Thursday, June 25, 2009

And if they continue to displease me I shall throw dirt in their tank for 40 days and 40 nights. I smite thee, Sea Monkey sinners!

I realize I totally suck as a blogger because I have let a million years go by without posting anything. I have no excuse. I started a post a couple of days ago about how I sort of peed my pants at work, but there really was nothing more to say about it than that.

I feel sad that I have neglected my blog. It's how I used to feel when I would get tired of my Sea Monkeys and I would stop feeding them and they would all stop swimming around and I would cry because I totally killed their whole Sea Monkey village like some vengeful God of the Sea Monkeys.

Holy crap! I was totally their God! God Lemish. That is so freaking awesome! I think I'm going to buy some new Sea Monkeys and feed them long enough so that their society has time to evolve and build the awesome castles that I was promised on the front of the box. I will make them build images in my likeness and punish them when they have not pleased me by unleashing a plague of goldfish on their asses. Let's see how long those fuckers keep having pre-marital Sea Monkey sex after that.

Friday, May 29, 2009

More on string-instrument porn and some random pictures from the vault of Lemish

Three people have found my blog by searching for "ukulele porn." To those three people I apologize for not having a greater selection of ukulele porn included in my blog. I did my best by making a plea to the porno industry that they merge these two great arts into one supreme masterpiece; I cannot be faulted that they did not heed my call. They, like so many before them, lack the vision that we, The Enlightened Ukulele Porn Lovers, share.

Oh, here are some unused pictures that I have saved because I thought I might use them someday but never did. Unrelated to ukulele porn, but still equally as pointless possibly interesting:

For an unpublished post about the dangers of flying penises. An update to
my mom's crazy warnings.

This was for a time when I saw a guy with no arms and legs being pulled on a skateboard by a dog. The problem with that post was that there was really no place to go from there. My post would have been one sentence: "Holy shit! I just saw some guy with no arms and legs being pulled on a skateboard by a dog!" Okay, I guess that was technically two sentences. But Jesus Christ, quit being so picky. The dude had NO ARMS AND LEGS. He can't be expected to be perfect! Give him his damn two sentences and shut up about it!
This is a man smoking a tiny pipe. That's all I have to say about that.

Here is a cute parasitic worm. I love parasites. Not in the way that I would personally want one, but I love to hear other people's stories about their parasites and how gross they are. One of my favorite pastimes is watching youtube videos of people removing botfly larva from their bodies. I totally don't watch videos about them or anything though. What kind of sick person would do that!?!? Sick fucks, that's who. (I named him Chester.)

Here is a picture of my friend Katrina playing the world's largest tuba. I think this was for a plan I had about creating a marching band where everyone carried huge instruments. I still might put this plan into action, so nobody steal it because I'm pretty sure it's awesome.

I forgot to post this for a special Christmas greeting.

My head on The Last Unicorn's body. This was just for my personal use.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

No one ever tells you not to spray your junk with Scrubbing Bubbles because it burns and will not make it less purple. I just did. You're welcome.

Sweet Jesusaurus, I made a terrible mistake today. It's kind of a sensitive subject, but there's no reason to beat around the bush (you'll see in a second how that is a totally hilarious pun.)

As I mentioned previously, Lemish's Husband and myself are in the home buying process. And because this process is basically an ass raping very expensive, we have been trying to cut back and save as much money as possible. Because of this, I have been trying to do things myself at home that I wouldn't normally try. For instance, I cooked dinner this week. AT HOME! IN OUR KITCHEN! It was crazy. I also vacuumed myself for about five minutes the other day until the whole thing started smoking, shaking, and making a high pitched squeal. I called my husband and told him the vacuum either died or was having some kind of sexual experience. He said "it probably died of shock because someone other than me touched it." I could tell he was proud of me.

So tonight, as another cost saving measure, I thought I could cut back on some of my grooming costs and try an at-home bikini wax. NEVER TRY THIS!!!!

Everything started okay. The wax melted smoothly in the microwave, and I applied it without burning myself. The cloth strip went on easily and I followed the timed directions. However, when I went to remove the strip, something went horribly, horribly wrong.

First of all, fuck. It hurt like nothing I have ever experienced. When I was ten a piece of glass from our fish tank sliced through my ankle after I stomped on it because my mom was being mean and I was trying to teach her a lesson. I had a 5 inch piece of glass covered in fish shit sticking out of my leg for 30 minutes before I got to the hospital, and let me tell you, that pain was NOTHING compared to attempting to pull this wax strip off of my junk.

The other problem, after I awoke from my pain induced blackout, was that the wax was not coming off completely. Some of it was stuck to my body and some of it was stuck to the strip. So what was left was, forgive me for this image, a big, sticky, purple mess of pubic hair, skin, and wax. By this point there was also wax, and hair, and skin, stuck to my hands. So everything I tried to touch to help get this shit off of me was also now covered in wax, and hair, and skin. It was fucking disgusting.

I attempted to clean myself off in the shower, but it really didn't do much. I spent about an hour and a half in there trying every cleaning product I could think of. Finally my husband came up to see what the hell was going on and he found me spraying my junk with a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles. He looked all flustered and kind of backed away saying, "Oh. I was just coming to see if you were okay. You'd been up here for a while..... Looks like you have everything under control here...." And then he left. I tried to drop the bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles to explain myself, but it was stuck to my hand. I had no choice but to keep scrubbing.

Finally I had rubbed enough skin off so that I couldn't see anymore purple gunk, and I figured I was good. So I got out of the shower and got dressed. I soon realized that I was NOT good. I was still sticky as a motherfucker. My underwear was completely glued to me. There was also a bunch of fuzz stuck to me from when I sat down on a blanket on the bed. I tried to wipe it off with some tissue and rubbing alcohol, and now that is stuck to me as well.

So my crotch is totally beginning to look like one of those japanese katamari balls and I think my ass might be stuck to my desk chair. Good times.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

I can't think of a title that doesn't involve drowning vaginas and a bunch of seamen, and I'm just too classy for that

My mom called me last night concerned.

Lemish's mom: "I want you to be really careful if you go in the ocean."

Lemish: "Mom, I live like 1200 miles from the nearest ocean."

Lemish's mom: "Yeah, but you might take a trip and I'm seriously concerned."

Lemish: "Okay, what is the issue? Did you see floating medical waste or watch Jaws again or something?"

Lemish's mom: "No, the ocean is filled with flying black penises."

Lemish: "..."

Lemish: "..."

Lemish: "Mom, these are the things that you say to me and then deny later. Then I look like the insane person saying 'Hey Mom, remember the time you told me the ocean was filled with flying black penises and how fucking crazy that was?' and you'll be all like 'I never said that!' and look at me like you are insulted and tell me I should go to church with you."

Lemish's mom: "Well maybe if you went to church with me more often there would be fewer flying black penises to worry about."

Lemish: "Touché Mom, touché."

Friday, May 1, 2009

I'm sorry I stole your pills and then defaced your home with my Jewish graffiti

So we've been shopping for a new house, and house hunting is, decidedly, a pain in the ass. The only thing that I like about it is that you have a legitimate reason to look through people's stuff. Like, it is totally okay for me to go through people's medicine cabinets because I need to accurately judge if it will hold all of my meds. Our realtor says I don't need to read the labels on all of the pill bottles to judge the size of the medicine cabinet, but obviously I need to see if the previous owner took a bunch of anti-depressants or something because maybe it was their shitty house making them depressed. Or if they take anti-psychotics because they are seeing things, maybe their house is haunted. These are things I need to know.

Aside from looking through the home owner's stuff, they rest of the home buying experience is stressful. It's hard to find a house that people didn't totally fuck up by adding their own style elements. And I feel like the second we do like a house, someone else is going to come in and snatch it out from under us. So to avoid this I came up with a really awesome plan to dissuade any other buyers from buying one of the houses we like; I draw satanic pentagrams all over the place.

This is a totally awesome plan. No one is going to buy a house from a bunch of depressed devil worshippers! The house will be ours. We can totally low ball the seller too because we will be the only offer. "We shall give you $5 for this house. Good day Sir." And they will have no choice but to take it because once word gets around that they are devil worshippers they will get fired from their jobs and be totally poor. Everybody wins!

So anyway, I decided to put my plan into action at a house we saw last weekend. While my husband had the realtor distracted by concerns about "structural integrity" I quickly drew three pentagrams inside the master bedroom closet with a sharpie. I also wrote "I love the Devil!!!!" with a big pentagram around it like an evil Valentine. Just in case the people were from Canada and didn't know what a pentagram was.

After that, I went around back and started drawing some kick-ass pentagrams on the garage. My husband walked up all concerned and said "Oh my God, what the fuck are you doing? Vandalizing the house?" as if he wasn't totally in on my plan already. I was like "Isn't it obvious? I am making the owners look like scary devil worshippers so no one will put an offer in on the house. I know, I am awesome, no need to thank me."
So then he was like, "Are you a complete idiot? That isn't a pentagram. It's a mother-fucking Star of David, symbol of the Jewish faith! You look like a Jewish gang member out here tagging this place up for the Sabbath or some shit."

Then he tried to pull the sharpie from my hand to scratch out my work. I screamed at him to stop. "First of all, I don't think you are right. It has 6 points, just like 666. That is totally the Devil's favorite number. And secondly, if it is the Jewish star, you can't just cross it out! Someone could see us and think that we are all anti-Semitic. Like the owners decorated their garage with these symbols of their faith and we come along and are all 'Nuh -uh, won't have any of this crap while we live here. Heil!' Plus, there is probably some curse involved that's put on people who defile religious symbols. We are probably fucked even talking about this! In fact, I think we should write down how much we love Jewish people so that the curse knows we are cool."

So I started writing things under my stars, like "We wish we were Jewish!" "Kosher or DIE!!!" "Cut up penises for everyone!" Well right about then is when the realtor showed up to check on us.

We were escorted to the curb and asked to leave and not contact them again. As my husband forced me into the car I was screaming and sobbing out the open window "We love the Jews! We love the Jews! I was trying to draw Devil worshipping symbols, that's all! Please give me this house. Puh-lease!!!" I frantically scribbled down my offer on a crumpled piece of paper and threw it out the window at the realtor.

I'm hoping to get their counter-offer some time this week.

Friday, April 24, 2009

You would hate them too if their furry heads and powdery wings haunted your dreams

I don't like butterflies. Everyone is so fooled by their beautiful image, they don't even take a close look at these things. THEY ARE HORRIFYING.

So they are terrifying, hairy, flying bugs with wings made of powder. And for some reason, someone thought it would be an awesome idea to put images of these horrifying creatures on every accessory manufactured for teenagers. That means I am assaulted by their image even in places that I should be safe, like inside.

There are many reasons for my dislike, but I think the primary reason is that when I was 4 my mom caught a monarch butterfly and thought that I would like to see it. So while I was away at pre-school she stuck the butterfly to my new bulletin board in my bedroom with a thumbtack. Right through the disgusting powdery wing. When I got home from school, the butterfly was still lightly flapping it's wings against the board. That's right, she tacked a LIVE BUTTERFLY TO MY BULLETIN BOARD! To my FUCKING bulletin board. Upon seeing this, I completely lost my shit. I think I may have blacked out for a minute, because the next thing I remember is sitting on my floor covered in tears and shredded pieces of powdery wings.

My mom claims to this day that the butterfly was dead when she found it. But this is also from the woman who says she "forgets" dancing around me in a circle saying over and over again, "I'm a witch, I'm a witch!" when I was little, which totally happened. How sick would I have to be to make something like that up? Clearly, she is not to be trusted.

*Update: So I was totally going to put a picture of someone killing a butterfly and call them my hero or something, but the first result I got was this and I was too disturbed to look any more. I'm going to go throw up now.

*Update 2: I was informed that me choice of accessory was not appropriate for a teen/tweenager so I have replaced it. I'm sure I will now be criticized for choosing something that, while age-appropriate, is not exactly an "accessory." But fuck it, you get the picture.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Goonies never say die. (Especially when they are deaf vigilantes of justice.)

So I've had this life long dream to be a Goonie. Because if I was a Goonie I could get into all kinds of adventures and figure out neat ways to get myself out of dangerous situations. I would also have this cool group of friends that would follow me around and say hilarious things. And we could all make fun of the Asian kid to make ourselves feel superior.

Anyway, if I was a Goonie I could be out saving the day all the time. Like if I was ever stuck in a McDonalds drive-thru lane and a carjacker came up to me and was all "give me your fucking car, you Goonie!" I could totally foil his plan. I couldn't just drive way and go for help because I would be completely blocked in by the asshole in front of me ordering his 12 Big Macs, so I would have to come up with a different Goonie plan.

I think I would bamboozle the carjacker and make him think that I was deaf and that I couldn't understand his carjacking instructions. I would just start frantically signing at him with a confused look on my face. Like "Where are my McNuggets that I was promised? I would like Hot Mustard please." The carjacker would be so frustrated with my inability to understand him that he would have to move on to the next car. In the meantime, I would have been secretly signing to the drive-thru worker to call 911. Then the police would show up and bust his ass before he could carjack anyone at all. Victorious!

Everyone would be so happy with me that they would reward me with a big bag of jewels, which is the usual Goonie fee for a job well done. And I would get to go on Oprah and tell my tale of vigilante justice, just like that old lady who got burgled and was able to stop her burglar by crushing his testicles. I think Oprah bought her a small country or something for being awesome and crushing a burglar's balls and because that is one less pair of balls we have to deal with in the world.
No one would judge me for pretending to have a disability because I would totally donate half of my jewels and at least one quarter of my island to the hearing impaired because I am liable generous like that. I would teach them all how to hand jam and how to make fun of the Asian kids in their group with ASL. Oprah would probably give me a two-part episode and buy me a fleet of rickshaws for all of my good deeds.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Mine is about vah jays

Okay, I'm stealing another awesome idea from my hero, The Bloggess (who commented on my blog the other day, holy shit!), and posting this completely immature hilarious animated movie that I made with this site . It's completely awesome pointless and about vaginas below my usual level of sophistication, but it did make me snort with laughter for about 3 days. Enjoy.

Cheating the system doesn't make my victory any less sweet

Confession: I click on the link to my blog 70 times a day to pump up my Google Analytics numbers. It's like analytical steroids. If blogging were an Olympic sport I would be the Chinese. Or the Russians. One of those asshole countries for sure.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

I pity the fool

*Update: I used my time traveling abilities to post this after April 1st because I forgot to post something about April Fool's Day and I'd already found this cool picture. Who but Jesus could give me these astonishing powers? He loves me. And dinosaurs.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Next time you feel me up in Walgreens I'm going to kick you in the Cadbury Eggs

I ran out of toothpaste again this morning, which is like the second time in two weeks. I go through a lot of toothpaste because I squeeze out the first two inches before I use it in case it is poisoned.

So I stopped at Walgreens on my way home from work and, as usual, started buying all kinds of crap that I never planned on buying to begin with. And because I only planned to buy toothpaste, I didn't grab a basket or one of those weird little tiny shopping carts they have there. This meant by the time I made it up to the cashier I had my arms full stacked up to my chin with bullshit like light bulbs, Q-tips, and Shamwow cloths.

While waiting in line I saw some Cadbury Cream Eggs for sale and of course I had to get some. I reached out like an idiot and half my shit went tumbling to the floor. I couldn't bend down to get it without dumping the rest of it too. There was this old couple behind me, maybe late 60's, and I kind of gave them a half-smile like "sorry, I know you fuckers are old but do you think you could bend down and pick up my shit?" This was apparently a great strategy because the old man immediately bent down and retrieved my batteries and Glade plug-in refills and started stacking them back on top of the rest of my useless crap.

What a nice old man right? No! Dude blatantly rubs my right boob for like 3 seconds while stacking my stuff, right in front of his wife! I couldn't believe it! My shock was so great that, of course, shit just tumbles right out of my arms again. I thought, no way is he going to do it again, but yes! He did! Boob rubbing part deux! I think it was even longer the second time because in my panic, I had dropped a good portion of my stuff. He rubbed the boob with the back of his crusty old fingers for the good part of a minute. I almost threw up.
So what is my reaction to the good, yet pervy samaritan? Do I get indignant and tell him to keep his hands to himself? No! I THANK him. I thank him! For rubbing my boob! I didn't know what else to do. This creaky old fucker is blowing out what is left of the cartilage in his knees to bend down and pick up my stuff, twice! Granted, he is totally molesting me in front of his wife and about 3 other Walgreen shoppers, but seriously, what choice did I have? I could have kicked the old bastard in the balls or something, but I would have looked like a crazy person. "Pick up my stuff old man and then watch as I haul off and kick you right in the balls! Take that!" I probably would have been arrested.

After my second molestation was complete, the old man's wife says to me "look, you dropped your toothpaste too" like she WANTED him to be rubbing my boob. I was like, no way old lady, go get your kicks in some other drug superstore, this bitch is closed. So I had no choice but to lie and say it wasn't my toohthpaste. The old dude was already bent halfway down again to retrieve it so I quickly turned around, basically threw my stuff at the checkout lady, and got the fuck out of there.

I was too traumatized to stop at another store, so I'm going to have to borrow my husband's toothpaste tonight to which he applies zero safety standards and has allowed whatever poison may have been inserted to seep throughout the whole tube. Great. I'll probably be dead tomorrow.

Friday, March 13, 2009

A hippo will never eat you, but a bear will fuck your shit up... and I can respect that

I am obsessed with stories about animals eating people. Not just attacking people, actually eating people. Like, for dinner. I've read probably 20 books on the subject and watch every documentary that I can find that shows people getting bit, or talking about how the people were eaten. It's like a sick fetish I realize, but I cannot get enough. I am rooting for the animals. I get disappointed when people talk about their narrow escapes. I guess if they come away horribly mutilated I am somewhat satisfied. It kind of depends on how fucked up they look.

Anyway, so the other night I was watching one of those "When Animals Go Fucking Psycho on Your Shit" type shows when I came to a pretty interesting conclusion: Hippos are hands-down the biggest assholes in the dangerous-animal community. They kill more people per year in Africa than FUCKING CROCODILES, and they are GODDAMMED VEGETARIANS!!! They never eat the people! They eat grass and shit! On top of this, people who actually survive walk away almost completely intact! It's not like a hippo can tear someone's fucking face off with their stubby little paws or whatever they are called. Look at these things! They are just little tiny nubs! No one is going to get their eyes ripped out of the socket by those things!

If you are going to kill hundreds of people a year make it worth my while and EAT THEM!!!! God, you are so annoying with your self-righteous "I won't eat humans but I'll kill them, I'll kill them to death" attitude. It makes me want to punch you in your stupid, fat gut, you smug asshole. Just eat some meat! It won't kill you! My best friend used to feet her pet pig strips of bacon. If her pig could get over that, surely you can force down a few bites of human.

Look at what a bear did to this guy! That I can respect. I mean, he didn't get eaten so he's still sort of a pussy, but at least he did the next best thing! This guy took one for the team and at least made his attack bring pleasure to millions of sick fucks like me. It means something. It has value. And bears don't fuck around. They will eat you. They will eat you in a heartbeat.

Could a hippo pull that off? No way! Here is a hippo-attack victim. Notice the difference? This douche looks bored out of his mind! No disfigurement at all! What a selfish motherfucker.
I am equally angry at the hippo and his "victim." The hippo for refusing to swallow, and the dude for looking so damn impressed with himself for surviving. HE DIDN'T WANT TO EAT YOU, YOU GLIB BASTARD!

Another thing about hippos that really pisses me off is their ears. They are just so stupid. I can't even look at them for too long without getting angry. I mean, I seriously feel a deep burning rage at how ridiculous they look perched on top of the enormous hippo head. And when they twirl them around? Oh my fucking God! It makes me want to scream. Your ears are so fucking stupid, so stupid!!!! JUST EAT SOMEBODY, PLEASE!!!!

*Update: My husband says that I used too many swear words in this post. I am now even angrier at the hippos for getting me so mad that I look like a complete psycho. I hate them so much.

*Update 2: Someone accused pointed out that making fun of animals and swearing at them has already been done. What they don't realize is that I actually hate hippos. I want them dead. That is completely different than swearing at an animal because it is painfully cute. Plus, shut the fuck up. I will steal ideas whenever I please.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

My ears are like, not even old enough to drink yet

This website is totally hitting on me and telling me I am young. I don't know what the website is trying to get our of me by this blatant flattery but I'll tell you right now that I'm not falling for it. Like I would really be all overcome with gratitude just because they tell me I am young and that I can do things only teenagers should be able to do. Seriously. I'm not that easy, Website. Like I would really tell everyone I know about how I could be mistaken for a high school student or something. Puh-lease. I mean I appreciate it and all, and I think you are one of the most intelligent and insightful websites I've ever seen but really, your flattery is having no effect on me at all. I love you.

Train Horns

Monday, February 16, 2009

My plan for ukulele-porn driven world peace will not be undermined by that demon girl Hannah Montana and her didgeridoo-playing followers

Lately I have found myself obsessed with ukuleles. I watch you tube videos of indie ukulele covers over and over again. It's almost like a porn addiction because I am both secretive and ashamed of my inability to look away. Except it's not because ukuleles are sweet and pure and porn is rarely sweet and pure. In fact, I really think the porn industry should look into some ukulele soundtracks to clean up their smut factories. I really think they would be able to capture a wider market share. I would totally watch more porn if they classed it up a bit like this.

In fact, I am positive that there would be world peace if it was mandated that all songs be performed on ukuleles.

I wish this dude was my weird, red hat wearing french grandfather who would sing me songs of the sea on his ukulele and make delicious pastries for us to share.

Even Disney who, despite being the harborer of the anti-Christ and the catalyst for the ensuing apocalypse, is always at the forefront of feel-good brand association has jumped on the ukulele bandwagon.

There is even a rockstar ukulele available.

The one instrument that I think is the opposite of the ukulele and therefore the most likely instrument to spur war would be the Australian didgeridoo. Because even though it has a cool name, it kind of separates itself from the other instruments and acts all better than everyone else just because it is made out of bamboo hollowed out by termites. It's an instrument snob. We didn't want you to join our symphony anyway you smug son of a bitch! It also sounds kind of scary and it used to be that only men could play it and women had to play the lame-ass clapsticks, second only to the ridiculous triangle in lameness. So it's sexist too. It's basically the instrument equivalent of Jude Law. So fuck the didgeridoo and it's attempts to undo my mission of instrument based world peace.

*Update: I can't stop watching! Just look at the people playing the tiny little guitars with their big hands! They look like music loving giants! I wonder if regular sized guitars WOULD sound like a ukulele to giants? That would be totally awesome. I need to find a giant and make them play a ukulele because that would just set me over the freaking edge. I feel like rolling around on the floor and squealing at the very thought!

I might be having a seizure.

*Update 2: I really like nickels.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Greg Hanson ruined the Superbowl and trades slaves with Ragnor the Viking

So before the Superbowl I started writing this post about the time my super cool brother Keith and I went to a Notre Dame bowl game in Jacksonville and got chased down some dirt road by couple of homeless people. It was totally funny too. I was going on about how I kept yelling at Keith that I was sure the homeless people were going to stick us with needles and how we couldn't remember where we parked the car because we left it at some abandoned carpet factory or something. Yeah, totally awesome. Well I let too much time pass and now what could have been a relevant post relating to a current event (i.e. the Superbowl) sounds lame and random. In it's place I will tell you about my arch enemy, Greg Hanson, of Greg Hanson & The Backroads, and how we came to be pitted against one another. It is not random at all.

My husband and I moved into our current place in September of 2007 and shortly after set up a new home phone line. Almost immediately we began getting calls for a Greg Hanson. At first it was just one or two a day. "Is Greg Hanson there?" We got off with an easy "you have the wrong number." However after about a month the calls started getting more and more numerous and got kinda shady. "Is Greg Hanson there? Well when was the last time you saw him?" We were like "We don't know the dude, you have the wrong number."

A few months into it we started getting close to 20 calls a day from various flooring dealerships asking for, you guessed it, that rat bastard Greg Hanson. When we asked to be removed from the list the people would tell us that someone named Greg Hanson recently went to a flooring expo and put his name and number in the main box to be contacted by every flooring vendor in the tri-state area. Motherfucker.

A couple of months and hundreds of calls later the flooring assholes stopped calling. Yes, I know we could have simply changed our number, but I wasn't going to let these flooring jerks and the evil Greg Hanson determine my fucking destiny. I had stood up against my tormentors and had emerged victorious. Or so I thought....

It was at this point that we started getting downright harassing phone calls. They would call and ask for Greg Hanson of course, and when I told them they had the wrong number they would say things like "Are you sure you don't know Greg Hanson? This isn't Greg Hanson's mother?" And I would be like "no, I wasn't lying the first time, YOU HAVE THE WRONG GODDAMNED NUMBER!" To which I received a reply like"We know this is you Mrs. Hanson, we need to talk to Greg now." I couldn't believe it. I said "listen you fucking bitch, I'm only 30 26 years old. Any kid I could have would not be old enough to be getting phone calls from whatever gestapo you represent. I am not Greg Hanson, I am not Greg Hanson's mother, I have no idea who Greg Hanson is but I swear to you and to Jesus Fucking Christ that if I ever meet that son of a bitch Greg Hanson, harassing phone calls from little 'I only finished the 11th grade' bitches like you are going to be the least of his problems! Now stop calling!"

After this I decided to make it my personal mission to find this Greg Hanson and take him down personally. I figured there must be some kind of reward for his head, and at the very least I could stop cursing people out on the phone in front of company. My first stop was Google of course. Google that I love with every inch of my Greg Hanson hating being.

The first few results were promising, although somewhat intimidating. Dr. Greg Hanson is the US Senate’s first Chief Information Officer. Well I'm not going to fuck with anyone in charge of my information. I once screamed at a lady at the drivers license place and subsequently failed my vision test seven times in a row despite not needing glasses. Dr. Greg was out.

The next candidate for my plan of vengeance was Greg "Digger" Hanson, a Hollywood stuntman who has worked on such film gems as "Good Luck Chuck" and "Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed." He seemed like a possible match since those films were huge flops and probably left him without much money to pay off his creditors, but then I realized that stuntmen are typically testosterone fueled idiots and would not need to hide behind a wrong number if he had done someone wrong. He would accept, no seek the confrontation that would arise from him being a deadbeat and not paying his bills. Again I was left without a target for my rage.

The third Greg Hanson I found was a lawyer in Minnesota no less. Who could be more likely to receive a bunch of pissed off phone calls than a lawyer with cheated clients? I felt like I had found my man and began leaving him threatening messages in earnest. "Greg Hanson, attorney at law! After almost 2 years of harassing phone calls from all the people you have pissed of, you leave me no choice but to challenge your ass to a duel. If this is THE Greg Hanson, meet me by the Spoonbridge with the giant cherry on it, downtown Minneapolis, Friday at 9 o'clock! Don't fuck with me Hanson!!!"

That Friday I got to the Spoonbridge early so I could set up a trap. I know all lawyers like Life Savers candies so I set a trail leading to a spike pit that I dug that morning. I sat in wait for what seemed like hours. By 12:30 I knew Hanson wasn't showing. I figured I had the wrong Greg Hanson because I explicitly told him that if it was THE Greg Hanson, he'd better be there. I went home and sent him a letter stating that I must have the wrong guy. I even included some of the Life Savers (I wiped off most of the dirt first) as a peace offering. I didn't hear back from him, but I think he forgives me.

The only possible Greg Hanson left was a country singer. Greg Hanson of Greg Hanson & The Backroads. At first glance this looks like your normal average country band. Until you get to their drummer.

WTF? This dude is no country band drummer! He's no drummer at all. He looks like a 1989 IBM programmer with bad, photoshopped long "drummer" hair.

It all began to make sense. This "band" is obviously a cover for some seriously dark, underground shit. His clearly phony band members, his cliche list of favorites, (seriously, your favorite way to relax is to "Ride the 4-wheeler or horse through the pastures on parent's farm near Wilmot." How fucking naive do you think I am Greg Hanson?!?) along with his association of LeRoy VanDyke, a known fast-talking auctioneer leads me to believe this Greg Hanson is running some kind sick, illegal auction. Maybe even a human slave trade auction. Yeah, that's probably it. Well I'm on to you, you sick fuck Greg Hanson. I will bring down your dirty human slave trade if it's the last thing I ever do! I brought down my Girl Scout troop leader in the third grade for skimming the top of the cookie sales, don't think I can't do the same to you!

And for any of you that doubt me, here is the proof. A picture of Greg Hanson with Ragnor the Viking, who is the Minnesota Vikings mascot, and also suspected of being a trader of humans.

*Update- The date stamp on my blog is clearly fucked up because if I had posted this before the Superbowl took place it would not make any sense. Unless I am traveling through time without my knowledge which totally makes sense because I never know what day it is and frequently find unexplained bruises on my body. That could also be explained by all the drinking.

Friday, January 23, 2009

My milkshake... is cleaner than yours

It may surprise you to know that I have a few quirks. One of these quirks is that while grocery shopping I cannot take the most forward sitting product on the shelf. I always take the one right behind it, preferably without touching the first product. I do this, obviously, because the first product on the shelf is dirty and those further back are fresher and less likely to have been touched by the heathens. If there is only one product left on the shelf I just refuse to buy it.

The other day I saw something that shook me to the core. While shopping at my local Target, about to pick up some milk, I saw a woman take out three gallons of milk, put one in her shopping cart, and then put the other two back. She didn't even put them back in the right order! The dirty milk was now the second milk on the shelf, and the fresher milk was in front!

Well first of all, fuck this bitch. She obviously has the same kind of sickness as me, really even more of a sickness because she had to take the third goddamn milk on the shelf (what kind of sick person needs the third milk back? A total sicko that's who.), and yet she didn't have the common courtesy to put the milk containers back in the correct order? She obviously doesn't know what she is messing with. You go screwing with the order of things like the dirty milk/clean milk paradigm and you are just asking for fucking anarchy. Good job Lady, you just put us all in mortal peril. She probably doesn't even use a paper towel to open the door in a public bathroom. Amateur.

So, obviously I was in distress by this milk situation. It made me realize that I really cannot rely on the fact that the second milk back will be the clean one. I really was an embarrassment to the vigilance of germ-watchers everywhere. Sloppy bitch in Target had made that crystal clear to me. I realized then, that the only way to be safe would be to go four milks back because no way is anyone sick diligent enough to go back that far. The problem with my new plan was that it's not always easy to reach four products back to get something without taking the other three out first. So I had to take the first three milks out, set them on the floor, and then grab my fourth, assumed clean milk.

Most days that would have been the end to the story. I would have taken the fourth milk, put the other three back and been on my merry way to the cookie aisle. However, on this day the fourth milk back had a smudge on the bottle. Well of course I can't buy the one with a smudge, that milk has obviously been through some shit. Unfortunately there wasn't a fifth milk on that row, which is total bullshit. Obviously Target was trying to slip their smudge-milk by on some poor unsuspecting fool. Well not on my watch Target! I left the smudge milk on the shelf (but turned backwards which is the universal signal for "don't buy this! It's yuck!"), but didn't put the other three milk containers back yet because, in an emergency, if all the other bottles failed their inspections, I could buy the third milk and just wipe it down with Clorox wipes once I got home.

I bent down and began removing the first third containers of milk from the second row and set them down (in order of course since I have respect for germ hierarchy.) I was in luck and the fourth milk on the shelf was smudge free and otherwise unremarkable. So I lifted it out and turned to put it in my cart, but somehow, before I could deposit my milk safely into the cart, it slipped out of my hands, crashed to the floor, and burst open in a white blast of clean milk goodness. At that moment a Target employee walked by and found me standing there in a huge puddle, surrounded by six full gallons of milk. Everyone was staring at me like I was the crazy one. I briefly contemplated stuffing a bag of chips under my shirt and going with a "my water broke" story, but I was afraid everyone would think I was totally weird for having white uterus juice and might take me to some scary medical research facility where they would do scientific tests on me and stuff... so I decided to suck it up and go with the truth. I explained that I was just trying to get a clean milk but most of their milk was dirty, so I had to keep testing them and that obviously it was their shoddy milk container craftsmanship that was the problem here and not me.

The Target guy didn't seem that sorry and I was starting to panic, so left with no choice, I grabbed the soggy third milk container and headed off to the disinfectant aisle leaving a milky trail behind me. On the way I gave the lady who started this whole mess a pointed look and held up my dripping container so she could see what havoc she had caused. She just looked away but I could tell she knew what she'd done and that from then on she would follow the rules like a normal person. Walking away I kind of felt like a superhero or something, like I'd really made a difference and that the world would be a cleaner, less germ-infested place because of me.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

I'm going to use the headless bodies as diversity paperweights

There is a battle of wills going on in my office. Our office Christmas tree is still set up in the middle of the office an no one wants to be the one to take it down. Each day the effort to avoid looking at it, and therefore be designated as the one to take it down, gets more and more difficult. Each of us has devised creative methods to appear busy or engrossed in something else as we walk by it. None of us acknowledge that we are avoiding it. We all act like it's perfectly normal to still have the undecorated tree up on January 20th.

Up until last week I had been trying out different strategies to avoid being the one to take it down. I kept up a pathetic looking limp for two weeks just to shirk it. Another successful method of mine was to crazily mutter to myself while shuffling a stack of papers around as I walked past the tree. If anyone talked to me I would just say something like "How do they expect me to get 700 mules to Arkansas by Friday? Huh? You tell me!" and then walk away, twitching my head to one side.

Last week I grew tired of the charade so I devised a strategy that would allow us to keep the tree up for another few months at least. I figured I could hang a bunch of Martin Luther King figurines from the tree and make it a Diversity tree. What racist asshole decided that Martin Luther King day didn't deserve a tree anyway? Like Christmas is so superior? I realized that I must make a Diversity Tree to stick it to The Man! Equal Tree rights for all, motherfuckers!

So I bought some MLK bobble heads online and tried to hang them from the tree, but they were too heavy so I pulled their heads off and just hung those up with some twine. I was pretty happy with it and felt like not only had I finally brought justice to a tragically under-decorated holiday, I'd also allowed for an extended period of laziness by giving us a reason not to take down the tree. This is why I was totally surprised when people started freaking out. They were like "you can't just hang decapitated Martin Luther King heads off of a tree with pieces of rope! Don't you know how that looks?" And I was like "Hell yeah I do, it looks like a kick-ass Diversity Tree!" because it totally did. They kept going on and on about how bad it looked, and how I was celebrating the practice of lynching, all the while completely ignoring my festive 'Diversity! Yeah!' tree topper.
As usual people refuse to see my vision.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Maybe my real name is "Tries too hard to be funny." Like an Indian or something.

I had the same dream two nights in a row that I had a baby. His name was Potter and he was born with 17 teeth. He liked to sing songs about dinosaurs and eat short ribs. I was pissed about his name because I didn't even get to choose it. After he was born I left the hospital to go get some Indian food so the nurse let her idiot man-child name my baby and he named him after Harry fucking Potter.

It is a fact, that in my family, who or what you are named after will determine your personality. I was named after some depressing, hippie, anti-war song called "Come Away Melinda" by Uriah Heep. It is pretty much the most depressing song of all time. Look at some of the lyrics:
Daddy, daddy, come and look
See what I have found
A little ways away from here
While digging in the ground

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
Its nothing, just a picture-book
They had before the war

Daddy, daddy, come and see
Daddy, come and look
Why, theres four or five
Little melinda girls
Inside my picture book

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
There were lots of little girls like you
Before they had the war

Oh daddy, daddy, come and see
Daddy, hurry do
Why, theres someone
In a pretty dress
Shes all grown up like you
Wont you tell me why

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
That someone is your mummy
You had before the war

Jesus Christ, Parents! What kind of fucked up message is that supposed to send a five year old when you tell her she was named after this song? I can only guess that you wanted me to grow up completely neurotic and believing that the Apocalypse was always around the corner. Then you give me the middle name Lemish which is just a crazy made up name. So your secondary aspiration for me, after your desire for me to be one of those assholes on the corner with an "End of Times" board around my neck, must have been for me to be slightly crazy with little to no grasp on reality. What were you hoping for? A telephone psychic? Thanks douchebags.

My siblings are no different. I named my sister Allison, who was born when I was 4, after the Lewis Carrol story "Alice In Wonderland" which in my mind was called "Allison Wonderland" about a girl named Allison Wonderland. My parents were very close to actually giving her the middle name 'Wonderland', and let's be honest, they had the capability to do that (Lemish, assholes.) My sister has peculiar ambitions, the most recent of which is to move to Peru and live in a tree. This is obviously the result of being named after a character conceived in a drug-induced haze. Oh, and good job parents for letting your 4 year old name your child. She came this close to being named Rainbow Brite.

My brothers faced a similar fate. The older of the two, Keith Richard, was named after Keith Richards.

Awesome. My brother, unsurprisingly; is also a fan of the drink.

The youngest brother, Dylan, was named after Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210. Again this came from my parent's brilliant judgement to let the kids pick the name for the new baby. I was 12. The names came down to Zack (Morris) and Dylan (McKay.) My 17 year old brother is now a little Casanova. I guess compared to the rest of us, a crazed neurotic, a psychedelic hippie tree-hugger, and someone whose blood could hold a flame, being a popular kid who all the girls like isn't the worst possible outcome. But he has to live with the fact that he was named after a lame tv star whose biggest role since was a small part in an episode of "Biker Mice from Mars" an animated show about.... biker mice... from Mars....

My point in all of this is that I can't have a kid named Potter. The kid would grow up to be some little weirdo waving his "wand" at people. Unfortunately, because I am neurotic and a little bit crazy I now must name my future child Potter because my dream demands it to be so. The little bastard will probably also be born with 17 teeth just to fuck with me. So when you see me in a few years, toting around some little 17-toothed freak looking for a good place to eat short ribs, don't give me any shit; it wasn't my decision.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

The terribly true story of Gospel Sue and Pee Pants and the time my soul was saved

When I was four I was kidnapped by a Christian music personality named "Gospel Sue."

There was a really strange family that lived in our neighborhood when I was little. They had a giant bell attached to their front porch that they would ring when it was time for their kids to come home for dinner. That wouldn't be so strange if we lived, like on the prairie or something, but we lived about 20 minutes outside of New York City and it was 1984, not 1884. Their youngest, Danny, was my friend but even at 4 I knew he wasn't one of the "normal" kids. They were super religious and had all kinds of rules about what kinds of games their kids could play. Danny wasn't allowed to dig in the dirt. I don't even remember the fucked up reason he gave us for that but we just continued digging to China without him.

They had two twin teenaged daughters named Heidi and Bambi. I shit you not, Bambi. Who names their kid that and doesn't completely expect them to grow up to be a stripper? I'm pretty sure the girls were already up to something with the Albanian drug dealers who owned the pizza shop around the corner. They made awesome pizza.

Anyway, one day Danny and his family invite me to a "puppet show" and ask my parents if it would be alright for me and another kid from the neighborhood to join them for about half an hour. My parents, obviously oblivious to the general weirdness surrounding this family, agree. They should have known something was up. His parent's faces lit up with crazed smiles like they'd just heard we'd declared war on Albania or that doing blow was a good way to restore your virginity.

They took me and the other kid with sucker parents into their Jesus mobile and we were off to see the puppets. On the way we stopped to pick up their "advisor." The door opened and I was almost knocked unconscious by the smell of knock-off Chanel number five. A sparkly blue mass of blond curls and mascara slid into the truck. She leaned down close into my face, smiling wildly and said "well hello Darling, my name is Gospel Sue" and poked the tip of my nose with her long, squared off claw nail.

I tried to do a Google search for a picture of Gospel Sue to show you guys, but I guess her confession that she was once told by the blind, bastard child of a whore that one day she would be known the world over as the "Messenger of the Spirit" didn't quite work out. I have done my best to create a composite image of what she looked like. I think it is a pretty fair representation.

The other boy from the neighborhood and I were instructed to get down on the floor of the truck. We weren't given an explanation, there was plenty of room in the truck for us to sit. I was 4, I thought my best friend was Big Bird, I didn't think to question why we were sitting on the floor so we did it. The rest of the trip seemed to take a very long time and I occupied myself by picking at the sequins on Gospel Sue's pants.

Finally we got the "puppet show." Now, I don't see how this could be really true, but I swear I remember that the place they took us to was an abandoned hot dog factory. I remember walking among the machines in the dark and the whole place smelling exactly like you would expect an abandoned hot dog factory to smell, like ass.

So they took us down into the basement of the hot dog factory (and this is another hole in my story because do hot dog factories have basements?) The basement consisted of three large carpeted rooms. The other neighborhood boy and I were escorted by Gospel Sue into a room with three other confused looking children while Danny and his family went in to the main room do to do whatever they did in there; roll around in loose hot dog meat probably.

Gospel Sue sat us down and proceeded to tell us that we were so lucky because they had brought us here to be saved! We were in terrible danger and she was going to lead us away from the danger. I assumed this was some kind of prelude to the awesome puppet show we were about to see so I laughed a little with anticipation. Gospel Sue's head whipped around, her eyes narrowed, and she said "there is nothing funny about your soul burning in hell for all eternity is there? Don't you want God to love you? Or would you rather have your skin burn up in a fire and never get to see your parents again?!?" I think that was the moment I realized there would be no puppet show.

She made the five of us kids get up and stand in a circle and hold hands. She held my hand and dug her nails into my hand and began shouting "God forgive us! God, Jesus forgive these children their sins! Their parents might be damned to Hell for their wicked ways but must these children suffer?"

She held our hands up over our heads and instructed us to yell "Please save us from the fire God! We don't want to live forever amongst the hellfires of Satan with the sinners! Forgive us Jesus and save us!"

I had no idea what this bitch was talking about, my hippie parents were from the church of "be nice to other people" and had never mentioned hell, but I was there yelling my head off to be forgiven. It seemed like the right thing to do. This Satan character sounded like a bad dude and I wanted to see the goddamned puppet show like I had been promised. Some of the other kids were not as enthusiastic as me. A few kids were crying and asking for their parents and the boy from my neighborhood had peed his pants. Gospel Sue stopped holding his hand after that.

This shouting business seemed to go on for a while. After a while I got tired of it and started lifting up my dress to check out my Wonder Woman underoos and tried to remember if I even liked puppet shows. By this point Gospel Sue was wriggling on the floor and had been singing Amazing Grace over and over again for about an hour. Pee Pants had gone into some kind of over-traumatized coma and was lying on the floor, straight as a stick with his eyes closed twitching a little. One of the other kids had turned over all the chairs and was playing some kind of war game with himself. He occasionally stuck his fingers out of his fort and made shooting noises while pointing at all of us. A little girl in the corner was scooping dirt out of a plant then carefully sprinkling it into her hair. She looked like she might have eaten some as well.

I looked up as Danny walked into the room and told us we had to go now. We shook Pee Pants awake and got out of there. Apparently we were leaving Gospel Sue to continue her worship. As we got back into their truck Danny's parents asked Pee Pants and I if we'd had a good time. It's fucked up but I think I might have actually told them I did have a good time because that was the polite thing to say. Pee Pants, sitting next to me on the floor of the truck, remained silent.

It was pitch black when we pulled into my driveway and my parents came running out of the house yelling. Danny's dad mumbled some bullshit about the puppet show taking longer than they had anticipated and drove off with my dad yelling at him about how he was going to rip his fucking head off and shit down his throat. My mom was crying and asked me if I was okay. I said "well I guess because my soul will no longer be burning in hell with you and Daddy." Then I showed her how to lift your arms and kick your legs and say "Jesus suck the sin out of my bones!!!" so that she could be safe too.

After that day I wasn't allowed to play with Danny any more. Pee Pants got moved to a different school after after he developed some compulsion to pull out all of his eyelashes and hair and then eat it. Danny's family eventually moved after his sisters ran off with the Albanians. I pretty much got over the whole experience but I do notice that my eye will begin to twitch uncontrollably whenever I'm in the presence of either gospel music or any type of puppet. Oh and I still ask Jesus to suck the sin out of my bones, but really, who doesn't?

Monday, January 5, 2009

OCD spells P and cream soda bottles make shitty shivs

When I'm alone in my car and listening to music I have a weird compulsion to sign out the first letter of every word in the song. I am pretty sure my scary kindergarten teacher who got fired for stealing our milk and then blaming it on the poor kids forced us to learn the deaf alphabet that way and it is burned into my psyche. Come to think of it I should sue that bitch for contributing to my early onset rheumatoid arthritis. Anyway, I have been doing it for years and cannot stop. I call it hand jamming.

My OCD tells me that I must get at least 80% of the letters signed otherwise the sky will rain down acid and I will burn for all eternity. I am good at preventing this but I can never remember the sign for 'P.' I can't stop the flow, so I just throw out any sign for P. Most often this one:

Usually I am able to hide this shameful deed from the "normal" people but the other day I was driving home from work, rocking out to my The Best of Bob & Marcia album (my totally awesome 70's hippie reggae. "Young, Gifted, and Black" is like my personal mantra.) when my favorite song came on, "Pied Piper." So I am sitting at a red light innocently hand jamming away. Unfortunately for me there are a lot of 'P's' in that song. The guy facing me apparently thought I was having some angry Tourette-like episode and started honking his horn at me over and over again. Well I can't stop while I'm in a hand jamming groove so I just kept on throwing out those P's like I was some 90's west-side gansta rapper.

The light turned green and I drove off. I stopped a few miles up the road at a gas station and went inside to get some cream soda. When I came out the guy from the light was parked next to my car waiting for me! I was totally freaked and walked quickly to my car. I held my cream soda bottle by the neck, ready to smash it and slash the fucker with my rudimentary shiv in case he wanted a Piece of Me.

The guy looked at me and said "do we have some kind of problem?" I got so nervous that my soda slipped and smashed on the ground. Awesome, there went my shiv. I had no other choice but to be honest with the guy. I was very reluctant to do this because everyone knows that the OCD penalty for revealing my ritual is that I lose five minutes off of my life for every person I tell unless I spin around three times after telling them.

"Oh that is just this thing I do, kind of like a dance? I spell out the first letter of every song with my hands.... but I don't know the sign for P..... and see... I can't mess up my rhythm for fear of the acid...." and then I spun around three times.

I think he understood because he immediately broke eye contact and got back in his car. I finished spinning and got back into my car, figuring screw the cream soda. My Ipod shuffled to the next song, "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps" by Cake and I was on my way. I love that song.