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.

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."

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.

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.

Lesson learned? Don't die in Target without the proper undergarments

I used to work at Target. One day a lady was shopping there and she just toppled over and died. They called over our walkie talkies for anyone with CPR experience to meet them over in the toy department where she collapsed. That is something they don't talk to you about when giving CPR training, the fact that you will most likely be giving CPR to some yucky old dead person and not some young, perfectly normal smelling alive person. No way was I going near that lady's mouth.

I already was working a plan in my head if no one volunteered and then they somehow figured out that I was CPR certified. I planned to tell them that that woman looked just like my grandma's sister and I was too shocked and grief ridden to remember that I knew CPR. I figured it would be safer to say my grandmother's sister and not my actual grandmother because they could probably research that shit and find out what my grandmother looked like. I didn't think their research would go deep enough to reveal that my grandmother was an identical twin because usually people who do research like this are lazy and will only go with whatever the first Google result is. The fact that my grandmother is a twin would have to be at least 2-3 links down on the page so I figured I was safe. I probably could have said that she looked like my friend's grandmother or something because no way would they have time to search for all of their grandmas online too, but I was too freaked out by the dead lady, and the fact that I might have to touch her to think too thoroughly about the subject.

It turned out that lots of people in our store knew CPR, or were at least pretending they did so they could get a closer look at the lady so I was safe. Some red-haired kid gave her CPR but it was too late. The paramedics put her on a stretcher and started wheeling her through the store towards the exit. Well I don't know what kind of CPR that red-haired kid was taught but the lady's shirt was open and her old dead boob was totally hanging out.

It was traumatizing on so many levels. One had to deal with the evidence of their own eventual demise while at the same time trying to forget the image of what their boobs would look like someday. It wasn't pretty.

Anyway, the other day I was wandering through the Target toy aisles looking for a gift for our niece when I ran across something that made me wonder what that old lady saw that day that could have pushed her over the edge. This:






At first glance it might appear innocent. Just some cute dollhouse furniture for your little one to play with. A sweet young child and her loyal pup playing in the bathroom. You might take a second look though and notice this:




That sweet pup is clearly rubbing his junk. And if that wasn't bad enough, look at what he is looking at while rubbing it.




The toddler in the bathtub! I always suspected Target was into some sick shit, I just never knew how deep.

Who would buy this crap for their child? I don't know but I bought it for myself. $15.99 and worth every hilarious, sick penny. I was so proud of my purchase that I brought it into work to show my coworkers how funny it was. They were like "yeah... that's funny. A dog in the bathroom." And I said "is that all you see? Didn't you notice that the dog is pleasuring itself?" They didn't see it and instead gave each other looks like I was the perverted one. I yelled "I'm not making this up! One time this old lady just dropped dead and had to be pushed through Target with her old, wrinkled, dead boob hanging out and she totally could have been looking at this toy to buy for her sick grandkid and it scared her literally to death! How do you think she felt?!?"

They haven't talked to me since then but I think that is because they feel bad about the old lady and they realize they were being insensitive.