Showing posts with label all in good fun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label all in good fun. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Why some things will never change

One of the (few) things I like about returning to my childhood bedroom is how everything has remained very much the same. From the pale turquoise walls to the decayed and crumbling remains of Prom corsages and yellowing newspaper clippings pinned to the bulletin board, not a lot has changed in the last ten years. Other than the occasional box of mystery clothes or stack of discarded magazines left by certain family members who seem to think my room is the closest and most convenient branch of the local Goodwill, things pretty much tend to stay where I left them.

It's fun to read the magnetic poetry that's been on my closet door for the last five years at least, composed during that 10 minute window when magnetic poetry was still a socially acceptable form of expression.

I think my friend Pat wrote this one, and, wow, considering how long it's been since I've seen or heard from him, that was a long time ago:

These are mine:

But wait, what is this...? I don't remember writing this one. What the...

MO-THER! Becca's been in my ROOM AGAIN!!!!

Sigh. Like I said, some things never change.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Why I should have been a marketing major

During the ten hours or so in the truck between Boston and Maryland yesterday, I noticed there was something strange about this air freshener tree.
Black Ice? Really, this is the name they came up with? Mmmm...smells like crisp winter mornings, the first snow of the season and ohmygodlookout!!!!!!!!

You know, I wish I had been present at the meeting were someone thought naming the new auto air freshener scent "Black Ice" was a good idea. Because I have a few suggestions of my own to propose:

Smells like panic and summer rain.

Smells like pine forests, musk, and melted rubber tire tracks on peaceful country roads.

These would be sold separately from my Puppies 'N' Rainbows Value Pak.

Yeah, I spent ten hours in a moving truck yesterday, this is the best you're getting from me. Happy holiday, all.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Why you will know me at least 50% better after this post

Well, I'm not sure what I've done to deserve this honor, but after nearly a year in the blogging world, I've received my very first "tag." At first I was a bit hesitant, because, a meme? Are you sure? And, if we're of the same generation, I don't know if you remember back in junior high (or middle school, if you prefer), when it was cool to only wear your backpack on one shoulder, and social death came to those who wore it on both shoulders, and then all of a sudden it became cool to wear your backpack on both shoulders, and it was a very confusing time for all involved. This is how I feel about memes. Is it like wearing a backpack on one shoulder? Or on both shoulders? I'm not sure and frankly I'd rather avoid the question altogether. However, not knowing the etiquette that goes along with being tagged, I would hate to offend anyone, so here I am, embracing the meme. You should embrace the meme too. It turns out it's actually fun, much like the discovery that the wearing of backpacks on both shoulders is not only cool, but also drastically reduces the number of scoliosis cases each year, not that I would know, and not that my left shoulder is noticeably higher than my right shoulder, or anything. But there you go, something you didn't know about me before, and it's a freebie. And now, let the meme begin!

What was I doing ten years ago?
Ten years ago I was enjoying the last few weeks of my senior year of high school, and becoming increasingly sentimental and nostalgic (as I am wont to do) with each passing day. I was looking forward to going away to college, and blissfully ignorant of the fact that I was mere months away from being smacked upside the head by the calloused and ring-bedecked hand of "the real world."

Five things on my to-do list today:
-8 a.m. phone interview, on my day off, and in French, for a summer job that sounds totally awesome, and no, I'm not nervous at all, why do you ask?
-2 p.m. coffee date with Hugh, which I really, honestly do not want to go on and am sort of dreading, but feel obligated since I've already cancelled on him once.
-Write three pages of Roland paper.
-Then write another.
-And then one more. Voilà, that's five pages! And only thirteen million more to go.

Five snacks I enjoy:
My shopping list generally starts out with important things, like:
-cookies
-ice cream
-beer
and ends with:
-bananas
-grapes
(All part of a healthy, well-balanced diet).

Five bad habits:
-Continuing to experiment with caffeine once every few months, thinking, "maybe this time it will be different," when really, I should know better by now.
-Talking about how I'm a delicate flower who can't handle caffeine, when hello, nobody cares.
-Cracking my back. It always feels better in the short-run, but in the long-run, I think it just makes it worse.
-I say "ok" a lot when I'm teaching my French class, a fact that I had to have pointed out to me, because I didn't even know I was doing it. Like, I end almost every sentence with, "ok?" Which, I don't know if you've noticed, is not even a French word.
-Does blogging count?

Five places I have lived:
-(Suburban town), Maryland. (Umm, I'll be moving back there soon, and given that my hometown is substantially smaller and less anonymous than Cambridge, I'm thinking that perhaps I shouldn't give the stalkers any fodder. Hello, stalkers? You hear me? Helllloooooo???)
-Historic St. Mary's City, MD (site of the fourth permanent settlement in British North America, Maryland's first capital, and remote, desolate hellhole)
-Westminster, MD (home to a small, private, liberal arts college, the Carroll County farm museum, and the heroin capital of the country!)
-Grenoble, France (Jan-May 2001 and Sept-April 2002-03)
-Cambridge, MA (Sept 2003-present)

Five jobs I have had:
-Baby-sitter extraordinaire from age 12 to 18
-Library page (I love how this title makes me sound like an attendant in the king's court, when really, all I did was put books back on the shelves)
-Bean girl at Smokey Glen Farm. My main function was to stand in front of a massive iron cauldron of beans and suffer rejection for three to seven hours straight. Because let me fill you in on a little secret of the company picnic industry: no one wants beans. Perhaps it's the catchy song, but somewhere along the way we've all had it ingrained in our collective unconscious that we should avoid beans at all costs. After all, no one wants to be that guy (or that girl, but let's be honest here) that ate beans at their company picnic and then tooted all over their coworkers. Man, I hated that job.
-Bank teller in a Wal-Mart. Ok, so I worked in a Wal-Mart, but I never worked for Wal-Mart, ok? It just happened to be a bank inside a Wal-Mart and...ok, I thought I was over it but apparently I'm not. Let's move on.
-A brief stint as an employee at the Pet Palace in the mall, where they kept puppies and kitties in cages, and I'm haunted just thinking about it. Apparently this trip down employment memory lane has degenerated into an exercise in shame. In my life I've worked in a Wal-Mart and in a store propagating puppy mills? I must be the devil! But I'm better now, I swear. I don't have a car and I bring my own bags to the grocery store! I'm a concerned global citizen. Really!

And I'm up to five already, and I'm just getting started. I guess I'll have to wait until I get tagged again to tell you about my fascinating forays into such lucrative enterprises as pool cashier, interlibrary loan substitute, girl paper boy, English teacher in France, French teacher in the U.S., waitress, and bookkeeper.

Well, I hope you have found this as entertaining and informative as I have. I, for one, have learned that, man, have I had some really shitty jobs in my life. Let this be a lesson to you: if anyone offers to pay you $6.25 an hour and tells you all you have to do is stand outside in the hot sun next to an open flame for seven hours/drag this 50-pound cauldron over to the next picnic site/count out four dozen live crickets and put them in this plastic bag/feed the snake/remove that piece of trash someone dropped in the tank, but be careful, it bites...JUST SAY NO. And remember, no matter where you work, it could always be worse. You could work in a bank branch in Wal-Mart. (No offense to bank tellers and/or Wal-Mart employees. I love you all!)

And now, for the business of "tagging." I don't even know that many bloggers, so let's just say, do it if you want to. And then leave a comment here to say that you did it, so we can all join in the fun. Oh, except for Tal, you're tagged for sure. And Jamie, you too. Have fun, everyone! Ok?

Friday, April 4, 2008

Why I swear, it wasn't rigged

The votes are in, and at final count we have 15 for, and only one dissenter, with whom I am inclined to agree, being of the doubting persuasion. But neverthless, I am a woman of my word, so James, if you're reading, just let me know where and when, and we can go about flaunting the laws of physics and the space-time continuum by having our second first date. (But will we need a De Lorean?)

And now...the moment I assume everyone has been waiting for, knuckles white, on pins and needles, edges of your seats, etc...The distribution of prizes! Or, well, prize. Exclamation point!

So, in all there were 23 comments, disregarding the fact that, well, quite a few of them were from me. And so I plugged those numbers into a random number generator, hit go, and voilà! Lucky number 16!


So! Scrolling down...

Counting, counting...

I hope it's not me...

That would be embarassing, and also a pain, cause I'd have to do it all over again...

And then what if it was me again?

Wait, here we are! And the lucky winner is...Talia!!!!!!


And ironically enough, the very comment where she mentions coveting the recipe holder. Which is why, though Talia is my best friend and all, I swear this wasn't rigged. Besides, I had already left a comment wherein I stated my support for Alan to win. Sorry, Alan! Maybe next time. Now, Talia, you're going to have to leave a comment that's the equivalent of a Price is Right contestant getting called on down, with the screaming and flailing arms, or everyone's going to be very disappointed.

Happy weekend everyone, and thanks for playing our game!

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Why filler is funner (than nothing at all)

To file under "Texts Sent to Me by My Sister, Who When Encouraged to Send More to 'Flesh Out' This Entry Clammed Up Immediately, Thanks Sis:"

Embrace ur inner librarian

My ass is bleeding. u should do thick bangs, kinda fringey.

I just saw your glamour twin

Yesterday Bobby told me i look like i have a nipple on the side of my face.

I have to poo im scared

I hope when we get old we have hobbies or gossip to talk about. Let's never let it get to gird

A lesson for us all, really. Please, people, no matter whatever is or isn't going on in your personal life, just remember that, as my sister so adeptly points out, there is never any reason to talk about your GIRD. If pressed, nipple-shaped pimples and ass blood can serve as valid topics of conversation, but for heavens sake, save the GIRD for your doctor's office. I mean, ew.

(I'm re-thinking hitting publish on this entry. I mean, I'll post it anyway, but at least know that I have my serious doubts about it. I'll write something better later, promise).

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Why I love presents

You can probably imagine how excited I was to receive this package in the mail the other day, from the most lovely Canadian bloggers I know.

See that contrast between light and shadow? That's called chiaroscuro. That's probably the only thing I remember from my freshman Intro. to Art History class. Well, that and contrapposto. I'm so glad I was finally able to showcase my knowledge of those words, ten years later. Thanks for the education Mom and Dad. It's really come in handy!

But as excited as I was about my special delivery, there was someone else who was even more excited, if that's possible.

Noodle sez, I can haz Wine Gums?

Pleez? I be very good.

Noodle will work for Wine Gums.

Pffft. Is too easy. Give Noodle more.

Noodle sez, Dooce dog got nothing on Noodle.

More! More! Give Noodle more sweet sweet Wine Gums!
Noodle sez, please to deposit ad revenue from Maynards people directly into slot in Noodle's back. Thx.

Uh-oh...I'z feeling a bit woozy. Must be fumes from all the Wine Gums going to Noodle's head. Also all the Wine Gums I'z ate when you wuzn't looking. Sucka!

Oh nos! Hold Noodle's ears back, I think I'z gonna be sick!

I thought he was being a bit overdramatic, so I told him to read the information on the back of the bag.


I may be dachshund, but I'z an ejucated dachshund.

Ne contient pas de vin? What the floof does that mean? Noodle don't speak no stinkin' French. Noodle took German in high school, the language of his illustrious ancestors.

Oh, sorry Noodle. Wrong one. Here.


What? No wine? No wine in Wine Gums??? Next thing Noodle knows you'z be telling him there's no gin in Gin Gerbread cookies. And beer nuts? Tell Noodle 'bout beer nuts!!!!

Noodle sez, tis travesty what is the false advertising that is allowed to pass in the world today. You all be hearing from Noodle's lawyers.

Now go get Noodle a bowl of rum raisin ice cream. I'z need to chill.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Why being single is great



I don't know who this girl is or where she came from, but I do know I want her to make more videos. A lot more videos.

Thanks again to Tom for passing this along.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Why writing fiction is harder than it looks

I was going through some old notebooks the other day when I came across this story fragment. I was living in France when I wrote it, and it kind of all came to me at once as I was laying in bed, not sleeping one night. This is my attempt at a short story. I hope you like it.

The Story of My Life

I was born in the circus at the age of three. Some people think they live with a bunch of clowns, but I really do. Sunshine, Moonbeam, Jim Bean, Billie Jean, Knockwurst, Slug and Ringo; these were my earliest friends, teachers, and confidantes. It was the clowns who raised me, taught me right from wrong, and how to twist a balloon into a giraffe. When I was bad I took a water-filled flower to the eye. Sometimes as a joke they would fill it with lemon juice instead. They saved the pie in the face for when I was really bad, like the time I forgot to feed the lion and then let him out during the clowns' act as a joke. I was wearing whipped cream all over my face after that one.

Some people may think that there are happy clowns and sad clowns. The truth is, at the end of the day they're all sad clowns. After a full day of degrading themselves for people who only want to see a man swallow fire or put his head in a lion's mouth, then they have to come back and endure the constant taunting of the other circus folk. "Hey clowns, why don't you get some pants that fit!" the tightrope walker jeers, prancing by in his tights. "Hey Bozo, what's that on your nose? I can pop that for you!" the trapeze artist sneers. This is especially painful, since to a clown using the name Bozo as a slur is like taking the Lord's name in vain. It's sacrilege. I try to tell them to stand up for themselves, to fight back, but they never do. They just drip big, greasy, makeup-stained tears into their Jack & Cokes. In the ladder of the circus, the clowns are on the bottom rung.

My mother is the 300-pound lady and my father is a midget. Since I was left by the stork on a rainy night in Chattanooga, I don't look like either of them. My job is to ride the elephant. I stand on its back in sequins and spangles, looking just the right amount of scared. Too scared and the audience loses respect for you; too confident and they lose interest. Around and around old Millie plods, while I shake things up by first standing on two feet, then on one. For the finale, I turn around and ride standing backwards. Ringmaster Mike wants me to work on some new material for the routine, he thinks it's getting "stale." I told him to bring it up with my union, the United Federation of Elephant Walkers. Our motto is "We will not be trampled." Unfortunately last year someone was trampled after a failed attempt at an intricate sit-and-stand move. It was at that point that we decided it would be best to keep the routines simple, and that's what I do.

When you live in the circus it's important to be flexible. Flexible about meals, sleeping quarters, and enough to put your leg behind your head. I used to practice all the time, for hours a day, standing on one leg with the other pointed gracefully up towards the sky. I did this so much that one day I couldn't get it back down! It seemed permanently stuck in its new position, and nothing I did seemed to help. I had to walk around on one leg for a while after that. My parents made the best of it and put me in the corner as a hat stand. I thought I should go to the doctor, but they said, just give it some time, and it'll come down by itself when it's good and ready. And boy, it did just that.

Eddie Shitshoes called himself a salesman. What he did was muck out the elephant's trailer and sell the dung to garden stores and nurseries, who in turn sold it to rich people for $12 a bag. I never will understand what people want with bags full of elephant shit. Sometimes I imagine Goliath-sized gardens, tomatoes big enough to kill a man, corn with kernels as big as your ear. Eddie found that his product sold better when he marketed it under the name Zippity Doo Doo than under some of the other names he had experimented with: Fantasti-Crap and I Can't Believe It's Elephant Dung!

Eddie had been trying for quite a while to stick his pitchfork in my haystack, and given my current predicament, I wasn't at all surprised when he showed up to take advantage of the situation. I heard the trailer door open. "Hello Eddie," I said without turning around. You always knew when Eddie Shitshoes entered a room. Seeing for himself the compromising position I was in, Eddie grinned with pleasure. Just as Eddie was getting a little too friendly for my taste, my leg decided to come down. And did it ever. It snapped closed like it was spring-loaded, taking poor Eddie down with it. He suffered a concussion and a rather awkward sprain. He was so scared, I don't think his pole will ever stand up under the Big Top again.

And that's where it ends. I have no idea how to finish this story, so here's where you come in, my faithful (and beautiful!) readers. Write the next sentence of the story in the comments. It could be anything. No, really, anything! Bring back one of the old characters. Create a new character! Write, "This is the worst thing you've ever written and I can't believe you're degrading yourself this way, and also, I don't get it." I don't care! No, really, I can take it. Just write something about anything and we'll call it a day. Deal?

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Why my love of acronyms may be spiralling out of control

Well, Internet, I must really like you, because I have cast aside pesky annoyances like school work and a personal life in order to bring you a new and piping hot version of everyone's favorite and (only slightly irreverent) internet search query advice column. And so, without further ado, I present to you the second edition of Just, Unequivocal, Sincere and True Answers to Life's Important Questions, aka, JUSTALIQ. Read, learn, and feel reassured that there are people out there who are even more confused than you are.

Q: Why do girl sometime lie to a guy and say i se you as a friend? (sic)

A: There are many reasons why a girl may tell you that she sees you as a friend. The first one that comes to mind being, you're her friend. But you said that she lied when she said she thought of you as her friend, which to me indicates that you are not her friend. Now why would a girl tell you that she sees you as her friend when she does not in fact see you as her friend? Would you excuse me while I lie down for a minute? My head is whirling.

Ok, I'm back. Now I think I understand what you're getting at here. You think she sees you as more than a friend, am I right? You think that in fact she pines after you, doodling your name in marbled composition books, lingering after class hoping to catch a glimpse of you in the hallway, pretending to drop her pen just to catch a whiff of your sleeve on the way down to get it, or at least, since you've never actually received any information to confirm it, that's what you very sincerely hope. So why, then, would she tell you that she just wants to be friends with you, when you have such ardent dreams of kissing with tongues, and maybe, after a few months or maybe a year, some incidental boob contact? Well, as you may have guessed, the only logical answer is she's playing hard to get. You're going to have to try harder. Leave notes in her locker, every day, and if that doesn't work, every hour. Walk slowly back and forth on the street in front of her house, waiting to see if you can catch a glimpse of her. Sneak into her bedroom while she's out and write I love you in lipstick on her mirror. Trust me, girls love this stuff. When she threatens to call the police, that is a test. Don't fall for it. Do you think she dates guys who give up that easily? Do you think she likes quitters? Restraining orders cannot break the bonds of true love, my friend. Follow these simple tips, and with any luck, no girl will ever dare call you her friend again.


Q: Why is it easier to find a dating partner when you already have one?

A: While some people call this The Universe, Needing Amusement, Has A Hilarious And Fairly Ironic Sense of Humor phenomenon (otherwise known as the TUNA(HAHA)FISH phenomenon), it is in fact a result of simple psychology. For instance, have you ever witnessed someone eating French fries, and then been struck with a sudden, uncontrollable urge to gorge on the salty, greasy, piping hot and perfectly crisped goodness yourself? Well, now imagine that you're the fries. Seeing that you're a hot and tasty commodity, admirers will come out of the woodwork with a sudden desire to gorge themselves on you. Mmmm, I want some of that, they may be thinking with a gleam in their eye and saliva on their chin. So, as long as you are dating someone, you will appear to others as dateable, and thus desirable. Conversely, if you are single, you are the equivalent of day-old bagels in the bargain bin. Eww, why would I want that? savvy shoppers and potential dates will think. No one else wanted them and neither do I. This is also known as the single and screwed phenomenon. The best way to score hot dates is thus to make sure you keep up your market value. Being in a healthy, happy, long-term relationship is hands-down the best way to attract attention from the opposite sex. Unfortunately, the rigours of a loving, mutally satisfactory long-term relationship generally tend to preclude the possibility of dating around, which is sort of a catch 22, I understand. So ultimately your choices are either A) the old ball and chain routine, aka emotional, physical, and spiritual closeness with another human being, a guaranteed date on weekends and major holidays, cutesy e-mails and "just because" gifts, help doing the dishes, taking out the trash, and finding your keys, and if you're lucky- your laundry appearing magically fluffed, perfectly folded and smelling of spring rain, backrubs, footrubs, chicken soup when you're sick, your own personal heater on cold winter nights, secret smiles, fingers through your hair, nails lightly scratching absent-mindedly up and down your back, and not to mention healthy doses of regular sex, or B) single and screwed. Choose wisely.

Q: Why my girlfriend keeps contacting me after we broke up.

A: First, look deep within yourself and ask yourself this question: "What do I have that she wants?" Well, you might say, she obviously misses my intelligence, my warmth, my natural charm and charisma. In which case I say, no, dear, that is not at all what I am talking about. I mean, literally, what do you have that she wants? Take a look around. Is your apartment still littered with her clothing, books, Mr. Whiskers the cat, etc? In that case, promptly return her belongings, and you should notice a significant and immediate reduction in attempts at contact.

Ok. So she's still calling you? Let's re-evaluate. Check again. Perhaps there is something you have over-looked. Are you perhaps still the guardian of some of her more valued possessions? Her iPod, Tiffany bracelet, 2008 Passat? In this case the reason she's calling is most likely to tell you that if you don't hand them over like, now, she's calling the police. You would be wise to comply with her demands.

So, problem solved, eh? Unless of course she's still calling you, in which case there are only two possible explanations: A) she's a crazy psycho bitch who will break into your apartment with a knife and a gallon of pig's blood while you are out, in which case you may want to check behind the curtains before you go to sleep, you know what I mean? or B) you really are just that charming, that irresistible, and that hard to get over, you handsome devil you! If this is the case, then you're really in a pickle. Trying to stave off the crazed advances of a lovelorn ex-girlfriend is like trying to wrestle a dog away from a bone. So, what do I do? you may ask. Well, I'll tell you. You find her a bigger bone. The only way you can make a clean break is if she finds someone more charming, more handsome and more irresistible than yourself. I know, I know, I know...Sorry, what was I thinking? For now let's just say at least AS charming, irresistible and handsome, and that will have to do. Good places to look are the gym, office buildings, or Wall Street. Or, even better, a gym in an office building on Wall Street. Once you've targeted your victim, er, let's just call him the New Boyfriend Substitute, all you have to do is set up an introduction and walk away, patting yourself on the back for another successfully executed and mess-free break-up. And while you're home alone, pursuing your carefree bachelor lifestyle, watching the game on t.v. and belching, you can be secure in the knowledge that your ex has now completely forgotten about you, and is eagerly feasting upon her new, really big bone.

That's it for today, folks! If you have a question you would like answered in a future edition of JUSTALIQ, please submit it to www.google.com, and click on Diary of Why. Call now; operators are standing by.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Why googling is only half the battle

I'm sure there are many reasons why people come to this site. But really, now that I think about it, I actually have no idea why people come to this site. Is it my meticulous attention to grammar and punctuation? Voyeurism? That minty-fresh taste? Inquiring minds want to know. However, it has come to my attention that certain people have very specific reasons for coming here. There are certain people who arrive here in my little corner of the Internet, disoriented, dazed and confused, and all because their favorite search engine told them to. And, lo, these naive and trusting souls bowed down before the gods of Google, and they complied. And instead of a handshake, a cup of tea and a warm howd'ya do, what do these people get? Nothing! I'd like to offer a hearty apology to these befuddled visitors left scratching their heads and wondering how the Internet has managed to steer them so wrong. They came here looking for answers, and after all, they took the time and effort to click my link, and so I think it's only fair and just that I help them, don't you? It is in this spirit of conciliation and reciprocity that I would like to dedicate today's post to these wanderers, these inquisitors, these weary nomads of the Internet. Accordingly, I present to you my very own Answers to Life's Important Questions. Let's get on with it, shall we?

Q: Why do I cum so fast since I am a girl?

A: First of all, are you sure you're a girl? Check again.

Sure? Ok. If you're a girl and you come easily, you're obviously doing it wrong. You have to make him work for it, you know? Plus, it's always good to have something to throw in his face during a totally unrelated argument: "Oh yeah, well you never made me come!" Trust me, there's no comeback for that. I mean, look at Victorian women; they weren't allowed to even say the word orgasm. And do you think any of them ever had to take the trash out or exit a carriage unassisted? I don't think so. Next time you find yourself in a situation where you find yourself close to orgasm, try these simple techniques: think about baseball, or your grandmother. Quick, what's the square root of pi? With a little bit of practice you should soon find yourself happy, healthy, and orgasm-free. You're welcome.

Q: Is it true broken bones can tell when it's going to rain?

A: There's an old Indian proverb that says:

If bone is warm, it's sunny.
If bone is wet, it's raining.
If bone is white, it's snowing.
If you can't see bone, it's foggy.

Of course, there's another line of thought that goes something like this: If your bone has ruptured the skin and is exposed to the elements, please, for the love of god, get that fixed and check the weather on the Internet like everyone else.

Q: Boobs.

A: Can you phrase that in the form of a question, please?

Q: Boobs?

A: Ah, yes. Boobs. You know, that reminds me of a story my parents used to read to me when I was a child. It went something like this:

One boob, two boobs,
Old boobs, new boobs.

This one has a little star.
This one has a little car.
Say! What a lot of boobs there are.

Yes. Some are pink. And some are blue.
Some are old. And some are new.
Some are sad.
And some are glad.
And some are very, very bad.

Why are they sad and bad and glad?
I do not know.
Go ask your dad.

Some are thin.
And some are fat.
And some are very, very flat.

From here to there,
from there to here,
funny boobs are everywhere.

Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!
What a lot of boobs go by.

Thus, in answer to your question, yes. And no. However.

Q: Why hasn't he called?

A: Oh, dearie. Dearie, dearie, dearie dear. This is a tough one. There are so many possible reasons why he hasn't called you, but the most important thing to remember is that none of them have absolutely anything whatsoever to do with you. You are perfect in each and every way! You are a peach and a gem and a real find. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Just look at you! With your smooth skin and shiny, pretty hair. And smart! I bet your mother tells you all the time how pretty and smart you are. There, you see? It must be true. As I said, there are any number of reasons why he hasn't called, which once again, have nothing at all to do with any inadequacies on your part. These reasons are myriad and labyrinthine, and may include (but are not limited to) the following:

a) his phone is broken.
b) your phone is broken.
c) hit by a bus.
d) diabetic coma.
e) arrested for pirating dvd's.
f) playing it cool.
g) brainwashed by Scientologists.
h) accidentally severed dialing finger while biting into a hamburger.
i) playing Wii.
j) hates his phone voice.
k) got a bad haircut and is waiting for it to grow out.
l) crack.
m) pilgrimage to Mecca.
n) fingers are too fat for keypad and is waiting for arrival of specially-ordered dialing wand.
o) helper monkey ran away.
p) too upset by writer's strike to go on living.
q) secretly gay.
r) too busy blogging about you.
s) knitting (he actually said "I'll shawl you").
t) the voices told him not to.
u) flesh-eating bacteria.
v) secret other girlfriend taking up a lot of his time.
w) rehab.
x) loves you but isn't "in love" with you.
y) pirahnas.
z) he's Superman.

Now I know my ABCs, next time won't you notbeajerkand call me please...

Well, that's it for today's edition of Answers to Life's Important Questions (also known by its full title: Just, Unequivocal, Sincere and True Answers to Life's Important Questions, aka JUSTALIQ). If you have a question you would like to be featured in next week's edition of JUSTALIQ, please submit it to diaryofwhy at gmail dot com.

Au revoir, et à bientôt!

Monday, January 14, 2008

Why today could be YOUR lucky day

Because you could be the winner of this handsome 366-day (366 days for the price of 365! Now that's a deal!) Simpsons desk calendar! And yes, I realize it's already mid-January and not exactly calendar season anymore, but that's why it's free.















Also, while I have nothing against the Simpsons, obviously, or calendars in general, I have trouble with the page-a-day format. I'll miss a day or two and end up falling behind, and then I'll feel badly about myself, like, I can't even do this right, god. I've found that wall calendars are much lower-maintenance and overall better for my self-esteem. But maybe someone you know has no such neurotic hang-ups. Or maybe you are that someone. First, ask yourself these questions: Do you know what day it is? Do you tremble when faced with the crushing responsibility of daily calendar maintenance? Do you know the name of the comic strip Bart creates in episode DABF13? If you answered no to any or none of these questions, then this could be the calendar for you.

How to enter: Correctly answer the following five questions and e-mail your responses to diaryofwhy at gmail dot com by this Friday January 18 at 12:00 PM, EST.

1. What name does Bart use on his credit card application?
2. What brand of beer do they drink in Shelbyville?
3. Which of the following has Lisa not been romantically linked with: Milhouse, Kearney, Ralph, or Nelson?
4. Marge decides to go into business selling which snack treat: pretzels, marshmallows or cookies?
5. What vegetable did Abe Simpson once wear on his belt because it was the style at the time: onion, tomato, or radish?

All correct submissions will be entered into a random drawing. The winner will be notified via e-mail and will receive their prize via the U.S. Postal Service.

Odds of winning: The five people who read this blog may have to fight it out, but all in all, the odds are pretty good. Enter today!

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Why I ~heart~ Yankee swaps

I swear this photo shoot started out with the purest of intentions. I just wanted to show you guys my most awesome new dachshund-cum-piggy bank. I call him Noodle.












But then this guy in the background kept getting in the way.











No matter how I positioned him, he was always there, watching, following Noodle with his eyes.














It was kind of creepy.














Hey, wanna make out?














Wow, you're a really good kisser.














Whoa, I swear, I don't even know how this happened! It just...wheeeee!














Hey, Puffy McFleecepants, I'm glad you're having fun and all, but I don't know if this is working for me. Can we just....














Aw yeah, here we go. This is what I'm talking about.















Damn, it feels good to be a dachshund.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Why charity is not all it's cracked up to be


This is what happens when you have nothing to blog about and every single animal protection league, society, and association in the continental U.S. won't stop sending cloyingly adorable and guilt-inducing gifts.

Please, PETA, ASPCA, and animal rescue leagues of the world; this has to stop. The notecards, the return address labels, the wrapping paper, the desk calendar, the dog tags, the calculator, the umbrella; they are all so lovely and thoughtful and squishily adorable, but the problem is, I don't have a dog to put tags on, I don't write that many letters, and honestly, I'm not totally convinced that that umbrella is even waterproof. You see, several years ago I had a full-time job and a salary and made a couple modest donations to what I assumed was a local animal rescue league, but in fact turns out to be located in New York state. (Duped!) However, I am now what we call an indentured servant a grad student, and thus barely have enough money to both feed myself and support my lip gloss habit (and whether or not my mint lip gloss contains enough calories to count as lunch is not a decision I want to have to make). Plus, I can't get past the thought that any donation I might make, rather than going towards food, or vaccinations, or life-saving surgeries, is instead paying for more tacky greeting cards that no one wants and that will probably just get thrown away (or, ahem, defaced).

Anyway, Animal People Whose Mailing Lists I Am On, I would just like you to know that I can't be guilted anymore. As I don't have any money at the moment (or most likely throughout the forseeable future), I am unable to contribute to your very worthy cause. But please, for the love of kittens, please stop sending me your crap. Because the days are long, the blogging is slow, and I still have piles of cards crying out for a felt-tipped pen and an irreverant hand. Please, APWMLIAO, don't make me do it.

Sincerely,

An Animal Lover Despite It All (really)