A while ago, I finished Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. It’s a modern satire with a hilarious main character. The author committed suicide without ever trying to have the work published. His mother got it published and it won the Pulitzer. My favorite parts:
- Your total ignorance of that which you profess to teach merits the death penalty. I doubt whether you know that St. Cassian of Imola was stabbed to death by his students with their styli…Pray to him, you deluded fool, you “anyone for tennis?” golf-playing, cocktail-quaffing, pseudo-pedant.
- My mentality, uncontrollable and wanton as always, whispered to me a scheme so magnificent and daring that I shrank from the very thought of what I was hearing. “Stop! I cried imploringly my godlike mind. “This is madness!”
- “Santa, honey, that’s a sweet little Blessed Virgin you got on top that TV,” Mrs. Reilly said.
…Santa said, “Ain’t it nice, though? It’s a little Our Lady of the Television. It’s got a suction cup base so I don’t knock it over when I’m banging around in the kitchen. I bought it by Lenny’s”
“Lenny’s got everything,” Mrs. Reilly said. “It looks like it’s made outta nice plastic, too. Don’t break.”11:20 a.m.
Month: April 2001
The best headlines from the April edition of Martha Stewart Living:
- The Finest Seasalt
- Painting a Window
- Ruffles: They are much more than a dressmaker’s detail.
- Ironing Ruffles and Pleats
Bonus points for an article on how to spend several hours hand fashioning and sugaring the marshmallow Peeps that you can purchase at your local grocery store for 40 cents per package. I didn’t even know it was possible to make marshmallows at home. Can you see, dear reader, how I’m becoming just a little more enlightened with each passing month?
10:37 a.m.
OVERHEARD
Subject: New Economy moment on Muni.
Characters: Young, hostile woman having a loud public conversation on her cell phone.
You didn’t send them yet?! Send it. Send it now… Yes! Now… OK, what else? I’m about to go into the tunnel… What do you mean?… No, we haven’t moved yet… On the 14th, why?… Would you spit it out? What do you want?… Yeah. What do you want?… WHAT? Are you joking?… No way. I’m not paying for that, why would you think that?… I never, ever said that… No, I didn’t… I never, never, never said I would pay for it, you’re insane!… I don’t even know where you’re getting that… Oh my God. No I didn’t. That’s $1,000, you think I just have that kind of money laying around?… WHAT? I did not say “Go to Africa, it’s on me.” That’s a joke… Why would I say that? I don’t have $1,000 laying around… Yes, I said that, and I sent you $100 for it last month. Yes… You know what your problem is? You think I’m made of money… Yes, you do. I’m beginning to see why you get so upset when I don’t just send you checks on a whim… I’m not made of money, I work for it, and I have a lot of stuff to pay for… OK, look, I didn’t say that, but if you thought I was going to pay for the trip, and you honestly believed that, I’ll try to help out… Yeah… If I have any cash this month, I’ll send it to you. OK, Dad?”
11:08 a.m.
“By the way, if anyone here is in advertising
or marketing, kill yourself. No, this is not a
joke: kill yourself… I know what the
marketing people are thinking now too: ‘Oh.
He’s going for that anti-marketing dollar.
That’s a good market.’ Oh man, I am not
doing that, you fucking evil scumbags.”–Bill Hicks
(I blatantly ripped off the link and the quote from Metascene. Thanks, Fred.)
10:48 a.m.
EMAIL MOMENT!
Subject: More about the bad things that happen when you include the word “girl” in your blog title.
Excerpt:
Have you looked at your search engine keywords thingy lately?!
- Father fucking girl
- Erotic stories of little girl pajama parties
- Naked girl fighting
- Thick free black girl
Man, you have all the cool parties.
3:58 p.m.
To the person who found my site by searching for “this girl i’ve been following:” I found your sleeping bag and toothbrush in the crawl space under my house. They’re on the porch. I’m keeping the photos. (Call me.)
10:45 a.m.
The first Sunday of every month, San Francisco pug owners gather at a local park for Pug Sunday. Imagine dozens of wheezing, perplexed pugs romping, sneezing, and peeing on anything immobile. They aimed blankly at purses, picnic blankets, each other, their owners’ legs. The best part is that someone brought along a border collie, who proceeded to herd the gasping pugs into a neat little writhing circle as their owners called out, “Prudence! Prue! Come away from there!” “Winston, don’t pee on that nice lady!” “Remington? REEHHHMINGTON? There you are! Oh, no. Wrong pug.” Aaaaaag!
2:44 p.m.
EMAIL MOMENT!
Subject: Modern dance.
From: A college friend.
Excerpt:
“Dance is the bomb, and I don’t need to tell you that! I wonder what Jenny Smith [college choreographer, whose name has been changed to protect my ass] is up to these days. I still think it’s the funniest thing that she would always be Miss Purity, but all her dances would totally be about sex. She’d be like, ‘It’s not sexual. It’s SENsual. Now rub your chest and roll on the ground.'”
4:45 p.m.
My friend Sean posted an almost comically offensive Black History Month lunch flyer that he found in his office. Can you believe that this was produced last year?
9:57 a.m.
EMAIL MOMENT!
Subject: A fellow editor finds reason to celebrate.
Excerpt:
“after this deadline is over we should have a ‘we have jobs’ party.”
4:25 p.m.
So we had an earthquake drill at work today. I was across the street (coincidence) getting tea (sheer coincidence) when a piercing siren indicated that my coworkers should crawl under their desks and shield their necks and heads with their arms.
Now I’m concerned. Having missed the corporate drill, I fear that I will have no idea how to get under my desk and cover my head when the inevitable earthquake occurs. I will surely stand in the middle of my cube shrieking, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” as the ground opens to swallow me.
1:36 p.m.
I have now been humming Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” for 24 (waking) hours. I am near the breaking point. If my self-destruct feature kicks in and I stop posting suddenly, blame Janet (Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty).
1:37 p.m.
Annie articulates the new feminist battle cry:
“Somehow, just somehow, I must stop Jennifer Love Hewitt.”
10:40 a.m.
Mighty Girl 