Archives For Humor

Because I’m twisted

Madame Weebles —  November 13, 2013 — 161 Comments

I know, I know, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted. You know why? Because I didn’t feel like it. I felt like watching television and playing Candy Crush. Often at the same time. But one can ignore the siren call of the Blogging Gods and Goddesses only for so long. I mean that literally; a few of them sing off key so it really is quite difficult to ignore them.

(As an aside, you people are seriously way too prolific with the posts. I’m not even just talking about those of you doing NaNoWriMo/NaBloPoMo/Nano Poblano/Whatever. I’m talking about ALL OF YOU. Every day there there are roughly two million new posts. It’s ridiculous. Sure, I have insomnia, but even if I were to spend every waking hour reading posts, I still wouldn’t be able keep up. So cut it out. I mean it.)

With all the time I’ve been spending playing Candy Crush, my brain has been free to wander aimlessly and recklessly, coming up with ideas that make me think, “Yeah, that’s a little twisted.”

For instance:

  • I think it would be fun to have a phone conversation meant to be overheard by as many people as possible. Maybe a conversation where my half sounds something like this: “Mmm hmm…right. What? What do you mean? Where is it? Well how big is it? Eww, really? Hmm… Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah. What happens if you poke it? Go ahead, try it. What? Are you okay? Hello? Hello?? HELLO?!?” And then I’d hang up looking all concerned and worried.
  • Or I could go into a Home Depot at 3am and buy a shovel, trash bags, a saw, and some lime. Just to see if the cashier notices anything odd about that combination of items.
  • If I had a car, maybe I could rig up something to put in the trunk to bang against the lid so that it sounds like someone trying to get out. Except I’m afraid I’d get arrested by cops with no sense of humor.
  • Or maybe I could go into a supermarket and buy a dozen cans of cat food and a box of Triscuits or Wheat Thins. And while the cashier is ringing up my purchases, I could pretend to talk to someone on the phone: “No, I’m just picking up a few snacks, I’m having company tonight.” You know, to see who hears me and gets alarmed and grossed out. There was this one time when I really did unnerve someone at the supermarket along these lines. I was at the register with my usual zillion cans of cat food along with my other items, and the guy behind me said, “Wow, how many cats do you have??” I said, “I don’t have any cats.” I don’t know how I managed to keep a straight face, but I wish I could have taken a photo of his reaction.

Actually, now that I’ve written these out, they don’t seem that twisted. I’m not sure if that means they really aren’t that bad, or if my ability to detect twisted things is completely out of whack.

You be the judge. And by all means share your own twisted ideas.

“You aren’t in your body.”

For years I heard this from therapists and healers. You aren’t in your body. What the hell does that mean?? What kind of hippy-dippy crap is this? Of course I’m in my body. I’m sitting here. You can see me. It’s not like I’m floating around in the ether. If I’m not dead, then I’m in my body. So why don’t you shut the fuck up, go eat your bean sprouts, play with your crystals, and leave me alone.

Go away.

Go away.

It took me ages to wrap my head around what “being in your body” actually means. It means being present in my body, using it mindfully to experience the world. The body isn’t a vessel that contains the real “me”—it’s part of the real “me.” I had wrongly dismissed it as nothing but a shell, an unwieldy blob I had to lurch around in.

See, I got tripped up by the difference between the body and its appearance. Its appearance has no bearing on my personality, intelligence, sense of humor, kindness, or anything else, but my body itself is part of what makes up ME. It might not look the way I want, it might make weird crunchy noises when I stand up, it might hurt from time to time. But it’s not a separate entity, and I should value it and take care of it. Because as we all know, it sucks when the body breaks down. As Count Rugen so wisely observed, “If you haven’t got your health, then you haven’t got anything.”

Bodies allow us to enjoy the sensual pleasures of this world, like food, sex, twerking, and this thing. So many wonderful things to experience. You can pet soft, furry animals, relish cool breezes on a hot day, feel sand squishing between your toes, see cheery, colorful flowers. But as with anything, there are pros and cons.

Pros

  • Opposable Thumbs. This could also be a con, because there are people who are so stupid they don’t deserve opposable thumbs. It gives them an unfair advantage over other, more intelligent life forms, like barnacles and algae.
  • Chocolate Pudding. I know I already mentioned food as one of the earthly delights, but chocolate pudding deserves its own category. That smooth, sweet, silky, creamy deliciousness. We couldn’t enjoy that without our bodies.
  • Ice Cream. See “Chocolate Pudding” above.
  • Crucial Communication Skills. Our bodies allow us to curse out people who annoy us. Or, if our mouths are full because we’re eating pudding or ice cream, we can flip them the bird. With both hands if necessary.

Cons

  • The Human Spine. If there was ever an argument against the existence of Intelligent Design, this is it. Otherwise some sort of update would surely have been pushed through already. Homo sapiens has walked the earth for a few hundred thousand years now, and we’re still only on Spine v1.0?
  • Bad Hair Days. I may not know my life’s purpose, but I do know that I was not put on earth to look like a Chia pet.
  • The Bra. BraNot the most comfortable item in the world. Also not the quietest. My bras creak like the hold of an old whaling ship. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t in need of so much structural support, but as it is, my undergarment situation is less than ideal.

I’d say the pros outweigh the cons, but ask me again when it’s humid, my back hurts, and my brassiere needs a shot of WD-40.

In the meantime, take your bodies out for some pudding and savor every spoonful.

The latest news in the House of Weebles is that I got a tattoo this past weekend. Many of you knew about this already because I haven’t been able to stop yattering about it.

For years I’ve wanted a tattoo but I couldn’t think of anything that was meaningful enough. Until the ideal subject occurred to me and it all fell into place.

So behold, my first ink, in honor of the one and only Pickles:

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Doesn’t she look annoyed?? It was her default look—her resting bitch face. Those ribbons are there because even though Pickles didn’t like the things most cats typically like, she loved those ribbons that you curl with scissors. They were like kryptonite to her, she couldn’t resist.

I can’t tell you how much I freaking love this tattoo.

And it was a great experience except that after a while, it hurt like a motherfucker. It’s on my right shoulder, about 4-5 inches in diameter (that’s 10-12 cm for my metric friends), and took about 2 hours. I was mostly okay for the first hour but during the final half hour, if I had any secrets, I would have sung like a canary. I was kind of disappointed in myself; ordinarily I have a pretty high tolerance for pain so I thought I would fare better.

I’ve been trying to figure out how much getting this tattoo hurt in the context of other painful things I’ve known. I don’t have kids so I can’t use childbirth, the mother of all painful experiences, as a comparator, but I’ve known other flavors of pain. You may have seen this pain scale:

Pain scale

I posit that this scale is not sufficient. I propose this slight modification:

Improved pain scaleAnd now, here’s the list of my Most Exquisite Pains, in no particular order:

  • Severe sciatica. During the worst sciatic pain I ever had, it felt like jagged little shards of glass scraping along my nerves. I’m not a fan of this particular sensation. I give it a 5. Maybe a 5.5.
  • Having a head wound stapled shut. As if the pain of the stapling wasn’t enough, I could also hear the staples pushing into my scalp. An audio track does nothing to make this shit any better, trust me. This one is a 6.
  • Slamming my thumb in a car door. This happened to me more than 35 years ago but I still vividly remember how it felt. It sucked. A lot. I give this a 6, plus another 6 for the excruciating nail drainage that followed.
  • Stubbing my toe. I do this often because I usually walk around the house barefoot. The pain is relatively brief but always at least a 5. If there’s ever a competition for hopping on one foot while stringing expletives together, I’ll be a gold medal contender.
  • Leg waxing (yeah, including bikini line). The only time this really hurts is when the weather is humid. In which case I have to white-knuckle my way through. Beauty is pain, people. It’s no joke. But maybe only a 4 at worst.
  • Upper lip threading (which hurts WAY more than lip waxing, by the way). A friend of mine recommended this hair-removal method and she said it didn’t really hurt. She’s a fucking liar. I cried like a little bitch. I give this experience a 4.5 on the pain scale. And a 10 on the embarrassment scale.
  • Various medical interventions. Some hurt more than others, but the worst of them was a 5 or 6. And if you ask me, patients should be offered general anesthesia for all procedures, even for things as minor as stitch removal, mammograms, injections, etc. Yeah, yeah, I know about the risks involved with anesthesia, but you know what? I don’t give a fuck.

So on my pain scale, the tattoo was a 5. But on the scale of happy I’m at about a 12, so it was totally worth it.

You may recall my very enlightening chat with Abraham Lincoln from a few months ago.

Last week I communed with the spirit world once again in hopes of interviewing another famous dead soul. The first one to make himself known was a lovely, warm being, but not the best interview subject. I’m so sorry, Monsieur Marceau. Perhaps another time.

After bidding him adieu, I sat in silence for several minutes. Then I heard something rattle across the floor. It was the pit from a peach I had eaten earlier.

Message from beyond, or cat toy?

Message from beyond, or cat toy?

A strong breeze passed through the room even though the windows were closed. The cord from the blinds began to sway, back and forth. Back and forth. Like a…pendulum.

Waaaaaaaaaaitaminute. Pit and pendulum??

“Mr. Poe!!”

“Blast, you startled me. Now I’ve spilled my wine.”

“Sorry, I’m just so excited, it’s not every day the Master of the Macabre drops by, you know. Here, I’ll pour more wine for us.” I opened a nice cabernet—I thought he would enjoy that (don’t ask for the details on how ghosts drink, it’s very complicated and somewhat messy). We toasted and settled in for a nice chat.

MW: So how have you been? What have you been doing lately?
EAP: For the past year or so I’ve spent much of my time haunting the creators of The Raven in hopes of driving them mad. I think that would be quite fitting. Did you see that movie? It was an abomination.
MW: Yeah. It sucked mightily. I’m sorry, Mr. Poe, you deserved much, much better.
EAP: I agree. And please, call me Edgar. This wine is quite nice, by the way.
MW: Would you care for some more? I’ll top off our glasses. I’m so glad to have this time with you—you died too young. By the way, speaking of people who died too soon, Abraham Lincoln visited me too. Have you met him?
EAP: Oh yes, Abe and I drink together regularly. He’s the best wingman. That “Honest Abe” shtick of his works every time. Me, I just work the “tortured writer” angle. Chicks love that stuff.
MW: So you’re both basically players. Nice.
EAP: Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.
MW: Whatever you say, Edgar.
EAP: You know, it’s too bad I’m not alive now, I’d be a fantastic movie or TV writer.
MW: Yes you would. Do you have any favorite TV shows?
EAP: Twilight Zone was genius, of course. Which reminds me, I’m having brunch with Rod Serling next week. I loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The American Horror Story series is excellent too. I also enjoyed WKRP in Cincinnati.
MW: Excuse me?
EAP: Loni Anderson. She was a hot number.
MW: I wouldn’t have expected you of all people to like a sitcom.
EAP: Did you hear me? Loni Anderson. We need more wine, by the way, this bottle is empty.
MW: I’ll get another. So tell me, which movie version of your stories did you like best?
EAP: I liked Pit and the Pendulum with Vincent Price. But I was disappointed that Roger Corman didn’t take more liberties with the stories to give the women skimpier costumes. Vincent is in my regular poker game—he has an amazing poker face. Then there’s Hazel Court, who was in a few other Corman versions. What a great rack. I keep inviting her for a little afternoon delight, with—
MW: Yeah. I don’t want to hear details. Now—
EAP: Have you ever tried absinthe?
MW: Once or twice, yeah.
EAP: I happen to have a bottle with me. Be a lamb and pour us some. Better yet, let’s just drink from the bottle.
MW: We’ve already had a lot of wine, you know.
EAP: Exactly. Now it’s time for some real alcohol (takes a few swigs and drains half the bottle). Here, have a few belts. Now where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about my torrid affair with Mata Hari. She might have been a spy but I discovered exactly which button to push to get her to reveal her secrets, if you know what I mean…
MW: Eww. No. You weren’t telling me about that.
EAP: No? Oh yes, you’re quite right. It was about my delicious weekend of debauchery with a buxom peasant girl from medieval France. I bent her ov—
MW: No. It wasn’t.
EAP: …that was right before I met some of Nefertiti’s beautiful Nubian handmaidens. Those maidens know how to use their hands all right. And don’t you just love that word, Nuuuuuuuubian. Come on, say it with me.
MW: I don’t want to.
EAP: And then there was the time I met up with some of the Vestal virgins from Rome. Virgin in name only, by the way. They were wild.
MW: I really don’t—
EAP: But nowhere near as wild as Mary Queen of Scots and Queen Mary. I had a threesome with them many years ago. Those Catholic girls really know how to get their freak on. You’re Catholic, right?
MW: Edgar! Give me that absinthe. You’re skeeving me out.
EAP: What a delightful word. Skeeeeeeve.
MW: This conversation makes me want to bathe.
EAP: Excellent idea! Would you like me to scrub your—
MW: Goodnight, Edgar.
EAP: You’ll invite me back soon. You’ll see.

Absinthe

On behalf of Edgar, Madame Weebles would like to apologize to Poe fans, Roger Corman fans, Hazel Court, Catholics, Nefertiti, Nubians, medieval French peasants, Vesta and her virgins, Mata Hari, Mary Queen of Scots, Mary Tudor, and women in general. It was the absinthe talking.

Here’s my problem. It’s about the Hershey bar.

Hershey bar

It’s about this.

Like most other red-blooded Americans, I grew up loving Hershey’s chocolate. Regular Hershey bars, Hershey’s with almonds, Hershey miniatures, Hershey kisses, etc. I wasn’t proud, I’d take any variety that crossed my path.

I was indoctrinated at a young age. As a little kid I visited Hershey, Pennsylvania, and toured the factory. I knew S’mores weren’t complete without a few squares of Hershey’s chocolate. And I saw the commercials proclaiming Hershey’s “the Great American Chocolate Bar.” Mr. Hershey put a lot of effort into creating a delicious, affordable milk chocolate bar for us. He was a true American hero.

Original Hershey bar

Giving America cavities since 1900.

So back to my problem.

After more than 20 years of devotion to Mr. Hershey and his fine products, I went to live in London—a Hershey-free zone. I had to go without my favorite chocolate bars. But you know what they say: if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with. So I hooked up with Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate.

My British friend with benefits.

My British friend with benefits.

My relationship with Mr. Cadbury’s confections felt perfunctory. Mechanical. Our encounters were zipless fucks.

One day I received a package from a friend at home who took pity on me and my Hershey-less existence. He sent me a big box of Hershey bars and Oreos (another delicacy not found in the UK). I was in heaven. And I wanted to share my bounty with my flatmates. One was from Malaysia and the other was from Greece. Neither of them had first-hand knowledge of the joy of the Hershey bar, although they had certainly heard about them. It was my responsibility as a good American to show them some confectionery examples of our global superiority. We went into the kitchen to enjoy the contents of my care package. There was a Dairy Milk bar sitting on the table so we added that to our feast.

It would be the first time I ever tasted the two chocolates side by side. I ate a piece of Cadbury’s first and then reached for a Hershey bar, fully prepared to bask in smug contentedness.

In stark contrast to the Cadbury chocolate, the Hershey bar tasted like what I imagine passed for chocolate in the former Soviet Union. It wasn’t creamy, and it tasted sort of sour and “off” compared to the smooth sweet flavor of Cadbury. How had I not noticed this before?

I was horrified. Was America’s favorite chocolate bar nothing but a poser? I glanced at my companions, hoping they hadn’t noticed my confusion and despair. But they had. They looked at me with the sort of wincing pity usually reserved for someone who just got an awful haircut and wants to be reassured that it doesn’t look that bad.

I felt duped. I had spent my whole life in the North Korea of chocolate, unaware that a vast, glorious world of better chocolate was out there. I had drunk the chocolate Kool-Aid. The Chocolate Emperor Had No Clothes.

But I knew I couldn’t swear off Hershey’s completely. Eventually I’d go back home and it would be everywhere. The honeymoon period was officially over but that didn’t mean we couldn’t still be together. Instead of looking at Hershey bars with blind adoration, I’d treat them as longtime foil-wrapped little spouses. And you don’t leave foil-wrapped little spouses just because they aren’t perfect.

Don’t get me wrong, I still keep Cadbury around. I’m only human, for crying out loud.

Alone in the dark

Madame Weebles —  August 5, 2013 — 158 Comments

Over the past few weeks I experienced a particularly nasty bout of insomnia (which, fortunately, has resolved). It happens to me from time to time, for no particular reason. When it happens, I have plenty of extra time to think about all kinds of stuff. You may have seen this New Yorker cartoon:

Insomnia Jeopardy

I have played many, many games of Insomnia Jeopardy, and I’ve added a few more categories:

  • Every regret I’ve ever had
  • How much better my life would be if only X, Y, and Z
  • Why X, Y, and Z haven’t happened yet
  • All the things I meant to do that day but didn’t get around to
  • How will I die?
  • Is there anything in the house to eat that doesn’t involve preparation?

I used to get insomnia as a kid too. Even in those days I worried about a lot of things, including but not limited to:

  • Fire
  • Volcanoes
  • Spontaneous human combustion (actually, I still worry about this)
  • Sharks
  • Monsters
  • UFOs
  • Jack the Ripper

(Bear in mind that I watched a lot of In Search Of… with Leonard Nimoy.)

I’ve always had an odd relationship with the dark. I’m a night owl. I’m not afraid of the dark and I actually like it. Except if I can’t sleep, and especially if I’m the only one awake. Then I hate it. HATE IT.

When I was little, I’d lie there in the dark, afraid that I was the only person awake in the entire neighborhood. That terrified me. So I’d look out the window at the buildings across the street. If I saw a light on, or if I saw someone’s television flickering through the curtains, I felt much better. I felt less alone. If nobody’s lights were on, I’d panic. WHAT IF I’M THE ONLY ONE AWAKE??? I guess it never occurred to me that if something horrible happened, I could (and should) wake up my parents. Instead, I periodically peeked through the blinds to see if anyone had turned on a light. I’m happy to report that not once did I spontaneously combust. And nothing else horrible happened—not on my watch. No volcanic activity, UFO landings, shark attacks, monster sightings, 67-alarm fires, or murders by Jack the Ripper. I might have been only a little girl but dammit, I was vigilant.

I don’t really know why I still dread being the only one awake. I’m not afraid to be alone in general. There’s just something about being up while everyone else is sleeping that really unsettles me. During this latest bout of insomnia, I sat on the balcony every night and conducted a visual sweep of my surroundings, looking for signs of life, longing for the quiet companionship of fellow nocturnals. As usual, if I saw a light in a window or someone walking down the street, I was enormously relieved. Solidarity, friend. I’m here too. One night there were no lights on. No cars, no pedestrians, nothing. It was about 4am. That familiar panic bubbled up. Then I remembered the 24-hour deli and the hospital two blocks away. See, it’s okay. There’s always someone awake nearby.

And then I went back to bed and hoped I wouldn’t spontaneously combust.

For last year’s 4th of July, I wrote Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address as it might have been done by Dr. Seuss. This year, I’ve created a new poem à la Seuss—the Declaration of Independence, modeled on that great American classic, Green Eggs and Ham:

We don’t like you, no sirree
We do not like your tyranny

From Schoolhouse Rock, another American classic

Colonists are people too
We want our rights, you bet we do

To life and liberty, gracious, yes!
Pursuit of basic happiness!

And so we have to break our bond
With all our friends across the pond

Could we, should we, tell you why?
Before we say our last goodbye?

You taxed our tea, you taxed our crumpets
You even taxed our ploofs and flumpets!

We do not want to quarter troops
We do not like your army groups

We’re subject to your silly laws
And thrown in jail with no real cause

Why have you ignored our plea?
We simply want to be more free!
Would you, could you, let us be?

We ask you nicely, you don’t care
It isn’t right, it isn’t fair!

So with this fancy declaration
We’re separate now, a whole new nation

We’re free now from your tyranny
See you later, King George Three!

And given my recent chat with Abe, I decided an encore performance of last year’s post was in order:

‘Twas eighty and seven years past, so they say
That our founders created the US of A

With all of us equal! The Wuggles! The Fuzzins!
And even our naughty Confederate cousins!

Now there’s a war and it’s bad and it’s sad
But a time will soon come when we’ll all be quite glad

That our nation still stands and our country’s still here
And we’ll all drink a toast with a mug of Sneetch beer

These bravest of soldiers did not die for naught
We need a do-over to do what we ought

So let’s have no more of this Civil War folly
And remember our government’s purpose, by golly

Of people! By people! For people! Yes!
Right now this country’s one heckuva mess

I want for this country a sort of rebirth
So all these nice freedoms don’t perish from Earth.

Sorry, no raindrops on roses in this joint (but plenty of whiskers on kittens, thanks to the three Weeblettes).

I was looking around my house the other day and I thought, You have a lot of really weird shit, Weebs.

It’s true, I have a lot of really weird shit. Eclectic, you might say. A lot of strange objects that I’m rather fond of. Let’s take a tour, I’ll show you around.

First, we’ll visit the infirmary to see my beloved collection of smallpox-related antiques. I’ve been obsessed with smallpox for years. In fact, my doctoral dissertation (which I didn’t finish, otherwise I’d be Doctor Weebles) was on smallpox inoculations in 18th-century America. There are many mighty diseases that have plagued humanity for centuries: tuberculosis, bubonic plague, yellow fever, etc, but I find smallpox the most compelling. As pathogens go, this one is brutal as fuck. Kill rates during epidemics ranged from 30% to 50%. In many parts of the world, children weren’t even considered official members of the family until they had contracted and survived smallpox. That’s some sick shit, yo. And smallpox is the only disease to be completely eradicated (although polio is on its way to extinction as well). It exists only in the labs now (and hopefully will not return in weaponized format, or any other format).

Clockwise from top left: 20th-century smallpox vaccine vials, 19th-century fleams, 19th-century scarificator, 19th-century ivory folding lancet, 18th-century scalpel.

In case you’re wondering how lancets, fleams, and scalpels treated smallpox, these little beauties were used to create wounds through which the smallpox matter (or cowpox matter, later on) was introduced. The scarificator is a neat little device with several small blades on the bottom to create multiple wounds at once. All of these tools were used for bloodletting as well. It was thought that many illnesses were caused by an overabundance of blood, so doctors would bleed patients to drain the “excess.” Shockingly, this charming practice hurt many more people than it helped.

Let’s move on to the Teeny Tiny Chamber of Horrors. Please note that Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy are here only for scale, not for punishment. They learned their lesson after last time.

This is my guillotine. There are others like it but this one is mine.

Raggedy Andy now knows the penalty for geting fresh with Raggedy Ann...

Raggedy Andy now knows the penalty for getting fresh with Raggedy Ann…

We’re going to make a right turn here, onto Sesame Street:

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One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Six Count von Count items! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Aside from Oscar the Grouch, The Count is my favorite Sesame Street character. What better way to honor him than to build a shrine that includes toys made in his likeness? Please take a moment for quiet reflection here if you like.

Around the corner from Sesame Street is the Museum of Wacky Old Items. These objects are late 18th century to early 19th century.

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From top to bottom: Folding knife, bullet probe, blistering iron.

The folding knife, called a “penny knife” because that’s how much it cost, is the kind carried by soldiers during the American Revolution. This one is in pretty good shape but who knows, maybe it was used by a smokin’ hot guy in the Continental Army. It titillates me to contemplate this. The bullet probe determined the depth of a bullet wound. Fat load of good it did, though; it was a lot more common to die from nasty, infected bullet wounds than to be killed outright by bullets. The blistering iron did exactly what you’d expect: you held it over a fire to get it nice and hot, then seared the skin with it to cause a blister. You know that philosophy behind bloodletting? Yeah, well, blistering was another method of relieving people of the bad “humors” that caused disease. In theory, the blister would draw all the ick (that’s the official medical term for it, by the way) from the person, and when the blister drained, presto, disease all gone. But guess what? Yup. Didn’t work. In fact, you know who died after being severely weakened by copious bloodletting and blistering? George Washington. Poor bastard was already very sick, and the “medical” treatment finished him off.

And finally, let’s visit the farm and say hello to my stuffed animals. Not the taxidermy kind, either. I know, I know, you’re thinking, “Weebs has stuffed animals???” Yes. Yes I do. Allow me to introduce you to some of my plush friends:

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Ham and Peas. Yes, those are the peas from Toy Story 3, how kind of you to notice.

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Top left to right: Whaley and Squeezy Shark. Bottom left to right: Owlie, Legs, and Narwally. What? I didn’t say I was good at naming them.

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The cuddliest breakfast ever: Toast, Coffee, and Pancakes. If only I could find a real mug of coffee this big.

Mr. Weebles is concerned about my penchant for buying giant stuffed toys because they take up a lot of space. I tell him I can stop anytime I want to. (I just don’t want to.)

And this concludes our tour for today. Thank you for joining me, I hope you’ve all enjoyed it as much as I have. Please be sure to gather all your belongings, watch your step as you disembark, and get home safely.

Before we get down to business, you no doubt have noticed the new Magnificent™ banner above…compliments of my bestie, Le Clown. How much do you love it??? Can you stand it??? Because I can barely stand it, it’s such a work of art. He also created this one:

weebles

Both of these delightful images will be in the banner rotation for all to see and enjoy. Merci, mon ami!

Also, this is a special week at The Outlier Collective. Instead of the usual 2 bloggers, we’re showcasing 7 bloggers, each sharing a unique take on feminism. Please join us!

And now, on with the show.

You know about my experiences hearing dead people. I’ve even shared my psychic predictions from time to time. So I thought, hey, why not have a sit-down with some dead people and interview them, like Barbara Walters except interesting?

I turned off the lights and lit a candle for ambience. Except I didn’t realize the candle was some sort of cloying scented thing. It made my eyes water and I almost passed out from the fumes. I blew it out. Darkness is better for communing with spirit anyway.

Soon, I felt a presence. I called out, “Who’s there?”

I heard the sound of a coin dropping on the floor and rolling to a stop. From the street lamps outside, I had enough light to see that it was a penny, heads up. Hmm.

Penny

“Mr. Lincoln?? Is that you?”

“Yes it is. I’m so glad you figured that out. Do you know how many other people just say ‘Hey look, a penny!!!!’ and then grab it and run off and forget I’m here? It’s very annoying.”

We chatted for a while about this and that. But then I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to know.

MW: So, Mr. President, I hate to bring up bad memories, and I don’t want to seem tacky, but I have to ask: what did you think of the play before you were so rudely interrupted?
AL: You know, I was really enjoying it. But Booth shot me right during the funniest line—he did that on purpose, you know. At first he said he did it so the laughter of the crowd would drown out the gunshot. But he admitted to me later that he did it just for spite so that I’d miss the best part.
MW: What an ass. Did you ever see John Wilkes Booth act? Was he any good?
AL: Eh. He was okay. I might have been more generous with my opinion about his acting ability if he hadn’t been a president-murdering son of a bitch.
MW: That’s fair. I assume when he died he didn’t go upstairs, am I right?
AL: That’s correct, he’s down below. Last I heard, he was being moved to different quarters. The Night Stalker—he just arrived down there—got dibs on being his bunkmate. You have no idea how happy that makes me.
MW: But Mr. President, in your second inaugural address, you spoke so eloquently of a time when the war was over, and welcoming the Confederates back to the country with “malice toward none.” You don’t sound like the man who wrote of such forgiveness.
AL: I know. I lied. It made for good press. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not like I’m the only president who ever lied.
MW: You have a point there. Anyway, what have you been doing since your assassination?
AL: You mean in these past seven score and eight years? Well, I recently took up yoga. And I learned Thai cooking. In fact, just the other night I gave a dinner party—the food turned out really well but the guests were a bit rambunctious. Cleopatra drank all the wine as fast as Jesus could make it. And I have to remember never to leave Queen Victoria alone with Marco Polo…they disappeared for a few hours and when they came back, the Queen’s gown was all disheveled and wrinkled and Marco high-fived everyone.
MW: Wow. I had no idea they were such party animals.
AL: Remind me to tell you about the time I had drinks with Florence Nightingale. She might have been a bit of a prig when she was alive, but now, once you get a few apple martinis in her, she lets her hair down and starts slipping the tongue to the barmaids.
MW: Is that right?? I would have thought she’d be more of a teetotaling sort.
AL: Let’s just say the “Lady With the Lamp” becomes the “Lady Wearing the Lampshade” pretty quickly when alcohol is involved.
MW: You’re starting to fade, Mr. Lincoln. Is there anything else you want to say before you leave?
AL: There is, as a matter of fact. Why is everyone so fascinated by Kim Kardashian? Am I missing something? She has a great behind—I don’t think she’d even need a bustle to fill out her dress. But other than that, she seems as useless as George McClellan.
MW: A lot has changed since you were here, sir.
AL: Not really. Next time I’ll tell you about the time Edwin Stanton and I put on some of Mrs. Lincoln’s dresses and paraded in front of the Capitol Building. We acquired the calling cards of quite a few senators and congressmen.

Stay tuned for my next chat with the spirit world…who knows who will come through next??

Friday greetings and salutations to all!  (Except you. Yeah, you. No, don’t look behind you, you’re the one I’m pointing at.)

Here’s the first thing on my mind today: the expression, “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” Maybe I’m just a mean, vengeful bitch, but there’s nothing so bad that I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. In fact, the badder, the better. Being thrown into a volcano? Yes, I would wish that on them. Getting ripped to shreds by a pack of rabid wolves? You betcha. Being flayed and then boiled in oil? Hellz yeah. What if they were chained down, forced to watch an endless loop of Justin Bieber concert footage and given an electric shock each time they tried to close their eyes? I’m cackling gleefully just thinking about it. How about if they had to drink a poison that would kill them slowly and painfully while a throng of teenage girls stood by and viciously mocked them? Get out the popcorn because I’m watching that show.

There’s nothing too bad for my worst enemy, believe me. Even if my worst enemy were subjected to the most nasty, evil, twisted psychological and physical torment that could possibly be dished out, it STILL wouldn’t be bad enough.

This might be too good for my worst enemy.

This might be too good for my worst enemy.

I mean, I’m not talking about my frenemy, my sorta enemy, or my I-don’t-quite-hate-them-enough-to-wish-them-dead enemy. I’m talking about MY WORST ENEMY. If someone has done something vile enough to become my worst enemy, why wouldn’t I wish utter horror on them? Is it just me? It’s just me, isn’t it.

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I have some seriously good ideas for retail stores. Check it out:

  • In Philadelphia, I’d open a bookstore called Written House. (If you know Philly, you know why this is awesome. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the City of Brotherly Love, here.)
  • In Quantico, VA, I’d open a sandwich shop across the street from the FBI headquarters and I’d call it Unsub.
  • In Germany, I’d open a chain of restaurants in all the airports, and I’d call it Luftwaffle.

I can hear you all groaning from here, by the way.

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I frequently have dreams in which I’m still in school and I find out that my final exam is that morning and I haven’t been to class all semester. I know a lot of people who have similar dreams. It seems to me that this kind of anxiety dream must be a fairly modern phenomenon, because up until the 20th century a lot of people didn’t even finish high school.

So what anxiety dreams did people have in previous centuries? Maybe they weren’t school related. Did they wake up in a cold sweat thinking, “OHMYGODIFORGOTTOFEEDTHECHICKENS”? Did they dream that it was almost dark and they didn’t have any candles? Maybe they had more dire dreams, about contracting plague or smallpox? What kinds of stuff would have freaked them out? I wonder about things like this.

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Is there anyone on earth more punchable than John Mayer? Actually, never mind, I just answered my own question. Bieber. I can’t say he’s more punchable, but he’s certainly as punchable.

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Tomorrow is National Lobster Day here in the US. I’m going to celebrate the day by having a lobster for dinner. He’s a finicky eater, though, so I hope he likes what I’m serving.