Spotted: Coworkers X and Y discussing their children.
"When Muffin was taking a bath, she said, 'Mommy, my finger is in my bottom!' So I cleared the bubbles away to see and said, 'Muffin, that's not your bottom, it's your hoo-ha!' and then she said, 'it's stuck' and started to cry."
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Because i'm about 10 years-old...
For some reason when I saw this, I peed my pants...
People of Lesbos take gay group to court over term 'Lesbian'
ATHENS, Greece -- A Greek court has been asked to draw the line between the natives of the Aegean Sea island of Lesbos and the world's gay women. Read More>>
Even Better...
"My sister can't say she is a Lesbian," said Dimitris Lambrou. "Our geographical designation has been usurped by certain ladies who have no connection whatsoever with Lesbos," he said.
Oh the Humanity!
People of Lesbos take gay group to court over term 'Lesbian'
ATHENS, Greece -- A Greek court has been asked to draw the line between the natives of the Aegean Sea island of Lesbos and the world's gay women. Read More>>
Even Better...
"My sister can't say she is a Lesbian," said Dimitris Lambrou. "Our geographical designation has been usurped by certain ladies who have no connection whatsoever with Lesbos," he said.
Oh the Humanity!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Why democracy is a sinking ship...
Greetings, y'all. I guess I'm the new girl. Please commence comments such as "why are your glasses so thick? are you blind?" and "didn't anyone ever tell you to shave your armpits?" And while you're at it, please meditate on the conflagration our nation has descended into when this is how we have to teach kids about perimeters:
You Will Be Charged $4 Each Time I Molest You
$12 I got a airbed in my living room for a female. donate what you can (near boeing field)
Reply to: CREEPER@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-28, 7:09PM PDT
I'm a honest blue collar 30 something man that is just getting by. Could use the extra cash. Pay what you can. Something around $10 per night is cool. You can sleep on the queen size air mattress in the living room and watch the tv. I think it be safer if only females respond. Its not a fancy place. Its a small mother in law apt. But I can hang out in my own bedroom. Hey, if you just need a place to crash for a few nights, this is idea. But once again, not fancy. Oh, I smoke outside and I'm cool if you are a drinker or smoker
Location: near boeing field
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Monday, April 28, 2008
happy 10th to last day of work!
Yay for quitting! I greatly admire my cohort's decision to depart a stagnant job and fly free into the world. A few words of advice:
By now, others have heard the news that you are leaving. If your quitting experience is any like my recent Springtime Quit, look forward in the next two weeks to frequent conversations that go a little something like this.
OTHER PARTY: So I hear you're leaving us!
YOU: ha! yep. yep I am
OP: (stares, arms folded, kind of rocking back and forth on feet) Huh.
Y: Yep, pretty weird.
OP: (Breaks eye contact, idly handles something on your desk)
YOU: So yeah, who knows. Weird. I mean. So. Ha-ha.
OP: Well, good luck! We'll miss you around here! Good luck!
YOU: yeah, totally, thank you. Also I'll be here for the next two weeks. So... cool. Yeah. Huh.
The best will be THIS friday, when guaranteed some people will think it's your last day, and will approach you to have even more awkward conversations, or will walk by you and shout something like, "Last Day!" and then you'll have to yell down the hall after them, your voice trailing off, "NO I still have a week left so I'll see you Monday I guess "
And then when your last day FINALLY comes and you are bidding farewell to people you don't care about and never wish to see again, awkward goodbyes peppered with false promises to keep in touch even as both sets of eyes glaze over with the effort of summarily erasing one anothers names from your memory, so that in a matter of months you can run into that person at a Starbucks or perhaps a Build-a-Bear workshop and take comfort in the fact that they have no validity in your life and are now no different from the thousands of other ex coworkers, friends, classmates, family members, drunken makeout partners, and disappointing pets you have erased from your radar over the years. Unless they add you on LinkedIn, Facebook, or Myspace, and then you still might have to go through the trouble of making your life look cooler than it actually is, by which I mean disguise the fact that your most recent Friday night consisted of getting high by yourself and playing "Snakebite" with your cat*. Not to make this about me or anything.
Also you should stock up on scissors/tape/nice pens/yellow legal pads, because man those are nice to have around.
* How to play Snakebite: poke finger at and around biting cat's face while saying "snakebite!" in a high pitched voice until cat gets bored/you start bleeding. Thanks go to Braiden Eilers for the invention of this game.
By now, others have heard the news that you are leaving. If your quitting experience is any like my recent Springtime Quit, look forward in the next two weeks to frequent conversations that go a little something like this.
OTHER PARTY: So I hear you're leaving us!
YOU: ha! yep. yep I am
OP: (stares, arms folded, kind of rocking back and forth on feet) Huh.
Y: Yep, pretty weird.
OP: (Breaks eye contact, idly handles something on your desk)
YOU: So yeah, who knows. Weird. I mean. So. Ha-ha.
OP: Well, good luck! We'll miss you around here! Good luck!
YOU: yeah, totally, thank you. Also I'll be here for the next two weeks. So... cool. Yeah. Huh.
The best will be THIS friday, when guaranteed some people will think it's your last day, and will approach you to have even more awkward conversations, or will walk by you and shout something like, "Last Day!" and then you'll have to yell down the hall after them, your voice trailing off, "NO I still have a week left so I'll see you Monday I guess "
And then when your last day FINALLY comes and you are bidding farewell to people you don't care about and never wish to see again, awkward goodbyes peppered with false promises to keep in touch even as both sets of eyes glaze over with the effort of summarily erasing one anothers names from your memory, so that in a matter of months you can run into that person at a Starbucks or perhaps a Build-a-Bear workshop and take comfort in the fact that they have no validity in your life and are now no different from the thousands of other ex coworkers, friends, classmates, family members, drunken makeout partners, and disappointing pets you have erased from your radar over the years. Unless they add you on LinkedIn, Facebook, or Myspace, and then you still might have to go through the trouble of making your life look cooler than it actually is, by which I mean disguise the fact that your most recent Friday night consisted of getting high by yourself and playing "Snakebite" with your cat*. Not to make this about me or anything.
Also you should stock up on scissors/tape/nice pens/yellow legal pads, because man those are nice to have around.
* How to play Snakebite: poke finger at and around biting cat's face while saying "snakebite!" in a high pitched voice until cat gets bored/you start bleeding. Thanks go to Braiden Eilers for the invention of this game.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Golden Moments, Vol. I
Faithful readers of Stag Party may have detected the subtle thread of self-deprecation and personal humiliation that runs through our posts. The steady stream of embarrassing situations and humbling revelations that my compatriot and are often faced with is grist for our mill: we write with the hope that your laughter will absolve us somehow. However, friends, we here at Stag Party also have our moments of victory, too. Golden moments, you might say. And I would like to share one with you right now.
I quit my job. It felt fucking great. If you have ever quit a job you hated, then you know what I'm talking about. Let's put aside the mundane details that led to this decision for a sec, though. I'd like to examine the one facet of quitting that I find most interesting, the process of Fantasizing About Quitting. Thus, I present you with two scenarios.
How I Imagined Quitting
The minute I decide I can't take it anymore, I spring from my desk, get the Rambo bandanna I have saved for this very purpose out of my filing cabinet, grab my giant and gleaming ghettoblaster from under my desk and march down to my boss' office. She is in a meeting, but I do not care. I bust in (without knocking!), set the speaks right on top of a huge stack of reports and hit play.
After about thirty seconds of Paul Westerberg wailing "Unsatisfied," I fast forward the mix tape and "Cop Killer" kicks in. I survey the stunned faces in front of me, locking eyes with each and every one of my superiors.
"No," the director silently mouths.
"Uh huh," I silently mouth back, simultaneously cocking an eyebrow and doing a crotch thrust, "I quit."
"What?" the office manager asks. Apparently, I am still silent-mouthing.
"I QUIT!" I scream over Ice T. The applause of my fellow co-workers rises over the din; they have gathered outside of my boss' door, and IT Dude is slowly waving a lit Bic over his head. The ruckus dies down a little, and out of nowhere, Hot UPS Man appears with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and two glasses.
"Need help clearing out your office?" he asks.
"Honey, I don't even have a cubicle," I reply. We laugh together knowingly like old lovers, and ride off into the sunset in his delivery truck.
How It Really Went
I send an email to my boss letting her know I'd like to talk, and then go gorge myself on leftover doughnuts in the break room. When she finally gets back to me, I make my way downstairs with my resignation letter in hand.
"Don't give that to me," she says when she sees the paper in my hand. Apparently, my boss already has an inkling about what's afoot.
"Okay," I say, laughing nervously.
"Do not give me that piece of paper."
"Okay," I say again, "Ha ha. But, um, here," I hand her the letter. "I just want to say how much I've appreciated the opportunities I've been given here," I say, pointing like a drunken monkey at a paragraph in my letter that says exactly the same thing.
"Come on," my boss replies, rolling her eyes.
"Really!" I say. I look at my resignation letter sitting there on the desk. It looks a little sad, cheap. This might be due to the fact that I printed it not twenty minutes before on the company report stock.
"You sure you won't stay?"
I nod. There's a bit of a pause.
"Man, we're getting you so drunk at your going away party."
I nod again. This is the second best idea I've heard all day.
I quit my job. It felt fucking great. If you have ever quit a job you hated, then you know what I'm talking about. Let's put aside the mundane details that led to this decision for a sec, though. I'd like to examine the one facet of quitting that I find most interesting, the process of Fantasizing About Quitting. Thus, I present you with two scenarios.
How I Imagined Quitting
The minute I decide I can't take it anymore, I spring from my desk, get the Rambo bandanna I have saved for this very purpose out of my filing cabinet, grab my giant and gleaming ghettoblaster from under my desk and march down to my boss' office. She is in a meeting, but I do not care. I bust in (without knocking!), set the speaks right on top of a huge stack of reports and hit play.
After about thirty seconds of Paul Westerberg wailing "Unsatisfied," I fast forward the mix tape and "Cop Killer" kicks in. I survey the stunned faces in front of me, locking eyes with each and every one of my superiors.
"No," the director silently mouths.
"Uh huh," I silently mouth back, simultaneously cocking an eyebrow and doing a crotch thrust, "I quit."
"What?" the office manager asks. Apparently, I am still silent-mouthing.
"I QUIT!" I scream over Ice T. The applause of my fellow co-workers rises over the din; they have gathered outside of my boss' door, and IT Dude is slowly waving a lit Bic over his head. The ruckus dies down a little, and out of nowhere, Hot UPS Man appears with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and two glasses.
"Need help clearing out your office?" he asks.
"Honey, I don't even have a cubicle," I reply. We laugh together knowingly like old lovers, and ride off into the sunset in his delivery truck.
How It Really Went
I send an email to my boss letting her know I'd like to talk, and then go gorge myself on leftover doughnuts in the break room. When she finally gets back to me, I make my way downstairs with my resignation letter in hand.
"Don't give that to me," she says when she sees the paper in my hand. Apparently, my boss already has an inkling about what's afoot.
"Okay," I say, laughing nervously.
"Do not give me that piece of paper."
"Okay," I say again, "Ha ha. But, um, here," I hand her the letter. "I just want to say how much I've appreciated the opportunities I've been given here," I say, pointing like a drunken monkey at a paragraph in my letter that says exactly the same thing.
"Come on," my boss replies, rolling her eyes.
"Really!" I say. I look at my resignation letter sitting there on the desk. It looks a little sad, cheap. This might be due to the fact that I printed it not twenty minutes before on the company report stock.
"You sure you won't stay?"
I nod. There's a bit of a pause.
"Man, we're getting you so drunk at your going away party."
I nod again. This is the second best idea I've heard all day.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
A New Hope
Dateline: Wednesday
Location: On my emails
Subject Heading: "Ingrid, here are nearby people that you may want to date"
I think I might just like this Sparkey, a Facebook application I'm thinking my grandmother signed me up for. Only the relevant deets are included, friends. Here's what you get:
1. Physical proximity. Hey, guess what, Ingrid? Blaine Bailey lives less than ten miles away from you! Less than! Ten! BLAINE FUCKING BAILEY. If conversation lags during your first date, perhaps you could use this number to calculate how many hectares apart you live! Draw a little map, a little topographical chart!
2. Desirability index. "Judd Nelson is more desirable than 73% of other people." Embarrassing use of a participle there, Sparkey. Beyond that, I am still left wanting to ask: Who are these "other people"? The Reverend Jim Dobson? Bill Keane? He Who Shall Not Be Named (Steve Miller)?
3. Weaknesses. This one's a real time saver. For instance, I see "Sexiest" and "Most Abusive" listed as respective weaknesses for one of my potential mates. This gives me time to brainstorm new threats/histrionic outbursts for the "I hate you/ don't leave me!" screaming match we are sure to have at the Old Country Buffet.
Location: On my emails
Subject Heading: "Ingrid, here are nearby people that you may want to date"
I think I might just like this Sparkey, a Facebook application I'm thinking my grandmother signed me up for. Only the relevant deets are included, friends. Here's what you get:
1. Physical proximity. Hey, guess what, Ingrid? Blaine Bailey lives less than ten miles away from you! Less than! Ten! BLAINE FUCKING BAILEY. If conversation lags during your first date, perhaps you could use this number to calculate how many hectares apart you live! Draw a little map, a little topographical chart!
2. Desirability index. "Judd Nelson is more desirable than 73% of other people." Embarrassing use of a participle there, Sparkey. Beyond that, I am still left wanting to ask: Who are these "other people"? The Reverend Jim Dobson? Bill Keane? He Who Shall Not Be Named (Steve Miller)?
3. Weaknesses. This one's a real time saver. For instance, I see "Sexiest" and "Most Abusive" listed as respective weaknesses for one of my potential mates. This gives me time to brainstorm new threats/histrionic outbursts for the "I hate you/ don't leave me!" screaming match we are sure to have at the Old Country Buffet.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
On Fucking Things Up
I'm a total hypochondriac and am constantly diagnosing myself with various mental ailments like OCD, aphasia, a variety of disorders on the autism spectrum, and reverse body dysmorphic disorder, wherein I think I'm WAY bomber than I actually am and am only brought back down to earth when photographic evidence is cruelly shoved in front of my face. But even though everything else is just a flash in the pan, I still have yet to appropriately diagnose this constant fear of fucking things up that stays with me always... and i say "fucking up" not necessarily like I'm going to ruin some giant project at work or cause car accident, although those are both also things I worry about fucking up, but just not being able to do SIMPLE things that are designed for the lowest common denominator. Like, I will face some small minor task and once I realize what is ahead I know... just KNOW that I am not going to be able to complete it. Like when you watched Nickelodeon's Legends of The Hidden Temple back in the day and you could TOTALLY identify with that kid who, after watching their sibling get tackled by a Mayan warrior in the ruins or whatever, just had this total look of panic on their face. Because that kid knew, he or she KNEW that it was their turn now and they were going to fuck up and lose the medallion or golden monkey or whatever, because they were too excitable/unathletic/asthmatic to achieve success, and they totally had ridden on the coattails of their far superior teammate thus far and now it was ALL UP TO THEM. Case in point: Airplane tray tables. I CANNOT work them. Everytime I'm on an airplane I start trying to get it to come out and it won't, and I start looking for some kind of button and whacking at it with simple tools like a chimp. Then I get really hot and flustered and start frantically taking off layers while wracking my brains to remember how I solved this problem the last time I was on an airplane and eventually the flight attendant will whip out the tray table for me with a tight lipped smile while handing over my plastic cup of Diet Sprite. I also cannot work unfamiliar microwaves, or locate a light switch when I am asked. "it's over there... no up... no ok, turn around... no, look UP! right... your other right... i said UP!" until I find myself whirling in a horrible gnomish jig and have to adapt the "sorry I'm kind retarded, but I hope maybe you think I'm pretty!" sheepish/jaw clenched grin I have perfected over the years of Fucking Things Up.
I don't have a good end to that observation, but I will admit that in the past I have lied and said that I appeared on Legends Of The Hidden Temple. The key to making people believe this is to admit that you didn't make it to the final round. It makes it more believeable, and then guys will ask for your number.
I don't have a good end to that observation, but I will admit that in the past I have lied and said that I appeared on Legends Of The Hidden Temple. The key to making people believe this is to admit that you didn't make it to the final round. It makes it more believeable, and then guys will ask for your number.
ode to the shitty thermos i won in an office drawing at work today
O, thermos!
How stately is thine splendor, livery'd in scratched stainless steel and ratty, pink pleath'r.
Banish the thought! of sullying your countenance with hot coffee, tea--
heat, methinks, would cause you release heavy lead, bisphenol A, etc.
Nay! Let thine cargo be
one or two gills of warm Crystal Light (Pink Lemonade),
a few drachmas of Diet Mountain Dew,
or let me fill you, my love,
with the tears that overfill mine eyes when I think of parting.
How stately is thine splendor, livery'd in scratched stainless steel and ratty, pink pleath'r.
Banish the thought! of sullying your countenance with hot coffee, tea--
heat, methinks, would cause you release heavy lead, bisphenol A, etc.
Nay! Let thine cargo be
one or two gills of warm Crystal Light (Pink Lemonade),
a few drachmas of Diet Mountain Dew,
or let me fill you, my love,
with the tears that overfill mine eyes when I think of parting.
Monday, April 21, 2008
on puking
A while ago, we came to the consensus that of all things in the world, the WORST possible combination of two actions would have to be the renowned (and sadly, often utilized) pairing of masturbating and crying. Extra depressing if it's done to music, extra EXTRA depressing if said music involves Ben Gibbard in any way.
Today I would like to offer another miserable combo: the point we all reach, be it from sickness or alcohol abuse, wherein one's body feels the need to suddenly, mercilessly eliminate EVERYTHING from its depths and there is just nothing you can do about it besides pray that whatever deity you believe in will take mercy and end your life and strike anyone unfortunate enough to be around you incapable of remembering this moment. I am talking, of course, about puking and pooping, or its slightly less offensive incarnation, puking and peeing. A while back, I was so hungover on a Saturday morning that I even pilate-cized the ordeal, extending my torso and giraffe-stretching my neck out to ensure that I could vomit bile into the bathtub without having to move from the toilet. Anyway, this past Saturday night we partook in a delightful celebration of Ingrid's birth, and I bet you know now where this is going. Upon indulging in a less than top shelf tequila shot after a night of drinking only Rainier, I booked it to the bathroom because I KNEW I was about to puke. But there was a mondo line, and I kind of managed to swallow it back while waiting, and then "Touch My Body" came on and I just had to DANCE cuz it's MARIAH so I left the bathroom without throwing up and worked it out on the floor and we kept drinking and dancing and I felt great by the time we left at closing... then I'm walking home with Waleska and we're on Pine and I start reminiscing about the foul tequila and as the memory wells up inside me my body just decides, ENOUGH and Waleska quickly directs me to an abandoned parking lot where I just yak and yak and then realize i have to pee too... so I'm peeing and throwing up at the same time behind the solitary car in the lot and people are totally walking by seeing this thinking, wow that girl SUCKS and the thought of how low this moment must appear cracks me up so i'm peeing, puking, crying, and laughing all at once.
Then I went home and masturbated and cried.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY INGRID!
Today I would like to offer another miserable combo: the point we all reach, be it from sickness or alcohol abuse, wherein one's body feels the need to suddenly, mercilessly eliminate EVERYTHING from its depths and there is just nothing you can do about it besides pray that whatever deity you believe in will take mercy and end your life and strike anyone unfortunate enough to be around you incapable of remembering this moment. I am talking, of course, about puking and pooping, or its slightly less offensive incarnation, puking and peeing. A while back, I was so hungover on a Saturday morning that I even pilate-cized the ordeal, extending my torso and giraffe-stretching my neck out to ensure that I could vomit bile into the bathtub without having to move from the toilet. Anyway, this past Saturday night we partook in a delightful celebration of Ingrid's birth, and I bet you know now where this is going. Upon indulging in a less than top shelf tequila shot after a night of drinking only Rainier, I booked it to the bathroom because I KNEW I was about to puke. But there was a mondo line, and I kind of managed to swallow it back while waiting, and then "Touch My Body" came on and I just had to DANCE cuz it's MARIAH so I left the bathroom without throwing up and worked it out on the floor and we kept drinking and dancing and I felt great by the time we left at closing... then I'm walking home with Waleska and we're on Pine and I start reminiscing about the foul tequila and as the memory wells up inside me my body just decides, ENOUGH and Waleska quickly directs me to an abandoned parking lot where I just yak and yak and then realize i have to pee too... so I'm peeing and throwing up at the same time behind the solitary car in the lot and people are totally walking by seeing this thinking, wow that girl SUCKS and the thought of how low this moment must appear cracks me up so i'm peeing, puking, crying, and laughing all at once.
Then I went home and masturbated and cried.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY INGRID!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Irrational Fears, Pt. II
Inspired by my compatriot, I, too, will present a list of things I have been encouraged to "work through" with a licensed professional:
1) On a plane, heavy turbulence. I grip the plastic cup holding my weak bloody mary to near-breaking. After many minutes of this, the pilot comes on over the intercom to inform us passengers that things are looking pretty rough ahead, to buckle up tight, review relevant safety info, secure the straps on the oxygen thingy under your own chin before those of the chins around you, etc. Convinced the steel bird is going down, I light a Pall Mall with the matches I have surreptitiously stowed in my cleavage and straddle the lap of the balding, liver-spotted man sitting next to me, knowing that if I die, I will die doing the things I love. Within minutes the plane straightens out, we land at our destination ahead of schedule, and I am escorted to airport prison by a federal air marshal.
2) It's my big break: Ira Glass or [insert name of smart, sensitive, middle-aged Jew in the business of winning hearts] has called me up for an interview. "This mind-blowing, awesome job with full dental benefits is all yours," he says, "just answer this last question: what was the last great book you read?" I smile for a moment, furrowing my brow in mock-consternation as if to say, "Oh Ira--playing softball, are we?" I start to think. Then I start to panic, realizing the entirety of English literature has fled my brain. I cannot even remember the name of the mail-order catalogue my grandmother uses to order those plasticine elves she finds so fascinating. "Man-Hut?" I grunt, "Mama's Family? Money Tree?" There is a pause, followed by the tinkle of laughter and the phone being laid on its hook.
3) I'm in third grade. I have just pissed my pants in P.E., and the gym teacher has--rather loudly--instructed me to to go to the office and ask the secretary, Mrs. Swenson, for a pair of sweatpants. When I get to the office, Mrs. Swenson has been replaced by Jordan from New Kids on the Block. I watch how his rattail glistens as he laughs when I ask him for the sweatpants.
1) On a plane, heavy turbulence. I grip the plastic cup holding my weak bloody mary to near-breaking. After many minutes of this, the pilot comes on over the intercom to inform us passengers that things are looking pretty rough ahead, to buckle up tight, review relevant safety info, secure the straps on the oxygen thingy under your own chin before those of the chins around you, etc. Convinced the steel bird is going down, I light a Pall Mall with the matches I have surreptitiously stowed in my cleavage and straddle the lap of the balding, liver-spotted man sitting next to me, knowing that if I die, I will die doing the things I love. Within minutes the plane straightens out, we land at our destination ahead of schedule, and I am escorted to airport prison by a federal air marshal.
2) It's my big break: Ira Glass or [insert name of smart, sensitive, middle-aged Jew in the business of winning hearts] has called me up for an interview. "This mind-blowing, awesome job with full dental benefits is all yours," he says, "just answer this last question: what was the last great book you read?" I smile for a moment, furrowing my brow in mock-consternation as if to say, "Oh Ira--playing softball, are we?" I start to think. Then I start to panic, realizing the entirety of English literature has fled my brain. I cannot even remember the name of the mail-order catalogue my grandmother uses to order those plasticine elves she finds so fascinating. "Man-Hut?" I grunt, "Mama's Family? Money Tree?" There is a pause, followed by the tinkle of laughter and the phone being laid on its hook.
3) I'm in third grade. I have just pissed my pants in P.E., and the gym teacher has--rather loudly--instructed me to to go to the office and ask the secretary, Mrs. Swenson, for a pair of sweatpants. When I get to the office, Mrs. Swenson has been replaced by Jordan from New Kids on the Block. I watch how his rattail glistens as he laughs when I ask him for the sweatpants.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Irrational Fears
Irrational fears I have had in my life:
None of these have happened (yet).
Age: 5-9
At the bottom of my glass of milk, a cricket lurks. He waits to jump down my throat.
Age: 7-10 (ish):
While submerged in some area of open water, I encounter a large clam with an opening in its shell, through which can be spied a large glistening pearl. I approach the clam and reach in to touch its soft interior and the pearl within. The clam abruptly snaps shut on my arm and OH MY GOD I'M OUT OF OXYGEN AND THIS THING WON'T OPEN WHAT DO I DO I HAVE TO CUT MY ARM OFF NOW NOW NOW OR DROWN.
Age: Puberty on
I am wearing a pad instead of a tampon for an unknown reason, like perhaps I am taking part in a Little House On The Prairie convention. I go to the bathroom and, while peeing, take the rare opportunity to relax, which I do by flopping forward and stretching. However, I have forgotten that there is a cotton wad covered in my own scarlet uterine eliminations and my careless stretch mashes it into my shirt, which is, for this purpose, obviously white or some kind of eggshell color. I then must walk around for the rest of the day with period blood on my shirt.
Age: 24 (now)
I die, and when the coroner autopsies my stomach, my parents receive a police report which reads:
It appears that in the hours prior to your daughter's untimely death, she ingested the following items. Please let us know if any of these substances have significance to you, or could act as a lead in solving the mystery of her demise:
- cheetos (regular)
- cheetos (flamin' hot)
- bacon salt
- semen
- jello
- vodka
- Rainier beer
These results are published.
None of these have happened (yet).
Age: 5-9
At the bottom of my glass of milk, a cricket lurks. He waits to jump down my throat.
Age: 7-10 (ish):
While submerged in some area of open water, I encounter a large clam with an opening in its shell, through which can be spied a large glistening pearl. I approach the clam and reach in to touch its soft interior and the pearl within. The clam abruptly snaps shut on my arm and OH MY GOD I'M OUT OF OXYGEN AND THIS THING WON'T OPEN WHAT DO I DO I HAVE TO CUT MY ARM OFF NOW NOW NOW OR DROWN.
Age: Puberty on
I am wearing a pad instead of a tampon for an unknown reason, like perhaps I am taking part in a Little House On The Prairie convention. I go to the bathroom and, while peeing, take the rare opportunity to relax, which I do by flopping forward and stretching. However, I have forgotten that there is a cotton wad covered in my own scarlet uterine eliminations and my careless stretch mashes it into my shirt, which is, for this purpose, obviously white or some kind of eggshell color. I then must walk around for the rest of the day with period blood on my shirt.
Age: 24 (now)
I die, and when the coroner autopsies my stomach, my parents receive a police report which reads:
It appears that in the hours prior to your daughter's untimely death, she ingested the following items. Please let us know if any of these substances have significance to you, or could act as a lead in solving the mystery of her demise:
- cheetos (regular)
- cheetos (flamin' hot)
- bacon salt
- semen
- jello
- vodka
- Rainier beer
These results are published.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)