just trust me. I'm smart.
* Seriously though: Next year Blog Action Day ought to consider illiteracy as its topic because illiteracy is a serious problem affecting many, many people including the creators behind the Blog Action Day website. Organisations? Really? Unless, of course, this is some kind of British spelling like "theatre" or something in which case never mind. Although it's still a good idea for a Blog Action Day topic. That, or Save Mother's Cookies since they've apparently just filed for bankruptcy (HOLY CRAP?) and if no more Circus Animal cookies isn't cause for global panic, then I don't know why we should bother to care about anything anymore. We shouldn't.
Anyway: I, too, am very concerned about poverty, because poverty results in people being poor, and I'm fairly certain that isn't good. (Wait...right?) In any event, in honor of this day I'm doing my part by blogging about poverty or, more specifically, my own apparent quest to actually LIVE IN IT.
Remember this little shmush face? While I will have a more detailed update later, I'm getting him busted out of the shelter (Busted? Buster? It's like somehow I knew) with the help of a WONDERFUL pit bull rescue organization. Or organisation if you're currently reading my blog from Britain in which case I hope you're Prince Charles because that would be AWESOME if Prince Charles read my blog, but don't misunderstand me because even if you're just some other British person that would still be awesome, or even if you're not British, the fact that you're even reading here at all makes you foolishdrunkaccidentally on the wrong siteawesome. Once Buster's out of jail the shelter and before I can get him into a nice foster home, I'll be boarding him at a very swank boarding facility kennel thingie. In simpler terms, this now means I'll be paying rent on two places a month for who knows how long (there are currently too many dogs and not nearly enough fosters) and considering I can barely afford the place that I already have, well, this is called Living In Poverty or Good God, I'm An Idiot.
So take action, fellow bloggers, and blog your hearts out on this very important topic! Let's find a way to stamp out poverty entirely!! MOST ESPECIALLY MINE.
This isn't the post I've been working on for the past couple days, but I've had to momentarily set that one aside on account of the following unexpected turn of events. But before you all breathe a sigh of relief have a collective panic attack, don't worry. I will still be publishing the other one as well. You will not miss out on one single word of the poetic greatness that is "Um...What??" GAG.
Anyway, on my way home from work Thursday I had the pleasure of meeting this guy:
I don't know his name because he wouldn't tell me what it was which was mostly because he was too damn busy constantly sticking his gigantic tongue inside of my ears to be able formulate any coherent sentences. Of course this is the normal effect I tend to have on men so I am totally used to this behavior. Chris. But everyone needs a name so I think I'm going to start calling him Buster. I figure this is probably better than calling him This Guy or Hey Dog, Plus, my backup name is Marshmallow Mush (BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HE IS) and I'm guessing no self-respecting dude wants to be known as Marshmallow Mush. Also? I stole the name Buster from Dad or Bust, one of my favorite blogs EVER and the best daddy blog on the web. And I can totally be the judge of this since I don't know sh*t about being a dad and know even less about blogging. Don't forget me, Dad or Bust, when you're bigger than DOOCE. And yes, Chris, YOU should be my favorite daddy blogger but this would require you actually write in your blog. Because seriously? I'm gonna take back your Lazy-Ass Blogger award and replace it with one for a DEAD-ASS BLOGGER. The good news is I won't have to really change the artwork all that much:
Dead? Lazy?
The only conceivable difference is your breath on the mirror I shove under your nose to make sure I don't have to pay for your funeral. And I am poor so I hope you enjoy making your trip to the afterlife in a cardboard box Hefty Cinch Sak.
Back to Buster: (You: I fell asleep five minutes ago BORING.) When I met Buster he was running around on a very busy road I take back and forth to work. It connects the San Fernando Valley to the area farther north where I live, and while it's busy as hell, it's also akin to the middle of nowhere. There are no houses, no businesses, no ANYTHING in that area. You just use it to get from Point A to Point B. Unless you're Buster. He was using it as some daredevil, stunt-dog training ground as he ran back and forth from one side of the road to another, dodging in and out of cars and causing various drivers to have strokes and heart attacks and near-miss fender benders.
It was clear he was in over his head, but even so, no one was stopping to help him, which I'm sure had everything to do with how freaked out everyone was from having to brake and swerve and nothing at all to do with the fact that a lot of people SEEMINGLY HAVE NO SOULS. So I stopped. And did my own quick version of traffic dodging. Speaking of possible Dead-Ass Bloggers. Unless you're my mom reading this, in which case I am totally just joking about running around in traffic HAHA SO FUNNY! Once I got Buster's attention, it didn't take much to also get him into my car. One "Here boy!" (lucky guess) and two open arms and Buster and Lesley were suddenly just like Fozzie Bear and Kermit The Frog – movin' right along in search of good times and good news! Except that Buster didn't have a banjo. Silly. Of course he didn't. Because he had a harpsichord. Not really!! Everyone knows dogs prefer kazoos:
I am seriously too dumb to figure out how to center this video. Awesome.
After Buster spent about five minutes thanking me profusely for picking him up by licking every square inch of my face and spitting in my ears and slurping on my neck – and sadly this is as much action as I've seen in as long as I can remember MORE AWESOME – I decided to take him to my vet for some kind of guidance because, frankly, once he was in the car I wasn't exactly sure what to do. He was filthy and had no collar, but he was certainly healthy enough. I knew I couldn't take him home myself, because besides having a diabetic cat, I also have a small, one bedroom apartment and no yard. That's right: There is NO END to my awesomeness.
"THAT is a Pit Bull." This is the first thing one of the vet techs said to me when Buster padded happily into the waiting room with me. This is an animal professional and she looked, well, somewhat alarmed. She retrieved a leash from somewhere in the back and told me I had to get it on him right away because "there are people's pets here." Um...what? Isn't that what Buster is? Someone's pet? He was clearly well trained, lying down in the back seat while we drove – except for when he'd get up to put his big head on my shoulder and lick my ear – and try as I might to coax him into the front seat, it was obvious he'd been trained that wasn't allowed. He followed me when I walked and heeled when I stopped. This was a good dog and as sweet as any I'd ever met and it was 8:00 at night and there was NO ONE else there so all the other animals were in the back and this dog was busy licking and licking and licking my right elbow in a really loud and sloppy fashion. Good holy crap: EVERYBODY RUN FOR YOUR LIVES.
Unfortunately, Buster – who they told me was about a year old – didn't have a microchip and that left the two of us without a lot of options. My parents live in the area, but their condo also doesn't have a closed-in yard and they have two cats of their own. Chris lives about ten minutes away, but he's violently allergic to animals. "Hey Buster! We saved your life, but we accidentally killed Chris. Woops!" Maureen lives about five minutes the other direction, but her female dog is in heat (and Buster is unfixed) and that is called Compounding The Problem or Animal Porn. So after a few calls I had no choice but to make arrangements through Animal Control to take him to the Castaic Animal Shelter.
Animal Control? Who wants to call THOSE monsters? Don't they drive around in big, menacing trucks with bars on the windows? Don't they carry huge nets they just smack down over an animal before scooping him or her away to some kind of dirty, depressing Animal Attica? Yeah. That's what I thought too. I was amazed at just how wrong I was. I dealt on the phone with a lovely woman named Alissa who coordinated with the shelter for our arrival (it was many hours after hours at that point) and then stayed on the phone with me while Buster and I drove around in the pitch black, middle-of-nowhere trying to find the place.
Once we eventually stumbled onto it, I thanked Alissa profusely and clicked off. She had assured me this shelter was a loving, compassionate facility where Buster would be well taken care of. And I was sure I believed her, despite the fact that in the dark it looked more like a place where people go to get violently ax-murdered during the dead of night. Which, to be honest with you, wasn't really something I was all that interested in. Unfortunately, this outcome started to seem more and more likely as Buster and I wandered around outside in the increasingly creepy night for almost ten minutes looking for this dude who was supposed to meet us. Tons of barking dogs...not one other human soul. Oh - and the wind! Spooky, swirling, howling wind. Howling. Which, of course, is why I almost had a heart attack when my phone suddenly rang loudly in my hand. I dropped it to the ground in a startled fit and Buster immediately begin licking it. Because, for those of you who haven't caught on to this yet, licking is what Buster does. It was Alissa again, letting me know that the gentleman I was meeting had to go on some animal emergency-related house call. He would be back in an hour at most.
An hour?
In the dark?
By myself??
WAIT! I have a Pit Bull!
"You have a WHAT??" My dad. On the phone. "You let a Pit Bull into your car?" Okay, really? Again with this? Buster and I were sitting in the back seat together, and he was snoring away with his big head in my lap. There was a growing drool spot on my knee. SCARY. "People get killed alone at night in the middle of nowhere, dear." Well, I can't argue with that.
"But I have a Pit Bull with me, Dad!"
"People get killed alone at night by Pit Bulls."
What? "Okay. Now you're just making crap up."
"I'm coming to meet you. You shouldn't be alone in a strange place at night." Not alone! Doggy! "With a strange dog." Not strange! Mushy! "You could get yourself killed." Seriously: My dad spends a LOT of time offering me tips on how to avoid getting myself killed.
And he did show up. Because he's my dad, and that's what he does. He takes care of his little girl. But you know who else showed up at almost the exact same time? The shelter guy. Who, it turns out, was also an Animal Control employee. (I had no clue how these things work. Who did I expect? The janitor?) He was wearing a verrrry nicely-fitting uniform. With a shiny, authoritative badge. He had a killer smile. He offered me a sweet, southern-twanged apology for being late because he had to go "wrangle a snake."
Wrangle? A snake?
Oh. Mah. Gah.
Drooooooools.
Buster was licking him.
I was getting kind of jealous.
I was also not at all happy about the gale force winds that allowed my hair to look like this upon the first moment mine and my new Snake Wrangler boyfriend's eyes met:
Although maybe this is okay, since in a way it looked very similar to this:
But what made Snake Wrangler Boyfriend even hotter was the sweet way he talked to Buster. He scratched his ears, he told him he was a good boy, he laughed when Buster jumped up and licked his chin. And he wrote down my phone number because that's official shelter procedure he was obviously totally in love with me. Droooools.
And with that, Buster was leaving me. And while I was relieved to know he would have food and water and a safe place to sleep, I still puzzled on the drive home over whatever chain of events I'd managed to set into motion that night. I have since gone to visit him twice (they're closed to the public on Sundays), and in the light of day the Castaic Shelter is actually quite a wonderful place. It's on a beautiful piece of land. The enclosures for the animals are clean and larger than you'd expect with both indoor and outdoor portions. The place is swarming with volunteers who walk and play with and love the animals. But the bottom line is it's still no place for any of them to be stuck. At the end of the day it's still concrete and cages and lost souls that have somehow ended up in circumstances that are less than ideal.
And now that I've grabbed Buster off the side of a desolate stretch of
road, I feel responsible for him. Now that I've gotten him locked away in what feels like – despite the grass and despite the lovely volunteers – nothing less than a prison, I need to find a way to break him out. The shelter will hold him for five days in the hopes his people will claim him. (Five days? That's it?) After that, they will do their best to find a family to adopt him, but let's be honest: At that point his future becomes uncertain. It is for every dog in that situation, but even more so for Buster because of his breed. Pit Bulls have gotten a bad rap (PUTTING IT MILDLY) due to a$$holes like Michael Vick, but inherently they're born as wonderful, loving animals. When well trained – as Buster clearly is – they're ideal family dogs. They're intelligent, they're enthusiastic and they're loyal. They live to please their people and they LOVE children. This is exactly the dog I saw in Buster. I fell in love with his dirty, spitty mug, and now I want so badly to save him from his current predicament. Because Buster is a soul in desperate need of some rescuing, and I know a little something about how that feels. The lost look he had in his eyes when I found him? The wandering? The fear of being left behind? Yep. I get it. We're kindred spirits, Buster and I, and I'd like to think we ran into each other for a reason.
Which I'm assuming is something related to the greater good and not just so I could meet a hot Snake Wrangler Bloggy Boyfriend. Although, you know...that certainly doesn't hurt.
Hang in there, Buster. I'm working on it.
* * * * * * * * * *
High Horse Epilogue: If your pet isn't microchipped, what are you waiting for??
* * * * * * * * * *
UPDATE: The following comment was left on this post by Issa, one of this blog's favorite readers (because you're allll my favorites!), and I thought it bore repeating:
Holy moly man. I freaking love
pits. My dad has the sweetest one in the world. She would literally let
my kids take anything from her, even out of her mouth and she just lays
there all patiently. My aunt has an awesome one too. People are what
make pits bad...
Today's blog post is dedicated to my newest reader, Ryan. Ryan has described my posts as "slow-motion car wrecks" full of "crazy ramblings" that induce "watering eyes" and "inner ear-based balance problems." Finally! Someone who gets me.
* * * * * * * * * *
According to Dictionary.com, the word comparison can be* defined in the following way:
Rhetoric.The
considering of two things with regard to some characteristic that is
common to both, as the likening of a hero to a lion in courage.
* I say can be as there are also five other definitions of the word, none of which is as relevant to my point here BECAUSE AS FAR AS YOU KNOW I HAVE ONE and anyway this is just TOO DAMN MANY definitions for one word, so please make up your mind, Dictionary.com.
And thus begins our little lesson in comparison:
On the left? The Porcupine. Inspirer of this blog. Will jab you with his quills! On the right? Luke Skywalker. Inspirer of a legion of Jedi Knights. Will slice you up with his lightsaber! You will never see these two people at a party together. Why? Well, besides the fact that Luke Skywalker is just a movie character and isn't at all real (Do I really have to explain this to you??), neither one of them has any time to go to some stupid-ass party since they both are way too busy saving the universe. Which, of course, I would be doing too if I didn't have to spend all my time sitting here writing in this damn blog for you people. Although I am not yet convinced my doing so won't totally end up saving lives one day. BLOG M.D.
Let's do a quick review:
Luke: Humble beginnings on small-ish planet Tatooine. Two suns! Carcinoma as National Pastime! The Porcupine: Equally humble beginnings on small-ish island. Only one sun, but that's all this particular blogger needs to get carcinoma up the wazoo. Snow White stands next to me so she can look tan! I'm rendered completely invisible on ice planet Hoth! SPF 597 cowers before me! I will get a sunburn. On a rainy day. Wearing a turtleneck sweater. While I am inside my apartment.
Luke: Grew up into a great leader of men. Jedi Master. Fearless protector of worlds. Tragically bad hair. Which in no way hampers his ability to lead but is still majorly unfortunate. Use The Force, Luke. For a haircut. The Porcupine: Has also grown into a great leader. Honest. Principled. Intelligent and aware. Leads by example. Makes those around him better by his mere presence in their lives. Never fails to consider others first. Makes continuous sacrifices for the well-being of everyone else in his universe. Awesome hair. Sure, his universe may not be as vast as, say, Luke's – whose is, to be technical, the actual universe – but that doesn't lessen in any way The Porcupine's drive and dedication and determination to protect the lives and worlds around him. (Also? The Porcupine possesses two additional great leadership qualities known as "Mind-Numbing Hotness" and "A Traffic-Stopping Butt." Drooooooools.)
Trying to build a life with someone like this isn't exactly easy. Which is why – pay attention here – Luke Skywalker never got himself a woman. (This blog's favorite Chris, upon an earlier discussion of this post, said, "He never got the girl because the girl WAS HIS SISTER." Oh, like Princess Leia* was the only girl in the universe. STOP TRYING TO RUIN MY BLOG POST WITH "FACTS.") Anyway, can you even imagine how complicated things with someone like this would be?:
Luke Skywalker's woman: Hey, babe! Maybe tonight we can...
Luke: Sorry – gotta go have a lightsaber duel with Darth Vader. The whole universe is depending on me!
Luke Skywalker's woman: Oh. Well then maybe next week we can...
Luke: Ooh. Also bad. Then I've gotta join the Rebel Alliance and go blow up the Death Star. Millions of lives are at stake!
Luke Skywalker's woman: You never have any time for me.
Luke (practicing his lightsaber moves): I'm sorry, hon. Did you say something?
Luke Skywalker's woman (scowling): The Force sucks Bantha butt.
*Speaking of Princess Leia, let's take a quick pause in the spirit of today's post to note how she and I compare. Not in the "I'm like The Porcupine's sister" kind of way (THAT IS CALLED "FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC" or "GROSS"), but in the even more profoundly important way where wetotally have the same wardrobe:
Anyway. Me? I don't have to imagine what the above complications are like, because I live my own version of them every day. And as if that wasn't already enough, life with The Porcupine is about to get even MORE complicated. There's a big, messy storm brewing, and I'm
worried about our ability to withstand it. He's worried too. Because he knows just like I do that all of his qualities that
serve him so well when it comes to helping other people – unselfishness, an overwhelming sense of responsibility, the tendency to always put himself last – are the very same qualities that often aren't so healthy for him. (And they don't exactly get us anywhere, either.) These same things
that make him an exceptional man are the things that often render him a handicapped one, too. He can't seem to draw a line. He will give and give and give of himself until he's so depleted he has nothing left for his own life. He will stop taking care of himself almost entirely in his effort to take care of everyone else. But what good is he to anyone if he ends up losing his hand himself in the process? He does understand this. Intellectually. We talk about it at length. But caught up in the swirl of his current circumstances, he feels he has no choice but to keep doing what he's doing.
So all of this adds up to it not being easy to love him sometimes. There have been more days than I can count where I've been left feeling futile and wholly insignificant from knowing the helplessness he feels – from watching him put his life on hold for everyone else, which in turn puts us on hold – and knowing I can't seem to do anything about it. How
do I do for someone who isn't comfortable doing for himself? How do I help him find a way to help himself? Because our future together hinges on his ability to do this. (And no, the Jedi Mind Trick doesn't work. DON'T THINK I HAVEN'T TRIED IT.) And it's an internal struggle for me too, wondering if I'm selfish, wondering if he thinks I don't understand what makes him tick. Because I do. I don't want to change who he is. I never have. I am his biggest champion. I just want to make some room for a little balance.
And this storm that's brewing? It's coming in the form of his responsibilities and the scope of his universe and what he's being asked to give of himself all increasing suddenly by about a hundredfold. Starting immediately. This is no small order for a man already struggling under the weight of his existing load of these same things. Any semblance of balance we might have still had is quickly going the way of my youthful optimism. If he couldn't see his way through everything before, how in the world will he be able to do it now? HELP ME, OBI-WAN KENOBI OR I SWEAR I'M GONNA KILL SOMEONE. On the one hand, I'm proud of him. But I'm always proud of him. He was born to change the world in ways I could never hope to. But on the other hand? Why am I giving one crap about the universe since the universe CLEARLY HATES ME? All of these things at once? And now another thing? Any one of them on its own would not be pretty but would still probably be manageable enough. But combined? Could anyone manage it all? Can The Porcupine? Can I? Can we?
In the end, I'm not sure how it's all going to go down:
And to stay on point (Okay. Seriously? You're almost at the end of this thing and you STILL believe I have one??), comparatively speaking, the first option is likened to my hope (fading), while the second is likened to my overwhelming sense of doom (growing exponentially). But regardless of how this ends up, in the meantime somebody better be baking me THIS on my next birthday:
Which has nothing to do with anything except that this whole damn situation SUCKS almost as much as THIS POST and I'm a nice girl and I like cake and this post is filled with Star Wars symbolism and so at the very least I should get some freaking DEATH STAR CAKE out of the deal.
* * * * * * * * * *
Luke Skywalker: I'm Luke Skywalker. I'm here to rescue you!
Princess Leia: Do you have any birthday cake?
Luke Skywalker: No, but...
Princess Leia: Get out.
* * * * * * * * * *
One more note to Ryan: If you never come back here ever again, I will totally understand.
Friday night I decided to try out a little design change on this blog.
Let's check in with two of our most loyal readers to see what they think of it:
Chris (later that same night while visiting/commenting on previous post): WHA? ME DRUNKY ALMOSS. BUH JUSS ALMOSS. Bog differ? Nooooozzzzzzz.......(THUMP)*
Mom (the next morning on phone after logging on here): It's different?
Why. Do. I. Bother.
* Okay. This is less part of an actual conversation Chris and I had and more a composite of an e-mail he sent me, the comment he left on my last post and the fact that while doing so he didn't notice the blog was different. This is called creative license.
To be fair, the new banner image you now see at the top wasn't there yet. (You: What new banner image? Me: Slightly more dead on the inside.) And in case you were wondering, yes I drew that porcupine in exactly the same way I drew that donkey a while back. Only this time around I actually paid good money for the right to use it and by that I mean it cost me fourteen dollars which is good because any more than that and I might not be eating this week. I haven't decided yet if using the porcupine illustration is really clever or tragically stupid, but obviously the second would probably be more ideal considering the blog that it's on, and it's not like I actually need to explain this to any of you. Unless, of course, you're new here, in which case I can only apologize and assure you it's not going to get any better.
But there was a different new banner there that looked like this:
This was a part of the new, pre-defined theme I chose (more examples of themes in a moment and yes, this is exactly as exciting as it sounds if not more so), and while I liked everything else about the overall design, I just wasn't sold on the stars. Stars? On my blog banner? What is that? A sci-fi blog? To boldly go where no blog has gone before? My science fiction-loathing best friend Maureen would never, ever visit here again:
Me: Oh! Today on my blog I...
Mo: I hate your stupid sci-fi blog. You can suck it and beam me way the hell on out of here.
My goal for the change was just to update my "Minimalistic" design a bit. "Minimalistic" is basically the No Design design and who would pick that? OH. I wasn't looking for anything radical, just a little attempt at refinement. Because the old design had no defined edges. No structure. The red banner just stretched out seemingly to infinity on both sides (Why??), and pretty much everywhere else was white meets white:
Old, boring blog.
Now, we've got edges with red and headline type with red and sidebar
elements with red and RED, RED, RED, RED WELCOME TO MY BORDELLO BLOG:
New, boring blog.
And seriously? A picture of this blog post inside of this same blog post? You don't get this kind of Hall-of-Mirrors blogging technique just anywhere, you know. Primarily because nobody wants it. (I actually originally wrote "House of Mirrors" but that's a totally different thing where you go to a carnival fun house and look into all these mirrors that make you look deformed and fat and that's a whole OTHER reason Maureen would never come back here.) But this means I have to put up a placeholder image and then publish this and go back really quickly and take a new screen shot and then insert that and publish again while hoping no one sees this post before I do all of that. Excluding, I believe, anyone who subscribes in a reader. I think you automatically see only the first version. With the wrong screen shot. Although I don't know for sure. Because I don't really understand reader services. Or anything else about blogging, for that matter.
But if I hadn't liked the above theme, my blogging service offers well over a hundred additional pre-defined themes in several categories sure to satisfy anyone's taste (or lack thereof). Here's a very small sampling of some of their "scenes" themes:
This one is nice.
This is the one I'd use if I wanted to be clinically depressed every day from having to stare at a lonely, dead tree. Which, if I think about it, is way more symbolic to my actual life than I'd really care to admit. Holy sh*t I HATE this design. Sh*thead designer.
This is the one I'd use if I wanted to have no male readers ever again.
This is what I'd use if I could see Russia from my house. And looking at a polar bear didn't make me at all sad inside because why would it since I know they'renot in any way endangered.
This is what I'd use if I was Chris. And loved football. And hated baseball. Because I had a profound mental defect.
This is what I'd use IF I HATED ALL MY READERS AND WANTED EACH OF YOU TO HAVE A DAILY ANEURYSM. Gag.
Below is one more screenshot. This one isn't of a pre-defined theme, except, of course, for the already established theme of This Blog Sucks. I found it here on this very nice blog that doesn't suck, when I was looking up information about "blogging on blogging" because I was thinking that maybe my last few posts on Twitterclouds and Google Searching and blog design AND JON BON JOVI might finally have me poised for a much coveted Technorati authority ranking! Not a high ranking. Just, you know, any ranking. Blog is topical! Witty! Insightful! People should cite my content! (You: WTF content would THAT be?) Although I only think this ranking system has to do with content. It might just be a popularity contest. Not that the distinction between intelligence and popularity really makes that much of a difference since this blog has neither. And since, according to Jeremy Zawodny, it also apparently sucks more than I even realized and how is such a thing possible?? (You: Oh, it's poss... Me: SHUT IT.) If you click on the image it will open up so you can read it more easily:
Notice how I wrote "I'm" with the apostrophe first. Awesome.
Jeremy Zawodny would totally hate me. Although I am actually going to attempt a TrackBack to his site when I publish this so maybe he won't hate me as much as he'll love me! Okay, he probably won't love me, but maybe he'll at least like me. Never mind. HE WON'T.
But now that my blog design is all tuned up and I've gotten this little lesson from Jeremy on how to be a better blogger content-wise, maybe tomorrow I will actually put up a real blog post! For you – my loyal readers. Won't that be great?? And since I even already know what the post is going to be about, all I can say is no, it won't be.
According to Dictionary.com, the word "disappoint" is defined in the following way:
"To fail to fulfill the expectations or wishes of" or "to defeat the fulfillment of hopes."
Wow. It would suck to be the person who does that.*
Therefore, by logical extension, the definition of the word disappointment is, "the state or feeling of being disappointed" or also – and pay attention here, because this is key – the feeling that overcomes every single solitary person who has ever found themselves on this blog as the result of any type of Google search.**
* I should know.
** SEE???
**********
Innocent Google Searcher: I will enter my search parameters here! Various word selecting and typing. Exclamation point to indicate searcher's excitement level. Google searching is fun! The internet is your oyster! Guess what isn't the pearl? "Um...What??" THAT'S WHAT.
Innocent Google Searcher (after a moment scanning the results page): Hmmmmn. Okay. This one looks good! Note exclamation point. Still excited!! Clicks link to whichever "Um...What??" post has happened to appear.
Innocent Google searcher (after a moment of trying to figure out what he's looking at): What the hell is THIS sh*t?? This isn't at ALL what I was looking for. I am verydisappointed. Searcher crushed. Demoralized. No exclamation point. Immediately clicks off and sends disgruntled, strongly-worded e-mail to Google management. As a side note, did you know that according to ehow.com the exclamation point "can add punch to a sentence when used judiciously" but is also "often overused." Good grief. Please learn to write better, people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Also? If it wasn't for the internet, I swear I wouldn't know ANYTHING.)
**********
ANYWAY, over the past few days, this kind of mind-numbing disappointment has happened to a lot of teenage girls who spent their precious, youthful time searching for either J0n@s Br0thers or N#ck J0n@s or N#ck J0n@s birthday and came acrossthis post. Which was just like two posts ago. And is probably about six inches below this post. And yet I still put a big link to it. STUPID. Also, I have to type like I have Tourette's or something or else these girls are all gonna end up here again. SUPER-STUPID. Anyway. (OMG am so tired. Have lost all transitional skills. Anyway, anyway, anyway!) Anyway (WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME??), most bloggers would KILL for the number of extra page views this post has brought me (about 20 a day). Okay, not most bloggers. Probably hardly any bloggers. Alright, just me. Since before I was averaging a whopping hundred page views a day. Which I am still very proud of, regardless. Especially because I'm sure at least 10 of them probably weren't my mom. And what did these extra girls – I'm assuming they're girls – all find when they got here? They didn't find swooning. They didn't find photo galleries and online squealing. Instead, they just found things like, "Butthead" and "Damn you, Nick J0n@s!" and random pictures of Prince Charles. Do today's teenage girls even know who Prince Charles is? Not unless he was in High School Musical, they don't. Wait, was he? Oh, I don't really know. Or care. Okay, I care. Yeah, right. NO ONE DOES.
Then there was the group of sadly disappointed people who Googled several variations of "Cute blonde who plays with football in NutriSystem ads" (Ugh. Seriously?) and gotthis piece of crap genius in which I said NOTHING about her being cute or blonde and I THINK GOOGLE MIGHT BE BROKEN. Unless "cute + blonde" equals the same as "obnoxious + boobs in my face." Which I kind of doubt.
Finally (You: ohdeargodthankyou), there was the person who Googled "donkey draw" and ended up on the post about my being a kick ass blogger (which, if you're still reading this far down, you understand is A FALSEHOOD). Was this person searching for instructions on how to draw a donkey? And then all he ended up with was a picture of a donkey that I drew but then admitted one sentence later I didn't actually draw but instead just stole off the internet? I'm sorry, aspiring donkey drawer. And by "drawer" I mean a person who draws donkeys, not "drawer" as in a dresser since a dresser drawer full of donkeys would be kind of inconvenient. Maybe slightly more so for the donkeys than for you. Although it would still probably suck for you too because then where would you put your socks? What do donkeys eat, anyway? And no, this has nothing to do with anything I'm talking about here. Welcome to every single blog post I've ever written.
So as a service to all of my readers – those both intentional and accidental – I offer the following visual aid to help you deal with the never-ending disappointment that is The Google Search. And by "help you" I mean "it won't" because it really has nothing to do with anything except for being some random ad I came across while researching the concept of "disappointment" and mainly I just want you to know that yes, I do extensive amounts of research during the course of verbally barfing carefully drafting every single "Um...What??" post because I care about you all that much. Plus, I have some form of internet ADD and can't stay on any one web page for more than 30 seconds before I have to open 17 more.
Anyway (That's. Right.), here you go:
UPDATE: During the course of my writing the bulk of this post last night, someone found me by Googling "um what blog by leslie." (Can't spell my name right SORT OF INSULTING but blog beggars can't really be choosers.) Thank you One Whole Person who actually tried to find me on purpose. It's for you that I do all of this.
Oh please. Like there's ANY reason to do any of this. Ever.
(Click on the image to go to Scotchland and visit Mr. Farty's blog!)
This Blog's Like A Pickle: Pair It With A Sandwich
"Not only is Lesley a superior scribbler because her posts are so wildly, insanely fun and engaging, but she’s also a superior scribbler in the literal sense - really she scribbles all over her blog. You can’t just go there, read a post and move on. No. No. There are all sorts of quips and asides and incidentals hidden in various corners and crevices of each post. Reading her blog really requires a day-trip. Bring a lunch." - XUP of Ex-Urban Pedestrian fame.
(I totally ripped off this "quoting comments" idea from Mr. Farty. Because ripping off is the sincerest form of flattery.)
Bossy: "One cannot Photoshop enough hats, in Bossy's humble opinion."
Buzz "Reading your blog has, in my mind, you sounding like a 19 year old who's had twelve gallons of sugar and is talking to her best friend on the phone at 5am on day three of a "how long can I stay awake" drive. Really. It's a compliment, though."
Chris: "I'm pretty sure I'm ALMOST drunk (but not quite)."
Debra: "I am so honored to be added to the Cast. It's like seeing your name in lights on Broadway...or on the wall of the Post Office."
dsbs42 "I was all "OH F*CK, EXAM TOMORROW!" But then I thought – what's your favourite way to procrastinate? And came here in the off-chance that you updated. And you did!"
Issa: "What I love about coming here, is that it takes me five minutes to read through your post and fifteen to find the comments box in all of your tags."
Laurie: "The toilets in my husband's building did start exploding one day...no one was hurt or turned into a zombie."
Lisa: "I am confused. Are you saying that someone is going to whip the boner to stimulate his package?"
Maggie "I totally hate you and your blog. But only in bizarro opposite land."
mayopie "I didn't even know they had boob scientists. I really should have applied myself more."
Mo: "I want that mug, damn it. Why can't I order it? Your customer service sucks around here."
Mr. Farty: "Sorry I'm late here, I was reading the Bloggess instead."
Ryan: "Although weird, difficult to follow and easy to lose track of, I still can't stop reading your posts. It's like watching a very, very slow motion car crash."
Steph "I vote for microfiche solely because it's fun to say. And because it'll confuse my children what with them being all used to Google and whatnot. Basically, I want to be able to kick their asses at research. Whippersnappers."
The Bloggess "I would so vote for you for best host if you would pour me some damn booze already."
XUP: "This blog is always like a happy mushroom trip. I always need a big helping of carbs afterwards to help me come down."
Blah, Blah, Tweet, Tweet (I HAVE 50 GAGILLION FOLLOWERS!)
