Tag: humor

My credit card company gave me an unsolicited increase. As you might imagine, my first thought was, Money? What the hell am I supposed to do with more money? Fortunately, they enclosed an informative brochure entitled, What to do With a Credit Card Increase. Apparently, when your credit line exceeds your annual income, you should take a Princess Cruise and order a digital watch that tells time in 20 different countries at once.

1:35 p.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.

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.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: Med school epiphanies and my bony ass.

Excerpt:

“I learned how to calculate my body mass index today. There’s overweight,
obese I, obese II, and obese III. After that, there’s just a picture of
Jabba the Hut.

Take your weight in lbs. as the numerator.
Divide by your height in inches, squared (e.g. if you’re 60″, that’s 3600
inches squared). Take this number and multiply it times 703. If its greater than
than 25, it’s time to get your fat ass to Gold’s (me). If it’s less than 18, it’s
time to get your bony ass to Sizzler (you).”

3:23 p.m.

From Accidental:

100 Ways to say I LOVE YOU: I’m still waiting for “100 Ways
to say LET’S JUST BE FRIENDS,” or “100 Ways to say IT’S
NOT YOU, IT’S ME.” Or how about “100 Ways to say I
DON’T REALLY LIKE YOU, BUT WE CAN STILL HAVE
SEX.” That’s the clincher, in my book.”

10:05 a.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: On distaff and my bony ass.

Me:

What is it with men and baked goods? A man may be
impressed by your brain, or your body, or whatever, but if you walk into
the room with an apple pie, his eyes roll up into his
head and his mouth starts frothing. It’s like,
“Well I knew you were hot, but I didn’t know you
baked..”

Him:

It speaks to our lizard brain. It is hard to starve with a woman who
bakes. A woman who bakes can compensate for myriad detrimental
evolutionary traits, such as narrow hips, an waistline that suggests
infertility, and a brain that is too smart or too dumb for her prospective
mate. Baking is tantamount to survival. Additionally, very few men have
the moxie, time, or inclination to bake. Baking is a place that is solidly
in the woman’s world. Women bake, lap dance, look pretty on game shows,
heal, and mediate. Men bust broncs, and philosophize. Just the way it is.

Me:

You have such an odd, offensive little take on things.
Remind me never to bring you cupcakes lest you request
a lap dance.

Him:

Your butt would poke holes in my jeans.

4:28 p.m.

Nothing screams invalid like an hour spent watching “Growing Pains, Behind the Scenes.” Yeah. Should I perchance ask for Jell-O or a good book of crossword puzzles, please just pretend like you didn’t hear me.

10:25 p.m.

I just returned from knee surgery. I am currently doped up enough that if we were in a bar, all of you would look very attractive to me. Wheee.

1:42 p.m.

Top Three Names for Your New Band:

  • Leather Insert
  • Squeal
  • Blind My Lion

3:19 p.m.

I saved a fantastic New Yorker cartoon years ago. It’s a drawing of two skater kids leaning on a telephone pole. The top caption reads, “Waiting for Godot, Summer of ’96.”

Skater 1: Well… Shall we go do some kick flips?

Skater 2: Yes, let’s go.

Bottom caption: They do not move.

11:28 a.m.

Yesterday I saw a piece of graffiti that read, “Bongo?”
I said, “Yes, please” and waited for drumming hippies to stampede out of Starbucks.
Nothing happened.

9:54 a.m.