Fetch My Flying Monkeys

So I was sitting at my desk yesterday wondering if Eric was going to live on True Blood working and I heard my co-worker next door girly scream. I asked what was up and she yelled "A SPIDER!" and I heard things getting flung around and more girly screaming. Being the quick thinker that I am, I grabbed my stick. I bet you're wondering what stick, aren't you? Well, one of my other co-workers reads this blog (Hi! I promise those cupcakes I brought in didn't really have ground glass sprinkles on them and I promise if someone in a black trench coat comes in shooting I won't point you out as a potential target from under my desk!) and she brought me a South Carolina Stick for scientifical stick science purposes and I kept it at my desk.

So my co-worker was screaming and I grabbed my stick and I went over to her. She pointed towards a little spot and yelled "SPIDER! KILL IT!" all hysterical like. I looked down and saw a wee little spider, like the Gary Coleman of spiders, nothing like the Satan spiders at my house. She was still girly screaming and I started to laugh. Then she started to cry, honest to God cry, and was all "I HATE SPIDERS! BOOHOO!" I said "It's cool, I'll kill it" but it was in a weird location where I really couldn't step on it so I took my stick and went to apply stick science and flick it on the floor and then my stick broke and I screamed "OH MY GOD! MY STICK BROKE!" all dramatical and she let out another girly scream and then I let out a girly scream (I love getting caught up in drama, ya'll) and she started crying more and was begging me to kill it. I looked down and the spider had moved and I couldn't find it. I dramatically yelled "OH MY GOD IT GOT AWAY!" and she screamed a scream at an even higher octave. Then I saw it and I flicked it again with one of the halves of my stick and it jumped! So I yelled "OH MY GOD IT'S A JUMPING SPIDER!" (like jumping made them ninjas) and she ran out the door, knocking over files and papers, and ran down the hall doing that insect heebie jeebie dance. Then I saw it on the floor and I applied shoe science to it.

After it was all over, people came over and started asking what all the commotion was. We announced it was the deadliest of spider species and that we barely escaped with our lives. "Just look at my stick! LOOK AT IT!" I exclaimed and held up the two pieces.

They looked at each other, then looked at us, rolled their eyes all smirky-like then turned and went back to their desks.

I mentally painted a bullseye on all of them. Those bitches are definitely getting pointed out.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (32) | TrackBacks (0)

I suffer from insomnia about every three to four months or so. It's horrible. If you've never had it you need to thank whatever God you worship. I go for weeks with sleeping, maybe if I'm lucky, four hours a night, but it's usually more like three. Some nights zero. I've tried the big sleeping aids like Ambien and Lunesta and they suck. Oh sure they knocked me out in the beginning but then the weirdness began to happen. I'd forget how I got to work in the mornings, I mean zero recollection of the drive and once on Ambien I woke up with my clothes still on, well, one leg was outside my jeans and apparently I had shaved it. One leg. I know. What the fuck? Anyway, I had to stop with the meds and just learn to deal with it best I can. Being an insomniac makes you a zombie. You're super, super tired but sleep doesn't come so you just run on auxiliary batteries you never knew you had, and you look at the world through a haze of exhaustion and a constant low buzzing sound in your ears, and you just function on auto pilot hoping you don't kill anyone because even with a bulbous head, you know you're way too pretty for prison. A plus side to insomnia is you have more time to think of ways to aggravate your pets.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (34) | TrackBacks (0)

My weekend was filled with a lot of screaming, hair pulling, death threats, and tears. Yes, I went clothes shopping. Jesus Christ. It's still almost 100 degrees outside and there's nothing in the stores but winter wear. What. The. Hell. And OH MY GOD, it was like EVERY store thought "Well it's the end of August, Fall must be here!" so they had their AC turned down or off and there I was misjudging my size again, because in my head I'm super thin and tall and smart with lots of friends, and as I struggled pulling jeans over my thighs the sweat started pouring off of me under the blinding cellulite-enhancing fluorescent lights. I finally just said "Fuck It" and went home and cried into a bag of Cheetos while sitting in front of a fan wearing my oversized "Frankie Goes To Hollywood" t-shirt and my elastic waistband pajama shorts and watched a movie the Internet told me to.

So I rented Kick-Ass and it was an okay movie. It is nothing like you'd expect it to be from the previews. I thought it would be about a bunch of do-gooders getting together to play super heroes with a lot of slap-stick comedy thrown in. It may have had a tad of that but mostly it was about a mentally deranged guy, Big Daddy, played by Nicholas Cage, whom I have loved since Raising Arizona (LOVED that movie), who's hell-bent on revenge. He trains and brainwashes his daughter, Hit Girl, to be his side-kick and they go after the dude who years earlier framed Big Daddy and sent him to prison. Hit Girl was clearly the star of this movie and the best/most disturbing part of it was watching this little ten year old slaughtering people with glee. I think she was ten, I don't know anything about kids and I'm too lazy to google it. Also you get to see an adult kicking her ass. Do not watch this movie if the line between movie world and real world is blurry for you and you're all sensitive about watching a crazy-ass murderous little kid get beat up. You rarely witness this kind of child violence in American film, but it really should be shown more often. I personally would pay extra to see a child punched out in every film. Oh hush, I kid, I kid. Or do I?

Anyway, for not really developing any of the characters enough for us to really give a shit what happens to them I give it two Ed Crying On Account She Can't Have No Baby:

And for its gratuitous violence and cursing and showing a ten (?) year old psycho kid getting punched in the face repeatedly I give it three Baby in the Highway, which means "pretty cool":

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (36) | TrackBacks (0)

Recently, I told you about the different birds of prey going after Jack, right? Don't worry, I walk out with him now, and no, he doesn't wear his lion suit. Well, it appears our squirrel population has gone down considerably since the appearance of the raptors. This is a good thing. We had too many squirrels and a few tried to eat their way into my attic. Fuckers. Also appearing at about the same time was a mysterious ice cream truck. Now this isn't a regular looking ice cream truck all brightly colored and cheery. No, this is like a pedo-truck of horror that clunks along with spray painted windows in the back, half of the body painted with grey primer and hand painted pictures of ice cream cones on it. Warped spooky circus music plays from what sounds like broken speakers as it prowls down the street. Now the thing I really wanted to tell you is, since the appearance of the ice cream truck, I haven't seen many kids in the neighborhood. That's right. So raptors show up and the squirrels are gone, and then a creepy ice cream pedo-truck appears and the children are gone. Maybe I won't move after all.

P.S. J just called and said I haven't seen the kids because school started and that I shouldn't be writing that children are being abducted by a creepy ice cream pedo-truck because normal people get upset if they think kids are being abducted and that he really shouldn't have to tell me this but I always get out of control with my stories. He also said he saw the ice cream truck and it wasn't that creepy looking and that it only had a small patch of primer on it. Gah. It's like he's blind sometimes.

P.P.S. J also told me that I am not seeing the squirrels because the days are getting shorter and they were nesting, not that the birds ate them all. Then I asked him why he hated raptors so. "Is it because eagles are raptors and eagles represent freedom, Mister Ice Cream Truck/Squirrel Scientist?" He sighed, then hung up on me.

P.P.P.S Here's an exact replica of that creepy ice cream pedo-truck. I photoshopped the driver in. It looks just like it except the tires have more air and there's more primer and less rust and more pictures of ice cream on it and it may be a little whiter, but the driver looks the same except less make-up and he may or may not have red hair:

P.P.P.P.S. And, J, here's a picture of FREEDOM:

IN. YOUR. FACE.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (35) | TrackBacks (0)

Saturday morning Richelle picked me up to go to the psychic. On the way there she said it was an Indian Psychic that her cousin's second husband's sister goes to and that he's so good he told her she was going to have a baby and she did. Richelle's cousin's second husband's sister that is, not Richelle. And I was all, "He'd better not tell me I'm going to have a baby. I don't want to see some baby psychic." And Richelle was all, "No, girl. He's good. He'll know you're barren and hateful." And I told Richelle she could go ahead and pay me now because I could see her future and it involved me kicking her ass. This continued all the way there, and by "there" I mean down a dirt road to a mobile home right next to the Congaree Swamp. "Jesus Christ," I said to Richelle, "I think I saw the name 'Serial Killer' on his mailbox." She laughed, and I laughed back, but as soon as we entered his home I wished I had come strapped. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe a room full of people waiting to go back behind a pair of beaded curtains. What I saw was a huge Indian dude with a long braid down his back sitting in a recliner eating Ramen noodles and watching the Disney channel with no one else around.

Richelle went first, going with Chief Ramen to the kitchen table. I sat there pretending I was watching Hannah Montana or some such Disney bullshit, but I was actually mentally planning my escape should the need arise. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and held it in my hand so that I could dial for help real fast and then maybe use it as a weapon. Yeah, I was sure an iPhone upside a 300 pound homicidal psychic Indian's head would do some real damage. Damn you Steve Jobs for not making a brick app.

All I kept thinking was, "Please don't kill us, please don't kill us" and then I told myself to stop thinking that in case he could read my mind and it would make him spring into action faster. Wait, I thought, he's a psychic not a mind-reader. Then I thought if I hear Richelle scream I'll run for the door real quick (Richelle would be on her own for making that barren and hateful remark) but he'd probably use his psychic powers to hold the doors shut and then have vases and shit fly across the room and slam into me. But then I thought "No, wait that was Carrie." "Burn me with fire?" No that was Drew Barrymore. I was sitting there thinking what a psychic serial killer's power would be when Richelle walked back in and Chief Ramen said it was my turn.

I sat across the kitchen table from him and he was just sitting there staring at me and I wanted to tell him I was born with this bulbous head, but he probably knew that being psychic and all. He kept staring and I was feeling uncomfortable and I wanted to open my shirt and show him my surgery scars and freckles so he wouldn't want to kill me and wear my skin because there were too many seams in it and the pattern was a bit off. But I sat there and looked back into his eyes thinking I'd use my own powers and I started mentally projecting my thoughts at him. "You do not want to murder this girl. I repeat, you do not want to murder this girl." Then he started talking about general psychic stuff, telling me things about my personality that really, could have been about anyone who is awesome, and then he told me I'd live a long time (long enough to get out of this trailer and down the road I thought) and that it would take a long time before I would be completely happy. Great. Then he asked me if I had any questions for him and I kind of went blank for a while. I finally asked him for lottery numbers and he frowned at me and said he didn't do that. I said "Oh, okay." He kept looking at me expecting another question and I was all "Fuck what do I ask him?" So I asked him "At what age will I die?" and again he said he didn't do that but that I would be old and he kept looking at me wanting more questions so I said "Will I ever be with George Clooney?" Then he looked at me like I was retarded and I thought "What the fuck Chief Ramen? I want to know. Maybe." I frowned and he started to get up and he told me I owed him $45 and I said "Oh, oh" because I had just thought of another question as I was handing him the money out of my pocket. He looked at me like "Wha?" after he took my cash and I held my left hand up and pulled the thumb back a little with my right hand and I said "My thumb hurts when I move it like that, do you know what's wrong with it?" I think at this point he really thought about murdering me, and he sighed and said "Go see a doctor." Fuck.

So basically I paid $45.00 to be told how awesome I was by an Indian. I still don't have any lottery numbers and I still don't know what the fuck is wrong with my thumb. But at least I'm alive and I ain't having any babies, so there's that at least.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (41) | TrackBacks (0)

I visit a few blogs on my blogroll that post pictures of half-naked women daily or every so often. I'll open the page sometimes and my eyes are slapped senseless by saline stuffed mammary glands and airbrushed ass. I like to read the comments on these entries because men looking at boobies are funny.

So a week or two ago I was over at Curtal Friar's Fountain Abbey and he was posting his "Daily Babe" entries and I noticed all of them posted that week were redheads. Of course me being the redheaded attention whore that I am and this being the Internet where the only thing that keeps me from having a multi-million dollar modeling contract is, well, REALITY, I had to comment that I was a redhead. Then I noticed he was having a poll on who was the sexiest babe he had posted that week and I kind of wrote my name in. I know. Sometimes I have cocktails when I read blogs.

So dude called me on it and wanted a sexy picture. Shit. But what the hell, right? I'm just as pretty as those skanks, I mean, if you kind of stand way back and hold your head to the right and squint. So I sent him a boudoir picture I used to send to George Clooney until the judge told me I had to stop just happened to have on my hard drive. At first I was all worried, thinking "I hope this doesn't turn around to bite me on the ass." You know, like one day maybe ruin my chances at running for president. But then I remembered that my world domination plans don't really involve being "voted in" so much as "taking over."

And because the Internet can be cruel, and just because I have a bulbous head doesn't mean I'm not sexy, I am asking you all to go HERE and rate my sexy boudoir picture 5 stars or more. Yes, write some extra stars in because I don't really feel that 5 stars could really represent all of my hawtness. I'm not posting my pic here because I don't want to be one of "those women" that are all "Oooo look at me and how sexy I am." Even though I totally am.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (37) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Laura at 01:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (0)

J lives in a in a different town. We don't live together and mostly see each other on the weekends. He's busy there, I'm busy here. During the week we talk a lot on the phone and we hang up on each other a lot and laugh about it. And I like to email him. My favorite thing to email him is pictures of meals I cook, especially his favorite dishes, then a picture of an empty plate. Because that's what you do when you care about someone. You torment them.

This past weekend he asked me to go help him pick out a chair for his bedroom because he had a big plasma TV put up and I guess now lying in bed isn't good enough. So I told him I would, even though it was 2000 degrees outside and just walking to the car ignited my hair. I am a hermit in the summer, y'all. We were on our way to a furniture store when I spotted a Pier 1 and wanted to stop to get some kitchen gadget items. I love me some kitchen gadgets. It's a sickness. Anyway, big mistake. I nearly passed out walking across the parking lot to the store and all I could think was that I needed to be at home in front of a fan and I didn't want to be shopping anymore. So we walked into Pier 1 and I looked over and I saw some chairs and I pointed to the first one I saw and said "You need to get that chair and then we can just go home."

J looked at it and said "That's a girl chair" and I told him he needed to stop being so sexist and to get that chair because it was cool and he said "Jesus Christ, Laura, it's not only a girl chair, but it's ugly and you just want me to get it so you can go home." I then told him that it doesn't get manlier than animal hide and that all he needed was a nice accent pillow. He was all "Yeah, an accent pillow called 'another chair.' I'm not getting that ugly chair." and then I called him a sexist cool chair hater and he was all "I knew I shouldn't have asked you to help pick out a chair." and I asked him what the hell that meant and he said something about "blah blah blah (sometimes I don't listen to all the words coming out of his mouth) you decorate with dinosaurs." I tried to act mad about the dinosaur remark so he'd take me home, but I started laughing and then I was suckered into going to the furniture store and picking out a chair. I didn't take a pic of it because it was normal and boring, but all the time we were in the furniture store looking at all the chairs, I would turn up my nose at most of them and say "Meh. It's not as nice as that cool manly chair at Pier 1."

And because I care, I've emailed him this about eight times since Sunday:

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (35) | TrackBacks (0)

I know that no one likes traffic and everyone likes to bitch about it, but I swear to God the situation here is out of control. I don't know if it was because it was the first day of school Monday, and all the stay at home moms were on the road picking up "little Johnny" instead of passed out in front of a soap opera, but every car I encountered, and I swear most were mini vans, seemed to do one stupid thing after another. They were all pulling out in front of me, turning with no signal, crossing the center lines; it was insane and the longer I drove the more I could feel veins bulging on my bulbous forehead and my Road Tourette's reaching critical levels. No one really wants to hear a rant, and I really don't like to rant, but sometimes you just get SO ANGRY and when I get SO ANGRY there's just one thing to do- write poetry.

You Really Need To Learn How To Drive
A poem by Laura Ledford

You're a hazard on the road and your driving sucks

I really wish we had flying cars and trucks

But then all you assholes would be in the sky too

And I'd still have to avoid a mid-air collision with you

So I'd arm my flying car with missiles and rockets
and I'd fire them at you
and then I'd hear you scream
and then your car would explode
and I'd see your mutilated body parts
flying up in the air all singed and shit with some of them still on fire
and I'd smile
and then I'd laugh
as your flying car plummeted toward earth
and I'd do a U-turn,
but only after signaling properly,
and I'd napalm the crashed remains just to be sure
and I'd be all "Ha! Pull out in front of me again, motherfucker!"
and I'd keep laughing remembering the look on your face
as you saw my rockets rapidly approaching your flying soccer mommy van
and I'd hold it as one of my most treasured special memories
forever and ever and ever.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (37) | TrackBacks (0)

It's 2000 degrees outside and I had to walk out to my mailbox and I think I passed out twice going, and three times coming back. Luckily I landed on the grass, because if I had hit the sidewalk I would have seared to it like a chicken leg in an ungreased stainless steel skillet, needing a spatula and Brillo pad for removal. But I'm really no worse for wear, just some minor brain damage (SHUT UP) and I can't put coherent sentences together (SHUT UP AGAIN). I know that's not new around here, but I want to direct you all to a few fun blogs to go visit while I rehydrate on some gin and tonics and bitch about the heat to my pets who are forced to listen to me because they have no opposable thumbs to hold a baseball bat to beat me unconscious and steal my car keys to go joyriding with the AC on full blast. This is the main reason I like animals best. I can't say the same about my so called "friends." Oh, speaking of thumbs, mine still has rabies and I'm about to go off on a tangent about that too so you better go quick and look at these blogs or go get a bat.

1. Resistance was futile. They have rejoined The Collective! My British friend Alison at a Dirty Martini is back to blogging after a hiatus. She takes the most beautiful photographs that are only out done by her writing. I love, love, love her entries about England and its history. Also back to blogging is my friend Gargs at Hedgehogs Running Amok. He's like the retarded cousin I never had and I love him like he's normal.

2. You know those ticky, tacky yards filled with flamingos, mermaids, and deformed lions you pass and think "My God, I would take a picture if only there was a site I could submit it to and earn points." Well, there is! Along Life's Highway Yard Art Game is the place. Even if you don't play (but oh, you'll want to) it's great fun to look at all the photos and read her hysterical commentary and scoring. So far I have only 8 points for my "Robot House" submission. There are plenty more tacky houses in my hood that I want to submit, but it's really hard when the court has ordered you so many yards away and you're really bad at distance measuring. Seriously, go look and go play. It's a fun blog.

3. Dan Pearce at Single Dad Laughing wrote an entry about cleaning out his basement and wanting to get rid of some furniture quickly. He didn't want to sell it, and he didn't want to load it up, so he put it in his driveway and listed it online for "free to first come, first serve." All he asked for were bags of M&Ms to be placed on his front porch in exchange. It was a social experiment to test people's honesty and I won't give away his results, but I seriously laughed picturing him at the part where he watched people loading up a piece of furniture from a window where they couldn't see him.

"Come on, where's my M&Ms, I kept thinking as I watched them load the last of it. They all got up into their truck and started to pull out of the driveway without leaving me with my sweet chocolate. Those frickin' crooks. What is wrong with the world?"

I thought it was a cool idea and at first I thought if I did it I'd ask for Circus Peanuts, but then I thought if I gave away a piece of furniture I'd ask for something bigger and better to be placed on my porch, like the body of a dead clown, or a dead DMV worker, or something else equally evil. I have to iron out details though so I'm not implicated. I don't think I'm too good at social experiments.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (28) | TrackBacks (0)

J called me last night and asked how I was and I told him my thumb was still hurting. He told me again to go see a doctor. I told him I didn't want to go and that I thought I had thumb rabies. He was all "There's no such thing as thumb rabies, Laura" and I was all "You don't know that." He said he did know that and then started telling me all about rabies, well, HIS version anyway. But I stopped listening to him right after he said there was no such thing as thumb rabies because all I heard was "blah, blah, blah." When he stopped talking I told him that I should call Make-A-Wish because I think thumb rabies might be fatal and I want to see if I can't be put on the list for a wish before my disease got all gross and shit. He sighed "Don't tell me, you want them to arrange a meeting with Clooney AGAIN" and I could hear his eyes rolling through the phone. I said "That's right and this time they better not hang up on me." Then J told me again that there was no such thing as thumb rabies and that Make-A-Wish was for little kids and that they weren't pimps for celebrities and their stalkers with made-up diseases. Then he made me promise I wouldn't call them. So I promised, but I had my fingers crossed on my good hand behind my back and even though he was on the phone and couldn't see me he said "You have your fingers crossed don't you?" I then called him a witch and told him to stop using his devil magic to spy on me, and he said "No. I just know you." So I said "Well, you know what comes next then" and I hung up on him. And because apparently Make-A-Wish is some kind of adult-hating Nazi group that's prejudiced against people with thumb rabies, I emailed J a wish list so he won't feel all bad when it turns out I do have thumb rabies and he feels all guilty and shit. I am thoughtful like that.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (34) | TrackBacks (0)

I can't even explain my absence. It's like my couch is a portal of some kind and I lose huge chunks of time there. When I wake up my butt doesn't hurt so I don't think I'm being abducted by aliens or anything like that. The animals don't seem to have been affected because they've all been in some kind of mischief so it's not a gas leak. It's like my whole vacation I've been slipped date rape drugs without the date. Weird.

I may not have had the date, but I got the dinner. I made Cincinnati Chili. As a kid, my mom used to take us to Skyline Chili restaurant and I would eat this stuff like it was cocaine and I wasn't five. A bunch of Greeks ran the place and it was EXACTLY like that sketch on SNL, were they were loud and screaming at each other constantly and throwing things. This is when I learned that all foreigners are scary, but they make good food. This stuff is so good that I can't even begin to tell you how good because you will throw yourselves out of windows and shit because you don't have any. Oh, speaking of which, I watched a documentary on Dr. Kevorkian the other day and it reminded me of a friend I had, Elizabeth. Elizabeth and I were best of friends and pretty much shared the same ideology. We promised each other that should the other get really sick and in pain first and was unable to do it for ourselves we would perform the "final exit" for the other because you couldn't depend on, or even really ask, a relative to kill you. We were both redheads and everyone knows redheads have no souls. So that was all settled until one day I had a really bad ingrown nail and she came at me with a pillow to smother me so I fired her as my "death friend." So now I'm taking applications, but I have to be specific that I MUST BE TERMINAL or really, really fucked up otherwise my inbox is going to be overflowing.

Now here's the recipe for the chili because I may be soulless and don't believe in Hell, but I don't want to be responsible for you all hurting yourselves, you know, in case I'm wrong.

Posted by Laura at 03:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

I received a few comments and several emails inquiring into my well-being yesterday since I didn't blog. Most asked if I had OD'ed on Cheetos or Circus Peanuts. Only one person thought that I may have actually found something exciting to do and I think that was spam. Well, the answer to all of them is "no." I have, however, been watching even MORE TV. Yes. I called my satellite service and told them I was on a Couchland Vacation and the channels I had were kind of sucky and I joked that I needed more and asked what deals they had. Well, long story short they gave me ALL the movie channels for a total of $1.00 more for six months! Yes! It pays to joke around, people. Way better than trying to sex talk them, which, truth be told, was how I lost my Time Warner Cable to begin with and had to go to satellite. Anyway, by the time I hung up I was watching True Blood in Spanish. Aye carumba vampiro!

So now I have like 4000 channels and there's still nothing to watch so I rented a few movies which I am now going to review for you all because I want you all to know I'm not dead, just on vacation and NOT IN CALIFORNIA.

The Crazies. This movie was not worth the rental fee. It's very predictable-government accidently releases a biological warfare agent in a small town and all the townsfolk go all homicidal except the hero and his pregnant wife and a couple of disposable people. The moral of the story is "even the military can't contain crazy, so you're best off just staying the fuck away from people." That is pretty much how I try to live my life but without the bad acting. Biggest eye-rolling moment of this film? Surviving a nuclear blast in a semi-truck. Yeah. Okay.

I give this film one Happy Retarded Arnie with a Bug though for a great scene through the car wash.

And three Crying Retarded Arnies for thinking the public is too stupid for good, original horror stories.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. This is a Swedish mystery movie based on the first of a trilogy of books. It tells the story of a disgraced reporter getting hired to solve a 40 year old murder, then partnering up with a hacker. It is an engaging story, probably because it's filled with sex and violence, and although it's semi-predictable, it is told very well. I enjoyed seeing scenes of Sweden on film too.

I give this film three Circus Peanuts because it makes you want more but you know after three you'll just be sick of them so thank God it's a trilogy.

And one Pissed Off Old Lady because it's subtitled and it made me go find my glasses.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBacks (0)

I am really amazed by how many people have a talk show and how many judges there are on TV. It's been a long time since I've been home during the day and I really think that people who do it full time deserve some kind of medal or at least extra pyschological benefits on their health insurance policies. Another thing that surprises me is the number of "dating" shows there are. And by "dating" shows I mean shows where a bunch of women show up, then whore themselves to some kind of loser "star" that's not really a star at all but a wannabe or a has-been. When did prostitution become legal and televised? I really think that whoring should stay where it was meant to be, in truck stops and college sororities.

I've had every intention of cleaning my house while I'm off work and NOT IN CALIFORNIA, heavy duty stuff, like closet cleaning and shit. But I think there's a gas leak in my house because I always end up unconscious on my couch. And then when I wake up, I have to see if Sha'nika is finally going to tell Ray J that she used to be a stripper and she still lives with her baby daddy. Then the gas fumes overcome me again and the next thing you know another day went by and I haven't cleaned a thing and I'm Tivo'ing reruns of "Disaster Date" and I realize the only way I'm going to get to California is to whore myself on a reality show but I can't even make it to an audition because I'm unconscious on my couch. It's a vicious cycle.

Posted by Laura at 07:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (35) | TrackBacks (0)

It's been a while since you all have had a Crazy Betty update, but Sunday afternoon I heard sirens and looked out and there were firemen running up to her house. I didn't see any flames or smoke, and I'm not sure if insanity is flammable or what, so I really don't know if her house was on fire in there or if she took a crazy ride to Imaginary Brimstone Land and she called 911. Anyway, it was nice to see the firemen being all fireman-y, which means hawt. If I hadn't just woke up from my Couchland vacation to the sound of sirens and Jack barking and had had time to brush the Cheetos out of my hair, I may have casually walked outside, you know, to see if I could be of any assistance as I arched my back and licked my lips.

Oh, and have you all ever gone into YouTube and noticed the links to other videos on the side so you click them and you're all "what the hell?" because the next thing you know you're watching a video of someone getting a giant boil lanced and you're all "Fuck that's gross" but you keep clicking one after another of all the related videos then you're searching "giant cysts lanced" and pretty soon you're thinking "These aren't that gross." and you know you've just desensitized yourself to pus and you think "Wow this is what Paris Hilton's boyfriends must do."

Now here's the second day of my vacation that I am not spending in California:

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Posted by Laura at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

Sometimes things happen through the week that make me laugh, or piss me off, or just make me wonder, and the first thing I think is "I should blog that." But I don't because I'm not sure I should, or I just forget, or I see something shiny on the carpet. So I'm going to start doing a random list of things I should have blogged about that week. This will probably go like everything I ever start here as a series. Which means it will probably fail, but oh well, it's good for an entry today and that's what's important.

Things I Should Have Blogged About Through The Week But Didn't

1. I was on the phone with India this week. Well, I wasn't supposed to know it was India and I can't say why because it pertains to work. But anyway, I'm talking to "Steve" and apparently it's "Steve's" first time talking to an American and he seemed all nervous and he kept mispronouncing things and he kept putting me on hold. It was kind of ridiculous and I was about to get really angry, but then I pictured "Steve" as being Aziz Ansari from the TV show "Parks and Recreation."

When "Steve" came back on the line and started fumbling around I just started laughing. Then "Steve" started laughing and we were both laughing, like, really hard. I said "Listen "Steve", if that's really your name (and we laughed harder), just relax and give me the info, spell what you can't pronounce." Then he whispered "Thank you, I don't know what I'm doing." We both busted out laughing again. It was the best Indian call EVER.

2. I was going to rent the movie "The Crazies" but I'm really tired of sitting through crappy scary movies. It got me to thinking though about crazy people, mainly crazy people in insane asylums. I got to thinking that it'd be really confusing if a patient in a mental institution got really good at drawing on the walls of their cell with their feces and the guards and other patients would say "That looks like shit!" and they'd wonder if they were talking about their art or their medium and then it would drive them even crazier wondering and they'd probably end up being in there longer. Anyway, if anyone has seen this movie, let me know if it's worth watching.

3. I have a friend who lives in an apartment and she was complaining about the noise her upstairs neighbor makes. Apparently he plays his stereo and tv loud and stomps around all heavy footed. She said when she's tired, and fed up, she will bang on the ceiling with a broom handle. I told her that if she ever gets really pissed she ought to set her apartment on fire. That would shut him up. She just kind of looked at me and said "I should know better than to ask you." And I said "Yeah, you should."

4. I was at a New Age Store this week because I use goat's milk soap (yes, I really do-try it sometime) and I noticed these New Age-y stones:

A bunch of them had meanings like "prosperity", "wealth", "money" so I bought a bunch because I need to start buying more lottery tickets and working towards my retirement. Sadly, I'm not getting any younger and I am up for anything that keeps me from having to eat cat food on my Social Security. FACT.

5. Have you ever been sitting home alone in a leather chair and you had to fart and so you did, because you're home alone, and it comes out like encapsulated in a bubble and it travels back and up and doesn't toot until it exits the top of your crack and you laugh for five minutes because well, it was like something that only happens in an awesome cartoon and then you get kind of sad because you know the odds of you ever doing that again must be astronomical? Yeah, me neither.

6. I am off work ALL next week. Again, I do not know what I am doing, maybe trying to beat the odds? I don't know. All I know is I'M NOT GOING TO CALIFORNIA.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (36) | TrackBacks (0)

So J came over the other day and I was all laid out on the couch with a wet washcloth on my face holding my stomach and moaning and he asked me if I was sick. "No." I said, "I usually lay on my couch with a wet washcloth on my face holding my stomach and moaning." Then he looked at the coffee table and he saw a half eaten bag of Circus Peanuts and he's all "Damn, Laura, you know those make you sick. Why in the hell do you eat them?" I lowered my washcloth and explained to him that they are delicious and that they called out to me with their orangey artificial flavored sugary marshmallowy evilness in the check-out line at the grocery store and I was too weak to resist. Then he's all "Oh My God did you eat half the bag in one sitting?" And I screamed at him to stop shaming me but he started to laugh and said "They make those things for children whose taste buds haven't even developed." I told him to stop laughing at my pain and he said "What did you eat for lunch?" And through my washcloth I said "THOSE WERE MY LUNCH." Then he wasn't even trying to hide his laughter. And I'm all "Shut the fuck up, dude, it's not funny and just get rid of the rest please, I never want to see them again." But he wouldn't let it go and says "You live your life like you're twelve and your parents left you alone for the weekend." and he laughed harder. At this point I really wanted to stab him, but I was too dizzy to get up off the couch and find a knife so I just told him to shut the hell up and that I really meant it this time. Then from under the washcloth I heard cellophane rattling and I lifted the edge of the cloth in the direction of the noise and it's J closing the bag of Circus Peanuts and heading towards the kitchen and the trash can. "Wait!" I yelled. He stopped in his tracks and turned and I said "Before you throw those away, hand me a few." He didn't. Circus Peanut Nazi.

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Some friends and I were talking about Mel "Sugar Tits" Gibson the other day because talking about batshit crazy stars makes us feel better about our poor, untalented, insignificant lives. We were talking about how he had divorced his wife of 20 plus years and had a baby with some Russian musician octomom-looking skank and how recently he knocked her teeth out of her head. She released recordings of him ranting like a lunatic, dropping the N word and C word like this homeless crazy fucker I met on the subway in NYC once. Yeah, I'm a crazy magnet. But anyway, we were talking about Mel being insane and about him probably never having to suffer any consequences for his behavior because he's like a zillionaire and how he even built a church and hired a priest to take his confessions so he's all set to go to heaven too, even though I imagine God doesn't like people who beat on women and hate Jews and black people. It's really not fair though that working class people have to behave and shit or tell our sins to some complete stranger who's not on our payroll in order to get into heaven. So I got to thinking about how I can rectify not only my own situation, but those of the common non-star, non batshit crazy people. Since I can't actually "build" a church, I'm thinking about a website where I can sell indulgences for sins and have a priest or preacher or voodoo priestess or someone on the payroll to do the actual absolving. I'd design the site with a pic of T-Rex and his flip-flops all ready to smite someone to hell and then for a fee I would sell sin vouchers. Not only would I sell vouchers for past sins, but I would have a line of preemptive vouchers for sins you know you are going to commit in the future. It won't only be available online, but also in kiosks in bars and strip clubs and I'll even sell packages, like maybe something like "The Vegas Package" which would include one fornication/adultery and three lies and will be for sale on every flight in and out of Vegas. Maybe even have a "frequent sinner club" which would earn points and offer discounts on minor sins. Hell, I'll probably even have an iPhone app for the person on the go who knows their soul is in constant danger of being flip-flopped. You know who you are, Gargs.

Now don't you all go running amok sinning all over the place waiting for the sin vouchers to be available. It's not built yet and you're not Mel with his own 24 hour God hotline. I'm pretty damn lazy, slothful even, so you better have a back-up plan. I personally am going to go for that Last Rite thingy. Yeah, I'm about as prepared for this as I am my retirement, aka "lottery tickets."

P.S. Now here's a picture of a sleeping baby badger dreaming of a world where I learn proper English and sentence structure:

P.P.S. Oh, remember how I was saying that I was in AIT at San Antonio and was drunk at the Riverwalk a lot and never fell in and no one I have ever known has fallen in and how I think there's a force field around it? Well MorningGlory's daughter Jean at My Life is an OIF veteran and is living in San Antonio and I think she should do some investigating for us and go there (with a life vest on of course-safety first!) have a few beers and then do a balance beam routine on the edge and maybe some pirouettes. For scientifical research of course. I think I'll email her. I really do think there's a force field around that thing.

P.P.P.S. I want to thank everyone who voted or will vote for me at Blogger's Choice Awards. I haven't completed my list of empty campaign promises yet, but when I do I will certainly remember each and every one of you. Maybe I'll give away some sin vouchers, or used lottery tickets.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (37) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to tell you all, but last week it happened to me AGAIN. Someone wanted me to look at pictures of their new grandkid! As you know, I don't care for babies and I pretty much think newborns are hideous looking creatures. The only good thing about this experience was my friend just had pictures, no actual baby was present. So, she's all "Oh my God look at my new grandson!" and she thrust the photos in my face. I took them from her and the first pic was of her daughter in a bikini when she was about 25 months pregnant. I said "JESUS CHRIST!" and my friend looked at me and said "What?" "Oh, I just find it odd that pregnant women want to show their bulge, that's all." and I swallowed the bile that had collected in the back of my throat. "Yeah. I guess I should take that picture out." she said.

I flipped to the next photo and there was a newborn with it's face all scrunched up, wearing a hat and wrapped in a blanket. I flipped to the next and it appeared to be in some kind of incubator and was again wrapped up with a hat on. I said "There aren't any jello shots in here are there?" My friend cocked her head and said "Jello shots?" "Yeah, where they just popped out of the factory with red jello like shit all over them and you can see the factory doors in the background." I was promised there were no "Learning Channel" shots, so I started looking through the rest of them. I finally came to some where you could see it's head and it had a lot of hair for a baby, so that was good.

Now, like I told you before when I am forced into a reaction over someone's baby, or baby photos I will usually just say "Look at those tiny hands." and make an exit. But I didn't see any of it's hands! I knew I had to say something as I was handing the photos back to her. My brain raced. She reached for the photos as she looked me in the eyes, smiling. I opened my mouth, then quickly closed it. She said "Isn't he just the cutest?" I thought of his full head of hair and big round head and said "He's nicely formed."

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I was walking Jack the other morning while the temps were only in the mid 90's. We were walking past one of the many "colorful" houses on the outskirts of my neighborhood. And by "colorful" I mean "total crack house." Anyway, we're walking along and I noticed a strange, wild haired, squinting man standing on the porch smoking a cigarette and staring. The porch was decorated with a dirty stained-by-God-only-knows-what living room sofa and a matching recliner with a wonky broken back that was leaning to the left. He nodded his head and said "Hey" and I nodded back and said "Hey" and then I had to stop momentarily to yank Jack off of an empty case of Sudafed sitting by the road. The man walked towards the edge of his porch and said "Evah thought bout breedin'?"

It could have been my over-sized Popsicle stained USC t-shirt with the sexy sweat stain that was forming a V at the neckline, or my ratty hair that I threw up into a scrunchie without the benefit of a brush that caught his one good eye. I was a vision to behold. My look screamed "I'm Britney-off-her-meds-crazy, bitch, and I need some lovin'."

"Umm no thanks, I'm kind of in a relationship and I..."

"Your dawg," he yelled. "Have you evah thought bout breedin' dat dawg? My sistah-in-lah has a gurl weinah dawg."

"Oh. No, he's neutered. Fixed. Uh, castrated." I sputtered back, relieved, yet oddly disappointed that he didn't mean what I first thought he meant.

"Damn shame. He's a nice lookin' weinah dawg." Then he turned and went back in his house because, I assume, his latest batch of meth was ready. I looked down and Jack was looking up at me. And I said "Dude, you totally got propositioned, and you're welcome."

P.S. OH MY GOD, ya'll! George Clooney nominated me for Best Humor Blog! I told you he was reading me! Ha! I was all "What the hell?" but then the Attention Whore in me kicked in and I am now going to pimp for votes! Soon I will be making outrageous campaign promises! You have to sign up once, then VOTE FOR ME because the more attention I get, the closer I get to Clooney happier I am! Click this thingie here:

A vote for me is a vote for FREEDOM! Thank you for your support and attention.

** You will not get spam for signing up at that site. Just uncheck the box that asks if you want updates when you create your account.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBacks (0)

Ya'll need to go over to Teresa's at Technicalities. She went to San Antonio, Texas and published some of her lovely photos of the Riverwalk. I commented that I went to AIT, Advanced Individual Training for you non-military types, at Fort Sam Houston which is right up the street from the Riverwalk. I frequented the Riverwalk a lot while I was there and to this day remain shocked, shocked I tell you, that I never fell in the river and drowned. To say I drank a little while I was there is an understatement. But this isn't one of my insane military stories. No, I'll tell them later.

The Alamo is right down the street from the Riverwalk. I died at the Alamo, well, not really died. But I was hung-over there once so badly I thought I was going to. It's a wee little place, the Alamo is. That's the first thing you notice. I just figured people were smaller back then, you know, from rickets and scurvy and rabies. They probably didn't have any mayo for their bacon sandwiches either. Not to mention they were probably all ate up with VD from the hookers along the trail. Not only did they have no mayonnaise because it would spoil without refrigeration, but the Old West, in my mind anyway, was filled with nothing but little men and dirty hookers and rabies and VD. Kind of like Mississippi is now, but not as bad.

Anyway, go over to Teresa's and check out her pics. And while you're looking at them, imagine a sexy GI there on the sidewalk. Yeah, he'll be the one holding the hair on my bulbous head as I'm hanging on to one of those trees moaning "I dun't feel too gud. I think imma gonna puke."

P.S. I think I need to stop writing about VD so much. But VD is funny. Probably only if you don't have it though.

P.P.S. J called and said I ought to work for the Mississippi AND San Antonio Travel Councils.

P.P.P.S. I think I should explain that I have never been to Mississippi, but I knew a girl from there once and I hated her, so now Mississippi is dead to me. Sorry Mississippi, but it's your fault for letting her live there. I do like spelling your name in my head as I type it though, so there's that.

P.P.P.P.S. J called AGAIN and said it would take a team of psychiatrists a week to unpack all of the crazy out of this entry. Freedom hater.

P.P.P.P.P.S. It just occurred to me, I'm like a fucking historian. I should do a series on PBS about the old west. I'd hire a bunch of porn star actors, midget ones. You know, because they were all small back then.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. J just called yet AGAIN and said I shouldn't say "midget" that I should say "little people." Jesus H. Christ. Not only does J hate freedom, but he hates midgets. I'm not going to change it because then the terrorists win.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (31) | TrackBacks (0)

My thumb has been hurting me for months now. I haven't gone to the doctor about it because well, it just hurts when I move it a certain way or when I press on it for hours trying to figure out just where it hurts. I have casually said to everyone who will listen to me "my thumb has hurt for months." They all start out looking at me with concern and say "Oh, maybe it's arthritis." And I'm all "What the fuck? Why are you giving me an old person disease?" Then they all say, "Maybe it's from overuse." And I say, "Gee, I don't hitchhike that much." and roll my eyes at them. They then get all agitated at me and gruffly say "Well, go see a doctor." And I explain that a doctor will just tell me to get an x-ray. And they all snap "Well, then go get an x-ray!" And all I can say is "I don't want an x-ray." Then they all just stare at me for a few minutes and then walk away. All rude and shit. It's like no one cares.

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We've had a bad storm amost every day for two weeks. It doesn't cool the place down either. Oh contraire, mon fraire! It makes it even more tropical and stifling. We've started huricane season too. This year they're predicting a bad season, but they predicted that last year and we didn't have one hurricane. The weathermen are usually wrong anyway. Weather Science doesn't seem too reliable. So this year I'm going to go by Wonky Nipple Science. And who has the ultimate pop-up turkey timer wonky nipples? Why Britney Spears of course. This was the latest photo I saw of her:

Here's a closer look:

According to the Britney's Wonky Nipple Doppler Radar System I better go stock up on toilet paper and bread.

Posted by Laura at 09:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

So it's hotter than the surface of the Sun here and I told J we should take a vacation because we never take vacations. He thought I meant to the mountains for a few days but I said "No, I want to go to California" and he's all "What's in California?" I told him I liked Southern California, particularly San Diego. It's not humid there and we could drive to LA and stay for a few days too. Then he's all "Oh, I get it. You want to go to Hollywood where Clooney lives." And I said "Hollywood is where a lot of movie stars live." Duh. Then he said he really can't take much time off because he's all important and busy and besides he wasn't going to take off work so I could stalk George Clooney. I tried to tell him that if I wanted to stalk Clooney we had better go to Italy and then he said he'd take me to DOLLYWOOD Tennessee to maybe see a star and ride a roller coaster but that's it and then he laughed. Maniacally. This pissed me off so I told him to forget it. But I didn't forget it. I started emailing him pictures and travel deals to California, hundreds, nay, thousands of them, all day long. Finally he sent me an email back that read he really couldn't take me to California, maybe in the fall, and to please stop sending him all the California spam. So I did. But not before drawing and sending him this:

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (28) | TrackBacks (0)

I just got an email saying I've been banned from another Columbia news site forum. That was the last one, four all together. I swear I didn't do anything. All I did was comment on a story featuring a police artist's sketch of a robbery suspect:

Here was my comment or something similar that the freedom haters deleted:

Jesus H. Christ. Who does these suspect drawings for the police department? The "slow" capuchin monkey at Riverbanks Zoo, or the police chief's four year old nephew? No wonder they never apprehend anyone.

Well, they can have all their stupid ass news forums. I don't need them. I'll be busy anyway, working on my portfolio for the new job I'll be applying for.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

So I dragged J to the grocery store with me the other day because I didn't want to go by myself because I think one of the weird bagboys wants me dead. He always asks me if I want paper or plastic and when I tell him plastic, because fuck the environment- I need kitty litter poop bags, he kind of lets out a disgusted sigh and then gives me the stink eye like he's picturing holding a plastic bag over my head and then after I stop struggling, stuffing my body in one of the large recycle bins out back the whole time he's bagging my groceries. J told me I needed to stop imaging that everyone wants me dead, but I suspect J just wants me to drop my guard. If you know what I mean.

So we're at the store and I told J I needed something in the Mexican aisle and he was all "Cool, I love Mexican food" and I said "That's nice, maybe Taco Bell will be open when we get out of here" and I started looking through the dollar Mexican Catholic Voodoo Candles and found one and put it in the cart and J pulled it out and was all "What the hell is this?" and I told him it was an Anti-Stink Eye Mexican Catholic Voodoo Candle and then he asked me what I was going to do with it and I told him that that weird bagboy was going to rue the day he ever gave me the stink eye and J just kind of rolled his eyes and then we got a big box of popsicles near the frozen food aisle. When we went to check out, the weird bagboy wasn't there and I leaned over to J and said "That's how powerful Mexican Catholic Voodoo is" and he said "Good, because I'm never going grocery shopping with you again." Religious freedom hater.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was in basic training in the U.S. Army we went to the field for one week (bivouac) and lived in a pup tent, dug a foxhole, played war, peed in a trench, went to classes, got greasy helmet hair, and qualified with a hand grenade. There were two parts to qualifying with a grenade. The first part was a course you ran with another soldier using hand signals and taking cover while sneaking up on an enemy bunker, and ending with throwing a training grenade in. The second part of qualifying was throwing a live grenade at a target at a grenade range.

They prepped us from the first day when they handed us our first training grenades to THROW THE GRENADE OVER THE WALL at the range. The reason they did this was, of course, because you could not only kill yourself, but you could kill others around you, including the instructing sergeant in the bunker with you. You were drilled over and over and over, pull the pin in front of you, aim with one arm, release spoon, count to three and throw. Whatever the fuck you do, THROW IT OVER THE WALL.

The day we were to qualify, they marched us up to the range and had us stand in formation. They had first platoon, which was the platoon I was in, enter a large semi-underground building. Inside stood several sergeants who we didn't recognize. These were the instructors that were going to be with us as we qualified. The first thing you noticed about them was that they were "nice." There was no gruff monotone barking commands. No indeed, they were our friends. They even smiled at us. They told us they were going to take five out at a time after they put a flak jacket on us. Each soldier would have an instructor with them and we would wait for the tower to inform us when to begin. We were to go through our steps and then THROW THAT GRENADE as hard as we could at the target and duck down and take cover immediately in the cement bunker we would be standing in. Then they took the first five. We stood 'at ease' in the bunker and waited.

I wasn't particularly scared until I heard the tower tell Lane One to begin, then scream "YOU'RE SHORT! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!" and the bunker I was standing in shook. Goddamn, how short was she? Then I heard the tower tell Lane Two to begin and once again I heard a terrified male voice yelling "YOU'RE SHORT! YOU'RE SHORT! GET DOWN!" BOOM! *RUMBLE* "Fuck, I'm going to die" was all I could think. Then I just started telling myself "Laura, just throw it. Throw it as hard as you've ever thrown anything." Hell, I played baseball with my brothers all through childhood. I could do this. As I was concentrating, picturing myself throwing that motherfucker to the other side of the world if I had to, I kept hearing the tower telling another lane to begin, then screaming "YOU"RE SHORT! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!" more often than not. BOOM! RUMBLE. Fuck. Apparently most of us weren't good at throwing. And we were all going to die.

Every time the instructors came back into the bunker to get five more soldiers you could see this look of fear growing on their faces. Our drill sergeant made a remark to one of them and the guy just raised an eyebrow and shook his head. He was scared. I was scared. "YOU'RE SHORT!" was the tower's mantra that day.

Then it was my and four others turn. I walked up to one of the instructors as I was placing my ear plugs in and he placed a flak jacket on me, all the while reciting instructions. And then he looked into my eyes and he said "Whatever you do, no matter what, THROW IT OVER THAT BUNKER WALL, okay?" "YES SERGEANT!" and we walked out to the bunker. As we were walking he asked me where I was from and started chit-chatting. I could not believe a drill sergeant was chatting with me all friendly like. Then we arrived at Lane Five. We took a seat behind the cement wall and waited.

Lane one threw. BOOM! "YAY!" I thought, it wasn't short. Lane two, "YOU'RE SHORT! GET DOWN!" Fuck. Lane three, BOOM! Yay! Then lane four, "YOU'RE SHORT!" BOOM! and dirt was showering down upon me as I sat there reevaluating my decision to be a soldier. Hail Mary full of grace. Then my instructor was there in front of me, holding my flak jacket by the arm holes, staring straight into my eyes, his face right in mine. "Whatever you do THROW IT AS HARD AS YOU CAN OVER THE WALL. GET IT OVER THE WALL. Okay?" His voice was as smooth as Mister Rogers. I looked into his beautiful baby blue eyes, I smiled and said "A'ight, Sergeant." The tower bellowed "Lane Five!" and I stood and my sweet, sweet instructor handed me my live grenade.

I looked over the wall and saw my target way off in the distance. It was a skeleton of a tank. "That's weird" I thought. I looked over to the side of my bunker and saw my sweet blue eyed sergeant instructor squatting down against the wall mouthing "OVER THE WALL" and a big thumbs up. I smiled at him, he smiled back. What a sweet man. "Okay Laura," I thought,"THROW THIS MOTHERFUCKER!" I stood sideways to the target, pulled the grenade up to my chest in my right hand, holding down the spoon, and with my left hand I pulled the pin. Then while holding down the spoon with the same hand I'm holding it in, I drew that arm back, took aim with my left and I released the spoon. I counted "ONEandTWOandTHREE" and I threw that bastard so fucking hard. I stood there and saw it going straight for the tank. "OH WOW! COOL! WE'RE ALL GOING TO LIVE!!!" I think I said out loud. Then before I knew what the hell was going on I heard something in the distance say "GET DOWN!" and I was falling backwards. What the fuck? I felt my back hit the ground and my instructor was immediately on top of me. What the... BOOM! Then instantly it came to me. I stood to watch my grenade go off instead of taking cover and my instructor didn't have a clue how far it went because he was squatting behind the wall. He yanked me back and covered me to protect me. Ahhh, how sweet. I told you he cared. After the boom he raised up and looked at me, mere inches from my face. I smiled and then for some insane reason, I think because I was so happy to just be alive, and I like doing crazy ass things, I made a kissy face at him. Yes. I puckered up my face and did an air kiss and a wink. His face went instantly from concern, to disbelief, to horror. "Umm you were to take cover after throwing it, soldier!" he barked as he was getting up and pulling me up by my flak jacket. "Yeah, uh, I forgot." And I started dusting the dirt from my BDUs. "Well, forgetting in war can get you killed, soldier. Don't ever do an asinine thing like that again! Do you hear me?!" "Yes, Sergeant." Damn, our love affair was over.

This taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life. Everybody just LOVES your ass and wants to be your friend and chit-chat and be all nice and get all up in your Kool-Aid and shit as long as you have a live grenade in your hand. But once that grenade is gone, they're all back to being assholes. FACT.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

I was in the book store this morning idly looking through their doodad stuff. I was looking through the bins filled with key covers and rhinestoned calculators when I saw a section filled with pocket Jesus and Buddhas. Several boxes of the pocket Jesuses (Jesi?) were opened with the Jesus missing. Stolen. Someone stole Jesus. A $4.99 Jesus. On a Sunday. I hope God smites them to death with his giant flip flop. Amen.

P.S. Here's how I envision the smite:

Posted by Laura at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

I woke up this morning all cranky and shit. Maybe I had a bad dream. I don't know. Ever feel like you could just kill someone? But in a big way. Like do it to where it would make the news. You'd have to do it and put a strange twist on it to make the news now a days. Maybe, I don't know, kill someone with your shoe, a flip flop, then turn it upon yourself. But who wants to hurt themselves? With a flip flop of all things. Only a crazy person would do that. I think I am really bad at planning homicide. I'm probably better at spontaneous murder. And I would never turn the weapon upon myself. Does this make me a bad person? No. Well, yes. What? But who the fuck cares what it makes you when you want to kill someone. I think that pretty much sets the mood of your day, don't you agree? What the fuck? I just woke up and I have a headache so all I can think about is murder. And pancakes. I'm going to murder a stack of pancakes and devour them like Jeffrey Dahmer and I'll get over it. I hope. Fuck. I don't have any pancake mix. But that's okay, because now I'm a cereal killer. My head feels better. The world is safe. For now. I'm wearing my flip flops, so be careful.

P.S. Those are Fruity Cheerios because Cheerios are healthier than Fruit Loops. Ever notice how the word "healthier" means "suckier" in almost everything in life?

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I just got home. This is the mess I walked in to find. It was up on the table, but apparently he's recruited Thelma's help and she delivered Mean Kitty to his doom. It was like a scene out of "Turistas" minus the blood, screams, and bad acting.

It's been a yucky week with a sinus infection, heat from hell, and doodles galore. Monday I'll have another military story for you all since you suffered with me through my "stick figure days." Oh, and we mustn't forget "Nipplegate." Blogging about Britney Spears' nipples? I hit an all time low, even for me. But I was delirious with fever. Yeah, that's it. It was the fever.

Oh, and again, I want to thank everyone for their well wishes, both here and in email. You guys rock. Seriously. No one listens to me whine and complain like you guys. Well, J does, kind of. He usually just rolls his eyes and tunes me out and pretends to listen though. Then there's my manicurist. But I don't think she knows English. And I pay her. And besides, I think she secretly hates me. So she doesn't count. That bitch.

Now let's all hold hands and lower our heads and pray Perez Hilton goes to jail.

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Apparently one of the symptoms of this crud I have is drawing bad doodles. The good news here is it's cooled down to 98 degrees. Burrr. Oh, and thanks for all the well wishes everyone, I am feeling better and on the mend, really.

Curtal Friar at Fountain Abbey wrote an entry all about Stick Science in honor of the fact I was the 500th commenter there. It's excellent. I think he's going for his scientifical PhD. Go have a read.

LeeAnn at Look! A Baby Wolf! got a new site. She left Blogger, which by the way people, if you're on Blogger, it's a pain in the ass to comment. Just saying.

Here's another pic I took of Jack and his rawhide using my Hipstamatic app on my iPhone. Did you all know I have an iPhone? Well, I do.

And finally, I watched this video today and my head nearly exploded from the badger cuteness, oh, and the sinus pressure:

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I feel like I'd have to get better to die. The antibiotics are kicking my ass. Apparently I'm allergic to them. I won't go into detail. No one wants to hear that shit so I rendered you a drawing:

That's me with my bulbous head and Sexy Bitch t-shirt. I figured if a picture painted a thousand words, this is my longest entry yet.

I'm sorry I had to be so graphic. Here's a picture of a baby badger to help erase the previous shocking image from your mind:

P.S. I have to stop eating so many green popsicles.

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I have a raging sinus infection and a fever. At least I think I have a fever. It's hard to tell when it's over 100 degrees outside and your house can only cool to 80. The only thermometer I own is one in an old fish tank and that's not going anywhere near my body because I'll probably get fish VD or something from it. I should have bought a thermometer at the pharmacy when I was there picking up my prescriptions, but the place smelled like sweaty ass from the sickly people waiting in line to get their fish VD drugs and all I wanted to do was to go home and stand in front of the refrigerator and eat popsicles. I'm pretty sure I do have a fever because I was surfing the Internets and came upon a story about Britney Spears dating her manager. Whatever. What caught my eye were Britney's wonky nipples. In every picture you ever see of her braless, her nipples are always pointing in different directions. It's like they hate each other and are trying constantly to be as far away as possible from each other, but are forced to live in the same house. Or like lazy eye nipples. One staring at you while the other's all googly and shit. It's confusing.

I found it comforting though, that in this country you can be totally untalented and insane and have wonky nipples and still be relevant and make millions of dollars. It gives me hope for us all. Whatever the hell that means.

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Yes, weekend entries are all about pet and food pictures. There's not any food pics to take because it's so fucking hot here I don't want to cook. This is going to be a summer of living on popsicles and frozen waffles. I buy those gigantic boxes of different colored popsicles because then it's like you cover all the food groups and shit. Red is meat and green is broccoli, like that. Mind over matter. If you don't mind passing out a lot and developing diabetes, it doesn't matter.

P.S. Apparently Big Mean Kitty is a time traveler!

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He was underneath the entertainment center.

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Friday Random Shit

Thursday morning I got up, went into the bathroom, hit the light and saw the biggest fucking spider running across the floor. When it heard me scream the fucker turned around and came straight for me. No shit. Due to my lack of housekeeping skills, there was a can of Raid sitting beside the sink on the floor left from my last battle with a bathroom spider. After I emptied half the can on his ass, he finally curled up and died. The lessons learned here are that bad housekeeping can save your life and spiders are fucking evil. FACT.

I'm all giddy about the new iPhone coming out. I skip every other upgrade version and this year is my year. So expect extra douchebagness around here for a little bit. Well, okay, for a long time. Well, okay, you probably won't notice any difference at all.

I got that pic from LeeAnn. It completely conveys my, and everyone I know with an iPhone's feelings. My precioussss.

For anyone who added me on Twitter, I apologize. I haven't really been in there for ages. I don't know what the hell I was thinking by joining so many social networks. I dropped in there the other day and went into the public section. Good God. I know I can slaughter the English language pretty well, and I have typos, misspell, and can't construct a proper sentence properly, thus making badgers cry, but man oh man this country's illiteracy problem has gone to a whole 'nother level it appears. It looks like most people have given up on even trying to spell and just throw a bag of Scrabble tiles down on the floor and then pick up random letters with their bare ass cheeks. Then they take those tiles and throw them at the computer like a shit slinging monkey and press "Enter." Badgers are committing suicide in droves.

English, motherfucker! sound bite  Samuel L. Jackson sound bites

 

Now here's a picture I took of Jack and his rawhide with my iPrecious using the Hipstamatic app.

It's suppose to be over 100 degrees this weekend. That means I will go into warp Five Crazy Joan Heads. Go over HERE to Sheri Gilmour's site to see what the hell I'm talking about. It's going to be a very hot summer. And when you can't do something about something, the only thing left is to bitch. So that's what we're going to be doing this summer, bitching. Again, you probably won't notice any difference at all.

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You know what I don't understand? I don't understand people thinking newborn babies are cute who aren't related to them. I seriously don't. I understand completely the parents and grandparents finding them perfect, but a non-relative? I don't get it. Newborns are ugly. They all look like a tiny Winston Churchill if Winston Churchill was conceived at Chernobyl, wrinkled and blotchy with misshapen heads.

Throughout my life friends and coworkers have had babies and then showed them off like they just bought an iPhone. "Oh, look at my baby! Just look at my baby!" I have seen all the other women ohhing and ahhing over the babies, and when they've been thrust in my face my standard reply is "Oh a baby, look at its small hands." Instead of saying what I am really thinking "Jesus Fucking Christ, is that normal?" Am I missing the "babies are adorable" gene? No, I don't think so. I think all you oohers and ahhers are lying your fucking heads off. I think you're just being polite thinking "Hmm, one day I may thrust my baby or grandbaby in their faces and they better repay the compliment." Yeah, you all aren't fooling me anymore.

From now on when someone forces me to look at their baby, I am going to hand them a business card I made up just for the occasion because they don't ever have to repay that favor to me:

Now here's a cute baby:

Ahh, look at the adorable widdle, bitty baby!

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Yes, I made that cupcake. And yes, I ate it. Usually I will cook his favorite meal, which is Parmesan Chicken, and send him a picture of it, then one of the empty plate. I am so romantical. I should seriously be a couple's counselor.

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First I want to complain about the heat, because that's what Sheri, and LeeAnn, and Joan, and I have decided to do a lot of this summer. Y'all it is just too fucking hot. I seriously think I'm going to burst into flames when I walk outside. This weather will even worsen here in South Carolina and stay until November. I plan on doing a video where I fry an egg on the sidewalk this summer. You'll probably hear a big thud in it as I pass out filming in the heat. Then the paramedics will have to use a big ole' spatula to scoop me off the cement. And people will run out of their houses with bread and mayo because they smell bacon frying. Seriously. I hope the paramedics arrive before I'm crispy.

There's a lady at work on Alli. It's a diet medication that makes fat indigestable, thus helping people to lose weight. I first mentioned it on Advice Asylum when I walked into the bathroom after St. Patrick's Day and the bathroom smelled like beef stew. Apparently, because you can't digest food properly, it exits like it went in. Now the bathroom smells like a buffet at the Golden Corral and it grosses me out even more than the regular odors there.

Speaking of Advice Asylum and the bathroom, I did an entry about the cost of toilet paper. Goddamn. Over nine dollars for a six pack of Charmin. We're all in the wrong business. Unless you're in the toilet paper business, then you're sitting pretty. And if you are in the TP business, can I get a discount?

Now here's a picture of baby badgers that will literally make your head explode from the adorable:

If you're not seeing some gray matter splattered on your screen, take a gander at this picture of a baby badger with a baby otter:

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I have been blogging for many years attempting to educate people. Some of you may remember my pie charts, graphs and FACT photos. Just recently I talked about Stick Science because Sheri Gilmour refused to poke a glob in her yard, and a few of you were later deputized.

Now it has come to my attention once again that I need to educate you people further. The current topic is Spirit Animal Science. For example, I wrote a small blurb at Advice Asylum about an evil spider that stretches a web every morning across my path, forcing me to swipe at it like a maniac as I go to get in my car. Sheri mentioned casually in the comments that spiders and their webs don't bother her. I then had to tell her that spiders are Satan's bellhops. When they bite you they take pieces of your soul. They wrap their evil web around it, form a handle, and carry it to Satan for tips. Fact. And also, on Sheri's blog, I talked about how bald eagles cried whenever freedom is fucked with. Her new blog theme stole my freedom to comment on her blog from work and bald eagles were crying. But the main culprits, of course, for making bald eagles cry are J and terrorists. Fact. Also because I was sending her my comments in email and she was cutting and pasting them I saw where typos were published. Typos, misspellings, bad punctuation, and bad grammar make badgers cry. I make badgers cry daily I'm afraid. Yes. You know it and I know it. I accept it. Badgers are mean assholes anyway, let them cry.

Yabu at Bad Bad Juju wrote about a bear almost attacking him and his friends once. Bears are Satan's nannies. Yep. That's why they're so protective and mean as hell. They also recruit. If one kills you, you have to babysit children for eternity in the afterlife. Fact. This is what makes them extra scary. So if one chases you, you better run like the motherfucking wind.

Now not all animals are in league with Satan, only some of the really mean ones and all of the icky ones. As mentioned before, bald eagles are all about freedom, and freedom's good. Chipmunks are all about chocolate, and for every candy bar you eat a chipmunk gets a stripe. Kittens run the Internet; this is why LOLCats is so popular. Turtles are all into cursing, and bunnies are all about capitalism. All these things are good.

I know you are all probably thinking to yourselves "How the hell does she know this? And what makes her such a goddamn expert?" The answer is I got it from my papaw and some Indians. My papaw told me stories when I was a kid. I think he learned them from his papaw. I'm not certain. Sure, they were both insane alcoholics and prone to visions from drinking shoe polish, but that doesn't mean they weren't right. And everyone knows Indians know their shit about animal spirits. And that ain't racist, that's fact. I won my Spirit Animal Science degree in a poker game at an Indian casino a few years back. And that, my dear people, makes me a Spirit Animal Scientist. Fact.

P.S. If you all aren't reading Sheri's blog, "Sheri Gilmour", LeeAnn's blog, "Look! A Baby Wolf!", and Yabu's blog, "Bad Bad Juju" then you are making a shitload of kittens cry. Fact.

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A list of stuff that happened over this holiday weekend-

1. I didn't win that Zombie Cross-Stitch Kit giveaway. Apparently my answer:

I would make it and give it to my meemaw. My meemaw is dead, but I am certain I will see her again, like, after the apocalypse. I would give it to her right before I bust a cap in her head, that way I won’t feel so bad. I would also take it back after, if it wasn’t too splattered, so I would have something of Meemaw’s to remember her by.

wasn't as good as:

I would give it to my friend Trisha. She’s pretty crafty. And it would give her fiance something to remember her by after she’s eaten. There’s no way she’ll survive the coming zombie apocalypse, but he’s pretty well prepared.

But I'm not going to be all jealous and petty about it. No. I'm going to be mature about it. I'm not going to say that the giveaway must have been rigged or that those people must HATE humor like J hates freedom. No. I'm just going to say "good." I didn't want it anyway. It would have been just one more thing in my house collecting dust. Na-na-na-na-poo-poo.

2. Dennis Hopper and Gary "Arnold" Coleman died. I knew Dennis was in a bad way from the last photos I saw of him, but I didn't know Coleman was sick. He was supposedly a crazy, violent fucker as an adult. I know he was annoying as hell as a child. Oh well. Now maybe he'll be able to find out what Willis was talking 'bout at last. Art Linkletter died too so that made it three. They always say it comes in threes, so I was wondering if Clooney's WHORE was considered a celeb after Arnold died. But it doesn't matter now. Art went and ended the Star Death Trilogy. Dammit.

3. Speaking of the WHORE. J thinks I may have to take it down a notch or two on my love for Clooney. Hi, George! Seems I've been getting another regular visitor to this here blog of mine:

J thinks it's George Clooney's legal people. I think it's a producer or something wanting to do a movie about my life. I will of course play myself. George Clooney will play J and I will also be the writer and director to guarantee there are plenty of wild, nude love scenes. Wait. What?

4. A lady who I see every weekend at the grocery store gave me a rose because she knew I had served in the Armed Forces.

How randomly nice is that? Yeah, I felt kind of bad because she approached me from my blind side and I elbowed her in the throat and then tasered her ass. I kid. I kid. Every time I think everyone in this town is an asshole, I get proven wrong. And that's kind of nice.

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In my excitement to announce that GEORGE CLOONEY READS MY BLOG I had forgotten to remind you all again that May is Zombie Awareness Month. If you follow that link, they have a blog and they are always having giveaways. I entered a giveaway to win a Zombie Cross-Stitch Kit. To win it you had to tell them who you would give one of the completed patterns to. This was my entry:

I would make it and give it to my meemaw. My meemaw is dead, but I am certain I will see her again, like, after the apocalypse. I would give it to her right before I bust a cap in her head, that way I won’t feel so bad. I would also take it back after, if it wasn’t too splattered, so I would have something of Meemaw’s to remember her by.

Keep your fingers crossed that I win. I'll find out later today I think. If I win it, I will hold one back for my zombie meemaw and then give away a completed one on here. Don't worry I won't bust a cap in your head after, I mean, unless you're a zombie or really irritating.

Now this is for George. It's a video that shows us together, George. We make a great couple. Don't pay any attention to my head floating in the air there. It does that sometimes.

Thanks again to my friend Sheri Gilmour who created these most excellent videos and believes that George and I belong together and she owns an iPhone. I also own an iPhone. Just saying. Call me, George Clooney.

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I wasn't going to say anything for fear of spooking him off, but what the hell, I like to live dangerously. Guess who has been reading this blog? Go ahead, guess. Give up? Okay, I'll tell you. GEORGE CLOONEY. Yes. My Boo! How do I know? Well, take a gander at this from my site meter:

Como, as in LAKE COMO. That's right. Where George Clooney lives. I've seen it coming in every day for a few weeks. EVERY. DAY. And staying. Probably oohing and ahhing over my genius. Maybe even touching himself, saying my name..wait...what?

Anyway, I told J about it (the visits, not about George touching himself)and he didn't believe me so I showed him my site meter summary and he said "It's probably his 'people' scouring the web looking for rumors on him. Either that or his security people have your blog picture on their blackberries now." And I told J "No it's him, I can feel it." He rolled his eyes. I told him jealousy was not his color and he said "Well, prison orange could be yours." Then J said "It may be his girlfriend who saw how you call her a WHORE and a succubus and she's calling her legal team in on you." I told him she could not dispute the truth in court so I wasn't worried. Remember, J hates freedom, which includes speech.

So, don't be shy, George. My email address is over there on the left side, near the bottom. Oh, and I made my banner just for you. Hope you like it. Call me, I have a coupon for one free beer at the tractor pull.

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My Deputy Junior Science Assistant, CBullitt, over at Soylent Green posted a picture for me. It was suggested in the comments that someone photoshop Jack in the basket instead of Toto. Of course I thought that was a great idea, and while I was in Photoshop I thought I'd go ahead and put my bulbous head in for good measure. Thanks, Deputy!

This is totally what I'll look like when the Zombie Apocalypse occurs. Yeah. Totally.

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I am so pissed! I wrote a big, long entry about qualifying with the hand grenade in basic training and my browser crashed and I lost it. I sure did. *Poof* Fuck! It was a long, rambling story like the war stories my papaw would tell, except my story didn't take place during wartime and I didn't kill any "Japs", or "get the clap from a whorehouse in Okinawa." It's probably all for the best that I lost it. No one wanted to listen to Papaw's stories. Why would anyone want to listen to mine? Papaw was a mean old coot and half crazy too. He'd force us grandkids to listen to his boring ass, made up stories. All of them ended with "and then I got the clap" too. Like he was sharing some old man wisdom with us or some shit. Being little kids we didn't even know what the hell the clap was. All we knew was Papaw was crazy, he farted a lot, and everything ended with him on antibiotics. To this day, every time I see the word penicillin I think of my papaw.

Now here's a picture of a baby hippo that I had on my links but I'm putting it up here because it makes me smile and I hate MovableType like Papaw hated the "Japs" and condoms.

P.S. I had written over at Nicole's that I would love to have this baby hippo or at least raise it until it got big. Then I'd set it free in the sewer system. Like people did those baby alligators years ago.

P.S.S. I hope you all know that I would never release an animal like this into the sewage system. No. I'd train it to kill people on command. Then be all "Oh my God, I don't know how he got chomped in half, Officer. Why, yes, I have a pool, and yes, that's my bag of Purina Hippo Chow there. Why do you ask?"

P.S.S.S. I really need to stop sharing my diabolical plans on here. It ruins everything. Like Papaw's stories ruined childhood memories.

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J and I were in the car the other day and as he was driving I was looking out the window and saw a big ole' eagle flying with something in its talons and it got me to thinking so I turned to J and said "Wouldn't it just suck if dinosaurs were still alive and you were driving down the road and a pterodactyl grabbed your car and like, at that point you couldn't speed away, so you'd just be sitting here buckled up and screaming waiting to be taken to the nest and fed to the babies." J looked at me like "What the fuck?" and said "For an adult you sure do talk about dinosaurs a lot." That kind of irritated me so I told him "Fine. I'll stop talking about them." Then a few minutes later I said "Cities would probably have to be built underground because the buildings and homes would get stepped on and all the dino shit would be everywhere." Then he was all "I think if we had our weaponry we'd destroy them. And I thought you said you'd stop talking about them." Then I said "Just because you hate dinosaurs, doesn't mean I have to." And he was all "I don't hate dinosaurs. I got you one for your birthday didn't I?" And I said "Yes you did. And by the way, how come you chose an allosaurus for me?" And he said "The allosaurus looked cool. Why, don't you like it?" And I said "Yes, I love it but I needed more air support, so I needed another pterodactyl." And he rolled his eyes and laughed and was all "Well, I'm not getting you a pterodactyl." And I said "So, you not only hate freedom, but you hate pterodactyls." And he said "If we were on the phone right now, I'd hang up on you." Pterodactyl hater.

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I took today off work and planned on sleeping late when I was awaken by the sound of sirens. Jack rushed to the window to see what was going on and I quickly joined him. What I saw will forever be burned into my corneas. My neighbor Crazy Betty's car was on fire and the firemen were just arriving. Crazy Betty was running around in circles in her yard, in her babydoll nightie, hooping and hollering and throwing her arms up in the air. "LAWD JESUS! LAWD JESUS! LAWD JESUS!" That wasn't the bad part, the bad part was every time she threw her arms up, her nightie flew up to show she was going commando. I kid you not. Jack yelped and ran back into the bedroom. I threw up a little in my mouth. I may have lost consciousness for a bit. It was horrifying. I hope I don't have nightmares.

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Last week I went to the optometrist because I don't see so well, and he flipped through my record and he said "Have you been going somewhere else for your contacts?" I thought "What fucking contacts?" and I'm about to leave thinking the guy's about to treat me with someone else's records but then I remembered that three years ago I had to renew my driver's license and I was forced into an eye exam so I could renew online and I had to wear corrective lenses so I got contacts. I think I wore those contacts for about four hours before I ripped them from my eyeballs and then rubbed my eyes for four more hours straight. That was it for the contacts. For the following three years I have gotten by living in a dimmer world where there were no crisp edges to anything, where people's facial features were all blendy, where I squinted and blinked to adjust looking at things from near to far. When I found that my arms were too short to hold a book at a distance where I could see the print, I decided it was time for glasses. I'm just like five or so years late.

The doc did my exam and told me there's no way I can go on without corrective lens and instead of saying "duh" I said "okay" and he told me I needed bifocals. What the fuck? I told him "No, only old people need bifocals" and he opened my record to look at my age and I secretly hated him and pictured a knife being plunged into his face and I told him I can't wear bifocals, I'll take reading glasses and he told me I needed distance too, that I will need them to drive and I told him I drive fine just seeing shapes and colors and he looked at me all shocked with his mouth open and he's all "No, you really need them." And then I'm thinking "Well fuck, this dude can narc me out to the DMV so I better get those old people glasses." So he led me out to look at frames and I'm all "Fuck. These are all made for small headed people" and I hated them all. Seriously, what the fuck am I, a bulbous head owner, supposed to choose? The dingy technician was no help, so I looked at the price tags as I held the glasses at arm's length and thought "Fuck, you just know this $350 flimsy frame cost them $5 to make" and then I remembered my old dead meemaw saying the same thing about stuff when I was a kid and thinking how old she was to say such shit and all I wanted to do was pick something out that didn't pinch my big fat head and get the hell out of there and go home where my animals don't judge me. So I picked out a frame that didn't pinch my big fat head and earlier this week I picked them up and they are just horrid and they make me dizzy and now I see how fucking dirty my house is. Fuck eye science.

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My cat Traxler is over twenty years old. For the past year or so he has had a bad incisor (canine) tooth. The vet and I decided not to risk putting him under anesthesia for tooth extraction since he was still eating well and any infection was kept under control with antibiotics.

Did I ever mention how awesome this cat is? He is. He's one of those cats that love people without being an aggravating asshole. He's also a cat who can not only extract his own tooth, but place it on your pillow for the tooth fairy.

Yes, that disgusting thing was on my pillow. And yes, I applied Stick Science when I first saw it until I could figure out what the hell it was. And right now I am doing laundry because all my bed linens were in the hamper. I fought the urge to leave a quarter under Traxler's cat bed cushion. But only because I thought it would push me officially into the Crazy Cat Lady Zone.

P.S. I know you all are asking yourselves how the hell does this entry relate to "Boner Week." And all I can say is, it doesn't. But if you saw a twenty year old cat tooth on your bed, I bet you'd lose your boner.

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I took Tuesday off for my birthday and since we were having probably one of the last decent days before the hot summer sets in, J took me to Swan Lake and we had a picnic! Yes, there is actually a lake around here called Swan Lake. When J first told me where we were going, I was all "Jesus Christ, I hate ballet, J." But then I thought it would be a great place for a boner story since Sheri and I decided this week's theme was "Boner Week" and those male ballet dancers in tights always look like they have a boner. Then J said no, it was an actual lake with swans and I said okay cool because I could play with my new iKillerRobot (YES!) there. Little did I know that there was a boner story about to unfold before my very eyes. No, you filthy fuckers, get your minds out of the gutter, I don't have sex in parks, my name isn't George Michael. No, I'm talking about this swan that was apparently on high alert for boners.

You know, when Sheri first suggested we do a boner theme week I was skeptical whether there were that many boner stories to tell. But I am starting to see that boner stories are all around us. All we have to do is look for them, much like this swan.

P.S. Do you know how you can tell if you have a super cool, great boyfriend? They get you a new Allosaurus to add to your dinosaur army collection.

P.P.S. I wrote about the very first boner I ever saw HERE. I think once you read it, some of you will probably think I deserved to be chased by Godzilla dick guy. But remember, the boy in the story was terrorizing the girls on the playground with his boner. He deserved what he got. It was boner justice.

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A few days ago I put up the link to Awkward Boners on my sidebar and have been laughing ever since. Sheri Gilmour wrote an entry about it and reflected back on the days she worked in a club amongst a sea of Middle-Eastern boners. This got me to thinking about all the awkward boners I have seen in my life and it brought back a repressed memory of sorts of the strangest, scariest boner I ever witnessed. This is a true story.

Years ago two of my girlfriends, Liz and Caroline, and I decided to go to a porn shop to rent a gay male porn movie. Earlier we had gotten into a discussion about what the hell gay guys did. Don't ask. We were very young. Al Gore hadn't invented the Internet yet, and we wanted to know, so we knew we had to rent some gay porn. Caroline was twenty-one and could legally rent it and Liz and I decided to go for moral support. We all loaded into Caroline's car and headed for the XXX porn movie place. We pulled into their parking lot and sat there giggling about a sign they had that read "Bring your own towels." Apparently they had a "room" in the back where they showed porn and the guys sat around and wanked. Yeah, like that place where Pee Wee Herman got busted. I bet the floors were stickier than fly paper. Gross. There's a job for Mike Rowe. Porn floor mopper. But I digress.

We were sitting in the car trying to build up our nerve to go rent a movie, when I turned and saw a dude walking out of the store and heading towards his car. The first thing I noticed was that he had this HUGE boner tenting his parachute pants, and I mean GIGANTIC. I was like "OH MY FUCKING GOD, look at his woodie!" and pointed. We all busted out laughing and the dude looked over at us. Then we realized our windows were down and the guy said, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?" I said "Your huge woodie, dude." I was always the loud mouth brave one. Then shit went from weird to weirder. The guy pulled it out and started whacking it on the side of what I assumed was his car. And by whacking, I don't mean masturbating, I mean he pulled it out and was knocking it upside his car hard like it was Godzilla and he was smashing vehicles and looking for Japanese tourists to crush. We stared in shock for a few seconds then we fucking LOST IT and started laughing so hard tears were running down our faces.

The guy just kept smashing his boner on the side of his car as we stared and howled with laughter. All of a sudden I think he figured out he wasn't in a porn movie and the three chicks weren't going to "do" him just by the mere sight of his mighty Godzilla pecker and that we were actually laughing AT him. He stopped slapping his dick against the car and his face got all red and scrunched up with anger and he yelled "You fucking bitches STOP LAUGHING!" Then he started walking towards us! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! We started screaming like little Catholic school girls. Liz and I were yelling at Caroline "GET US OUT OF HERE! OH MY GOD! HERE HE COMES! GO, GO, GO!" It was exactly like something straight out of a horror flick. The three of us were screaming, rolling up windows, frantically locking doors, Caroline fumbling with the keys in the ignition, dude with a crazed look in his eyes and his giant bruised dick in his hand heading straight for us. Finally after a few failed attempts, the car started and just as it was put in gear his giant red monster boner suddenly appeared pressed up against the passenger window. MY WINDOW. Yes, it was just a few inches from my face, separated by glass! We all screamed in unison with mortified horror. Then Caroline hit the accelerator and we fishtailed out of the parking lot. We continued screaming the first few miles on our way home, then fell silent, staring straight ahead, trying to absorb what had just happened to us the rest of the way home.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

That's the latest pic I put on my "real life" Facebook page. You know, the one where everyone from back home "friended" me, then they don't even talk to me so I made up a big fake life where George Clooney is my boyfriend and we party all the time and I rub it in their faces that my life is way better than theirs and they just want to kill themselves because their lives suck big green donkey ones compared to mine? Yeah, that one.

Speaking of exciting lives, I watched over five hours of "Swords: Life on The Line" on Saturday. It's like "Deadliest Catch" except they fish for swordfish instead of crab. I don't know what it is about these shows, but they are addictive as hell and I love them. And I know I'm late for this rodeo, but I watched Iron Man and can I just say that Robert Downey, Jr. is hawt as hell. He has officially been added to my imaginary boyfriend list. Yes, again, I am an imaginary whore.

Now if you'll excuse me, I better go. I think I read somewhere that there was a new show on Discovery called "Legs: Marshland Mayhem" about a bunch of frog giggers in some backwoods bayou. You just know that shit's going to be good.

Posted by Laura at 06:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

J refused to take me to Red Lobster to celebrate George Clooney's birthday yesterday. He was all "No. I'm not taking you to Red Lobster to celebrate Clooney's birthday. That's ridiculous." I told him he was ridiculous. I then I collapsed into a puddle of my own tears. Okay, it wasn't exactly a puddle of my own tears. It was some spilled water from Jack's water bowl. And I didn't really collapse, I just kind of slid. But I was still sad we weren't going to Red Lobster. I really like those garlic biscuits.

J called me later and said he'd take me to Red Lobster for my birthday next week. I told him no, I couldn't go to Red Lobster now. He was all "Why the hell not?" I said "It will just remind me of George. Now Red Lobster is George's and my 'place'." He was all "What the fuck?" and I explained to him that now I will have the memory that he refused to take me to Red Lobster for George's birthday so now it was George's and my "place." He then hung up on me. See what I mean? JEALOUSY.

Now here's a short film featuring two of my favorite things, George Clooney and zombies. Remember, May is Zombie Awareness Month. I don't know what that really means, just remember it. Many thanks to my friend Sheri Gilmour for these hysterical cards!

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

A Birthday Poem For My Boo
By Laura Ledford

Today is the day you turn forty-nine.
If it were up to me you'd already be mine.
But it's not up to me, this everyone knows.
You're living in Italy and dating stupid hos.

But I'll push that aside to wish you the best.
And you'll be with me after you've dated the rest.
Just as long as you use them, and not make them bridal.
'Cause if you ever get married I'll go suicidal.

I won't think about that now, and I won't think about that later.
For I know in my heart you're just a serial dater.
But I know when you meet me we'll be forever together.
'Cause you'll be locked in my basement, bound with strong leather.

So Happy Birthday George Clooney, may you have many more.
Now come be with me and dump that nasty-ass WHORE!

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (0)

Sheri Gilmour created this card just for me and I laughed so hard I had tears running down my face. You know you have a good friend when they indulge your insane delusions of grandeur. I wanted to share it with you all on this special Mexican holiday that we gringos have no fucking clue about.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

Not only is May Zombie Awareness Month of the Zombie Research Society, but May is also the birth month of two very important people. One being George Clooney and the other being me. That's right, my Boo and I are both May babies and this got me to thinking about just how much George Clooney and I have in common. So let's list a few of them, shall we?

• George was born May 6. I was born May 11.
  
• George is from Kentucky. I am from Kentucky.
  
• George played a doctor on television. I have played "Doctor."
  
• George has acted in a lot of movies. I have watched a lot of movies.
  
• George once owned and loved a pet pot-bellied pig. I love bacon sandwiches.
  
• George is a millionaire. I am a thousandaire.
  
• George owns a villa in Italy. I own a ceramic Christmas Town made in Italy.
  
• George likes pie. I like pie.
  
• George is friends with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. I like pie.
  
• George dates whores. I'm a wh...wait. What?

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

George Clooney's neighbor emailed me, ya'll! Oh yes she did. Emmy Award Winner Fightin' Mad Mary emailed me and sent a picture of the back of George Clooney's house in Studio City, California. Thank you very much, Mary!

That is my George's gate and those are his/our tennis courts and the top of his/our guesthouse.

This is what I'm talking about, people. Mary took time out of her busy day to send me this picture because she knows George and I belong together and no judge can keep us apart. Now there is just one degree of seperation between me and my Boo. Soon there will be none.

As soon as the soundproofing, door bolts, and ankle chains are installed remodeling is finished on the basement, I am heading for Studio City on my vacation. I shall not be long. Here's my itinerary:

P.S. In case you're wondering, the goat with the red bow is bait so George will come out and stare at it, as in "The Men Who Stare At Goats." And the chloroform and duct tape, well, anyone who's ever dated knows what those are for.

P.P.S. People ask me all the time what J thinks about my love for George. Mostly he rolls his eyes, and makes little circles with one index finger on the side of his head, which means he's pretty jealous and insecure about it.

P.P.P.S. J just called and said my picture wasn't so much an intinerary as it was "evidence." See what I'm talking about? Jealousy.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

It all started with Sheri Gilmour's blob and from that, Stick Science was born. Then Cbullitt at Soylent Green started spreading the Stick Science word. Soon after, the deputizing of Deputy Junior Science Assistants began.

Then the applications started coming in.

1. This was the first entry emailed to me by MorningGlory:

MorningGlory was mowing her yard, saw it, jumped off the lawn tractor and snapped a photo. She concluded that this was the work of parasitic brain-eating flies that had been released in Texas. I like that she did her research, but she didn't poke it with a stick! Right now I am prone to think that Ms. MorningGlory is an archeologist with scientifical tendencies. I am still deputizing her as a Deputy Junior Scientist Assistant. But always remember to poke things with a stick, Ms. MorningGlory!

2. Next is Yabu's entry of Bad Bad Juju fame:

He said it grew overnight and deduced that it's some form of body snatching alien life force. Please note that his trusty dachshund Stretch "Cornbread" was on the scene, much like Jack. Man, there's something in those Germans that just love science. This was an excellent entry with measuremments even! I am deputizing both Yabu and Stretch "Cornbread" as Deputy Junior Scientist Assistants.

3. Next we have an entry from Mel at Big Fat Nerve:

You know what I love about Mel's entry? Mel not only poked it with a stick, but she made her husband touch it. Mel, I not only deputize you as a Deputy Junior Scientist Assistant, but you get a big ole' Atta Girl! for enlisting your spouse as a possible human sacrifice.

4. This was emailed to me by Burgess in California:

Burgess wanted to warn me that the Weirdus Yardo Alienus Withsum Tentaclesi Thingie had made its way to California and apparently brought their pink super bounce ball with them. Burgess did not poke them with a stick because ice cream had just been purchased and it was melting. I am still deputizing Burgess as a Deputy Junior Science Assistant for having priorities. Nothing trumps ice cream, not even science.

I know you all are now asking yourselves "Self, what do I get for being a Deputy Junior Science Assistant?" Well, you not only get the warm fuzzy feeling of helping all of mankind with your scientifical science, but as a deputy, you now have fees. That's right. It's like a union. I'll be emailing out your first membership fees in the morning. Don't worry, I take Paypal. Good job, Deputies. Good job.

P.S. Here's a late entry emailed to me from Jean:

She thought it was her dog Clarence's work at first:

But then remembered she had had her yard aerated. Jean, you almost lost your deputizing for blaming the dog, but who hasn't at one time or another? It also appeared your dog was plenty mad at you and will probably make you pay later and I need more dues paid myself, so I am deputizing you as a Deputy Junior Science Assistant. Your invoice should be arriving soon.

Posted by Laura at 04:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

I found another Weirdus Yardo Alienus Withsum Tentaclesi Thingie today.

My science kicked in and I poked it with a stick, then placed it on a paper towel for further study.

Being the scientifical scientist that I am, I needed to get to the bottom of this once and for all. Was it Satan sent or Alien in origin? Since I know religion so well I'm practically the Pope, I decided to test the thingie first to see if it was demonic, so I placed it in my Exorcism Action Figure Prayer Semi-Circle and waited for a reaction. This time I wanted really, really strong Bible Magic so I added a voodoo doll and a sacred cow.

Reaction: No flames, smoke or projectile split-pea soup observed. No ceiling/wall crawling or other unholy reactive motions observed. No otherworldy reverb accompanied by satanic orchestra and/or Lucifer's boys choir observed. Subject appears docile when directly spiritually challenged.

Diagnosis: Benign spiritual entity but probably alien in origin. Contact Stephen Hawking and ask him for advice on how to proceed since I have not yet attempted direct communications with it but have allowed it in my home and it may have felt threatened by my Exorcism Action Figure Prayer Semi-Circle and/or Jack. Oh shit. Or being poked with a stick.

Action: Detain for futher study. Provide comfy chair, a cold beer, and the tv remote. Prevent Jack from provoking any intergalactic incident by annoying the visitor/pod any further.

OH FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. It's Stick Science Expo Week. So post a stick science entry on your blog and let me know, or email me your science find. Or not.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

Uh oh. I think my house is possessed. Yeah. I'm not talking about the diabolical spider that Lucifer sent on Earth Day either. This morning I opened the silverware drawer and saw this:

No, the dishwasher didn't do that. One day it was perfectly flat and straight and the next all bent. This is the work of evil. When I showed it to J he said I probably bent it in the drawer or something. I told him no, I would know if I jammed a fork in a drawer just like he would know if I jammed it in his arm and that it was probably a sign from Satan. He asked me "A sign for what?" and I told him that Satan probably doesn't like that I am educating the Internet about the Bible. He said "God probably doesn't like that you are educating the Internet about the Bible." Whatever, Freedom Hater.

I tried to pray the fork prong straight but that didn't work. I needed stronger Bible Magic so I set all my deities around and made a Exorcism Action Figure Prayer Circle like this:

Okay, more like an Exorcism Action Figure Prayer Semi-Circle.

It must be really evil, because it didn't budge. Then I tried that mind power ESP psychic stuff but I was too afraid I'd go all Firestarter and set my house on fire accidently. Then I thought "Shit, it's just stainless steel flatware" and I bent it back with a pair of pliers. Just to be safe though, I have designated it as J's fork only.

P.S. When J saw my Exorcism Action Figure Prayer Semi-Circle he said he knew what Jesus, Buddha, and T-Rex were doing there, but didn't know why I had a dog figurine. I had to explain to him that dog spelled backwards is GOD. Damn. I told him to stop asking stupid basic religion questions or I was enrolling his ass in Bible Camp this summer.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (0)

If you read this blog last summer you know that I have had a hell of a time getting a lawn service to show up, let alone do a good decent job. I fired my lawn guy last year because he started doing a really bad job and believe me, I pay good excellent money. Well, this spring I had several people stop by and leave their cards and estimates and I hired a guy. The first mowing was last week and when I came home from work I was happy when I pulled in and saw it had been mowed. Then as I got out of the car I looked around. Motherfucker. Fucker mowed AROUND the hose, didn't edge the sidewalk, hell, didn't trim around the house, didn't blow off the back steps, left the back gate open, AND didn't trim the hedges on the other side of the house. So I called the dude and left a nice voicemail asking that he call back.

When he called back I asked him about the things I just listed and immediately he went on the defensive and said he broke his hedge trimmer and he doesn't move ANYTHING and he did trim around the house and yada, lie, yada, lie, boo fucking hoo. I could not believe it. I asked him if this is how he did other's yards, and he started interrupting me and getting all pissy so I said "Listen to me, Motherfucker. SHUT THE FUCK UP. You know you did a shitty job. Don't fucking lie to me and DO NOT come back." Oh My Fucking God. I was so pissed, if he was standing in front of me I would stabbed him in the face with my grass trimmers I USED to trim around the house. I really would have.

So now I have to find new lawn people. AGAIN. I called three places the same day I fired the fucker and NOT ONE has returned my call. You can't even throw money at the lazy motherfuckers around here to get them to work. I am starting to believe that either my house was built on top of some sacred lawn mowing Indian tribe burial ground, or the fuckers have some kind of network and have me blackballed. Maybe I'll get a herd of goats. Yeah, then watch them eat AROUND the hose.

Posted by Laura at 08:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday was Earth Day and mine started out with a little run-in with a fox. I wrote about it on Advice Asylum. Basically I was getting out of my car and turned around and there sat a fox that I feared had rabies. Short story even shorter, it ran off and didn't bite me and give me rabies. But I am certain it wanted to. Oh yes, it wanted to, but Satan called it off because he had other plans for me. What plans you ask? This:

This was in my shower at home. Yeah. I tell everyone that I am more frightened of roaches than spiders but I gotta tell you, I squealed like a little girl and I think some pee came out. My first instinct was to burn it with fire. I had a can of hair spray there but no fire to make a blow torch. I was really afraid the fucker would escape (OMG NO!) if I left to get a lighter so I did the next best thing, Holy Water of the Bathroom. Yes, I scalded it with hot water. I am like fucking MacGyver sometimes.

It fought like a motherfucker trying to get traction to jump up and latch on to my face, but my Sacred Waterpik Shower Head and I were relentless. "The power of Christ compels you!" I screamed in between the girly squealing. Finally he lay lifeless and my scientifical science instinct kicked in and I poked it. I didn't have a stick so I used the next best thing, a backscratcher. MacGyverness again for the win. And to give you some idea of the size of this diabolical creature, I took a final picture:

Even with his legs crumbled up he's still the size of a T-Rex's foot. It also shows that good wins over evil everytime. Well okay, sometimes. Well alright, rarely.

P.S. Now, I'm kind of a nature scientist too and upon examination of this beast's carcass squashed in a paper towel, I have concluded that it was the kind they have in Australia that's so toxic you die like ten hours after even seeing one. So I'm going to have to call in dead for work.

P.P.S. Oh shit. I took pics and you all have looked at it. So I'm kind of indirectly responsible for all your deaths. Oopsie. Sorry 'bout that.

P.P.P.S. J called and said it was a harmless wolf spider. I told him I saw nothing harmless about a wolf and a spider reproducing. Damien's mom was a jackal. Gah. It's like he never even read the Bible.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been blogging for several years now trying to educate you people. Just last week I introduced Stick Science to you after Sheri Gilmour found some weird shit in her yard. When I posted that entry I hoped that you all would absorb it and pass it along. Kind of like leprosy, but without any body parts falling off. Well, I found someone who did just that. Cbullitt at Soylent Green did an entry spreading the news of Stick Science to his readers. I commented that I should deputize him and because I'm lazy and have no research funding, he had his own badge made which is way better than getting leprosy.

This is what I'm talking about, people. Listen to me, spread the news, and then reward yourselves.

I'm thinking we should have a Blog Stick Science Expo Week next week. Everybody needs to find some gross, weird blob in their yard, poke it with a stick, photograph it, and document your findings in an entry. If you don't have a yard, look in your bathtub drain or something. And don't be poking and photographing your spouses and neighbors and shit. We want real scientifical science here. So do it! Or not. But if you do, let me know, since I'm the head scientist of this project.

P.S. I'm like that Marlin Perkins dude who was on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom where I sit back and talk about tagging the lion and you all are like my assistant, Jim, who wrestles it and gets all fucked up and mangled.

P.P.S. Or I'm like Captain Kirk landing on a new planet and you all are my Away Team and you're all wearing red shirts and get killed almost immediately while some hot, yet bizarre alien falls in love with me.

P.P.P.S. Or I'm like a super rock star slash dancer slash zillionaire and my boyfriend is George Clooney and we spend most of our time, when I'm not on tour and he's not filming that is, shacked up in his villa, nude, making... Wait. What?

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

Years ago I used to run. I used to run every day come rain or shine. Some days, at least twice a week, I would run 15 plus miles at a time. I never ran under 6 miles. I was obsessed with running. Running made me feel invincible. I was Super Laura.

Then I killed that skinny bitch with Cheetos flavored kryptonite and boredom.

So now I'm attempting to get back into some kind of shape besides round and it sucks balls. And not tasty, awesome donut balls rolled in powdered sugar goodness, but big, sweaty, nasty balls rolled in stinky gym shorts of despair. But I'm not here to bore you with my diet and exercise plans. No, I'm here to bore you with my hatred of this WHORE:

That photo was taken two days ago. Yes, they are TOGETHER. That's the opposite of APART. Apparently my voodoo is broken. So I need to get down to my fighting weight and handle this matter once and for all. I don't know what that means. Hell, I don't even know what I just wrote. All I know is I just spotted a rogue M&M under the bookcase so I have to go now.

P.S. That rogue M&M turned out to be an escaped Excedrin Geltab. Shit. Very disappointing. Well, at least I don't have a headache anymore.

P.P.S. J just called me and told me I shouldn't be telling people what's all up in the Bible. I told him he was just jealous that I understood the Bible better than he did. He disagreed with me so I called him a heathen that hated religious freedom. He hung up on me again. Now my headache is back. Shit.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

It's been a while since I made a Stab List and it's not because I've stopped wanting to stab people and things. Oh, no. As a matter of fact, it's the complete opposite. I have found that I want to stab most people and things in my life, and it just got difficult narrowing down a few for a weekly list. So for now, I'll just list who I've wanted to stab in the last hour or so.

1. Steve Jobs for naming the iPad "iPad." I want one, but it's a ridiculous name. What the hell, Steve? It sounds like an electronic sanitary napkin. Was this an inside joke? "Hey, watch the sheep buy whatever I'm sellin' no matter what shitty thing I name it!" All I can say Mr. Jobs is "Baaaa." Yes, I will have an iPad, but I'm going to call it "iKillerRobot" because that's a way awesomer name.

2. All lawn care companies in Columbia. Last year I could not get one to show up. So far this past week, four have knocked on my door asking if I need lawn care. Grrrrrrr. STAB.

3. EVERY SINGLE PERSON driving on the roads in Columbia. Every. Single. One. I know what you're thinking, "Oh Laura, what makes you such a perfect driver?" And the answer is "Nothing." I just want everyone stabbed so I don't have to put up with all the traffic jams, having people pull out in front of me, being cut off, etc. And, you know, I don't have road rage either. Nope. I have Road Tourettes. I cuss constantly while I am driving. Imagine that, eh? Fucking stupid-ass drivers.

4. Bob Seger for not selling any of his music on iTunes. What the fuck, Bob? I know you're probably rich enough, but some of us would enjoy having your songs available to purchase on iTunes. Sure, I know some of you "artists" think you're too good or something, or maybe you make a few pennies less than a zillion in one arena compared to another, but damn, make it easy on your fans, you bastard.

5. My eye doctor who told me he accepted my vision insurance, then AFTER my exam he told me he takes it for exams only, NOT glasses. WHAT. THE. FUCK. It was like an old bait and switch scheme. And yes, yours truly now needs glasses. Uggh. And no, I can't stand contacts. Optometrists are fucking evil. FACT and STAB.

6. I want to stab myself for being a grown-ass woman who just ordered two of these pillows for her couch:

But they're just too damn cute.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

Me: "What are you doing?"

J: "Trying to get my taxes finished before they come after me."

Me: "Yeah. They'll come after you and throw a hood over your head, rough you up a little, and throw you in the back of a government van."

J: "I'll have to hide from them then."

Me: "If there's a reward, I'll turn you in."

J: "You would turn me in for a reward?"

Me: "Sure. And I bet they will pay more too when I tell them you hate freedom."

J: "You need to stop that. I do not hate freedom."

Me: "Terrorist."

J: *CLICK*

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't know how many of you check out the links I post over on the left sidebar, but I posted one last night that I have been enjoying all day. I think it's a comedic reenactment, but I watch COPS enough to know it sure could be real. I start laughing the instant Steve appears on the dash-cam riding his lawnmower all kicked back and drunk on his way to The Oyster Shack. That there is classic redneck drama at its finest. I probably enjoy this more than most people because I own a taser and I like the I-think-I-crapped-my-pants power it holds. I also thoroughly enjoyed Steve's big ole' crazy "I know my rights" dance at the end. Good times.

P.S. That reminds me, I finally found a guy to mow my yard! Let's hope this guy shows up, unlike last year when my yard went to seed and looked like an abandoned lot. If he doesn't, I think I'll hunt him down and give him that crapped-in-his-pants feeling. I've been wanting to test it on someone.

P.P.S. J just called and told me I couldn't tase someone just because they don't show up as scheduled. I told him he wasn't the boss of me and it's within my rights to tase them. I swear to God, it's like J hates freedom sometimes.

P.P.P.S. J reminded me that my taser has serial numbers in the barbs and can be traced back to me. Shit.

Posted by Laura at 04:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

Don't you hate going over to someone's house expecting a good time and then suddenly they pull out their photo albums and for the next two hours you're trapped looking at pictures of their fucked up family and pets and the boring places they've traveled to and you have to fake being interested when in reality you would prefer a massive aneurysm than suffer looking at another picture of them standing by a road sign and just when they've reached the last page of the album they pull out a movie projector and you're all "FUCK" but you sit there anyway because you can't think of a good excuse to leave and you're still waiting for that aneurysm? Yeah, me too. So let's begin, shall we?

When I spotted that sign I knew I had to have some. I swear to God, sometimes I eat like I'm 12 and my parents left me home alone with money and the keys to the car. Well, okay, I actually hot wire the car in my head.

Found another photo that Jack took on my iPhone of me in bed with, well, you know who, GEORGE CLOONEY.

Speaking of Jack, he's doing great and he's taking this time working on his World Domination Plan in Facebook. That piece of art was sent to him by a fan. I don't know what's more terrifying, the thought of Jack becoming world leader or the knowledge that an adult drew that. (I kid! I think it's a hoot.) It is now Jack's campaign poster.

And speaking of kid, just seeing how a goat would look in the new neighborhood.

Now, if your head hasn't exploded yet, here's the home movie part, so this should do it. This is a short video I took on my iPhone of Jack a few months ago. He's always been a jumping fool, but that career is over, which is okay, because world leaders just sit around being fools anyway.

P.S. Did you know I have an iPhone?

Posted by Laura at 04:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

I found this in my yard today and applied some scientifical science and poked it with a stick. I then flicked it onto a towel with said stick and photographed it because, as a scientist, you like to document your discoveries. Since I discovered it I get to name it. That's how we scientist roll. Its fancy scientifical name is Weirdus Yardo Alienus Withsum Tentaclesi Thingie. That's Latin.

*EDIT* As requested, here's a picture showing the size of the Weirdus Yardo Alienus Withsum Tentaclesi Thingie. I hope this answers your and Alien Thingie's questions.

Posted by Laura at 04:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

GEORGE CLOONEY has ended his relationship with his Italian girlfriend ELISABETTA CANALIS  WHORE, according to a report.

The Hollywood heart-throb has been dating the model/TV presenter since last July (09) and their romance was rumoured to have turned serious at the end of 2009, although a rep for Clooney dismissed reports of an engagement in November (09).

The couple is said to have split shortly after this year's Academy Awards ceremony in March (10).

A source tells Grazia magazine, "They'd been on the rocks since February, but held on to make it through awards season.

"They decided to go to the Oscars ceremony in L.A. together, but they didn't attend any showbiz after-parties together. George jetted straight out to Hawaii on his own for a few days later."

One of my readers, Jersey Jim, was the first to send me the news yesterday in comments. Words can not even express my happiness. I know you're suppose to be all sad for people that lose love blah blah yada yada boo hoo but this chick was a WHORE and succubus. Just look at how miserable and unhappy he looks. It's my mission now to turn that frown upside down naked. Wait. What?

To celebrate this momentous occasion I had a party last night. It was just my animals and I sitting around in party hats drinking Cherry Kool-Aid and watching "A Perfect Storm." I got a good sugar buzz going, then I started taking a shot of Kool-Aid every time the camera went to Mark Wahlberg's face and he was mouth breathing. Within 10 minutes I fell over into a sugar coma. Woot! Woot!

Posted by Laura at 03:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

A few days ago my friend, Sheri Gilmour, wrote a post about finding odd "piles" in her yard. Here's the picture she took:

She's convinced it's animal puke or poop, and not her dog's either. And I totally believe her. Her dog is like mine and prefers puking in the house. She also feels it's not a fungus. She's pretty certain it is puke too and not poop, but she's come to this conclusion without scientific testing. So I'm not sure. What "scientific testing" you ask? Poking it with a stick. Yeah, you heard me. She won't poke it with a stick. The reason? Because in the movies poking things with sticks has led to horrible consequences and she also gave an example, "The Blob."

Sure, that didn't end well. That's only because he brought the stick upright where the goo ran down onto his arm. This man was not properly trained to use science.

True story, I had an Airedale that pooed in the yard and it was all multi-colored and weird, so I found a stick of reasonable length and thickness and proceeded to poke it. Turns out there was a whole bread bag in it! Now, I was going through bread a lot back then and because of my scientific testing I was able to remedy that by moving the bread off the kitchen counter and up on the fridge. So see, science can save you money.

Science can also save your life. Say you're walking down a path and you see something shiny. Don't be bending over and picking shit up. Get a stick and poke at it. It could be a shiny snapping turtle, a bear trap, or a portal to Hell. You never know. Or say you shoot someone, and then go to step over them. No. Don't. Poke them with a stick first. That's right. Not your foot. They can grab your foot and trip you and take your weapon. Poke their bullet-ridden body with a stick before stepping near them. If there's still movement, empty the clip into them, then poke them again. Use your science, people. That goes for all bodies. Say a body washes up on shore you walk up on an unconscious person. Don't touch them, you don't know where they've been. Forget slapping them lightly on their face, taking their pulse, or attempting CPR. Just use your science by poking them with a stick, and then get the hell out of there call the police. The number one piece of equipment in police cars, fire engines, and ambulances is- that's right- a stick. FACT.

So in conclusion, I don't know what the hell that stuff is in Sheri's yard. But if she really wants to find out, because how can she even sleep not knowing, she definitely needs to get all scientifical and poke it with a stick.

P.S. Now Sheri's convinced it's bird poop or puke. So this is the suggestion I made to her- Probably pterodactyl poop. Poke it with a stick next time. The poop, not the bird. I mean, you can poke the bird, but it will probably piss it off and then it’ll grab you and carry you to it's babies on a cliff somewhere and feed you to them. And you’ll be thinking “Fuck. Just my luck to be fed to babies. Damn that Laura and her fucking ‘poke them with a stick’ bullshit.” So yeah, don't poke pterodactyls with sticks. Common sense, not science.

P.P.S. My friend Richelle just called me and I had to use science again. To make a long story short, she was going to go do something dangerously foolish (not pterodactyl poking though, thank God, but almost as reckless) and I told her she could get killed or worse, paralyzed. She then asked me if she became paralyzed would I come visit her and wipe her ass for her if needed. I told her I would wrap toilet paper on the end of a very long stick and would wipe her ass for her because she is my friend and I would then roll her back over with a different stick. I am a good friend who's practically a fucking scientist.

Posted by Laura at 04:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

J: "Jesse James has got to be one of the stupidest men in America, cheating on Sandra Bullock like that."

Me: "I know she's your imaginary girlfriend and everything, but she'd have to be really stupid not to know this was going to happen."

J: "Well, Sandra seems like a nice, real person so it's hard to imagine wanting to cheat on her with what he cheated with. And how would anybody 'know' something like this was going to happen?"

Me: "Listen, it's like if you bring a bear in your house and you feed it berries and honey. Sooner or later he's going to get bored with the berries and honey and fucking rip your head off and eat it. He's a fucking bear, it's what bears do. Same with bad boys. Sooner or later they get tired of the 'normal sweet girl' and are going to fuck around on them. It's what bad boys do. Accept it or leave."

J: "Wow. You should be a marriage counselor."

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

I found this site, Heifer International and I think one of you should give me a goat. Yeah, I know it's supposed to be for donating livestock to poor people in third world countries so they can start farming their herds. But fuck that. Charity begins at home, my home to be exact. And if they are that poor, they will just eat your donated goat and that's just wrong. Send them some cheese or something.

P.S. J called and said "Wow. You should work for a non-profit."

P.P.S. J also read about the cupcake caper and said he wondered why there was a hint of Fancy Feast Savory Salmon.

P.P.P.S. It concerns me that he knows what Fancy Feast Savory Salmon cat food taste like. Maybe you should send him some cheese. But still send me the goat.

P.P.P.P.S. I really can't have a goat until I move out of the city. So I should correct this to say "Buy me a house in the country so I can have a goat" but I am too lazy, and will just put it here. Buy This Heifer a Country Home. Thank you.   

Posted by Laura at 05:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

You know how you ask someone "How was your weekend?" and instead of them saying "Fine, how was yours?" they start telling you some boring ass story about some boring ass shit that happened over their weekend and you're kind of trapped like an animal listening to them and nodding your head and all you want to do is chew your leg off so that you can run away? That's what my "Retarded Pictorial Series" is like. Enjoy.

Retarded Pictorial Story of Something That Happened Today

While I was cleaning my house I felt industrious and made Red Velvet Cupcakes.

As they were cooling I sat down on the couch and fell into a Lemon Pledge induced coma and my cat Traxler licked off the top of three cupcakes.

I iced them anyway and took them to J's house.

Fin.

Shit. Maybe I shouldn't have told this story.

Now here's a picture from Jan of Cascade Exposures of a baby pygmy goat trying to chew it's leg off.

Posted by Laura at 09:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Laura at 09:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I have this on my sidebar under "Links To Enjoy" and I thought it was pretty creepy:

A couple of months ago my friend's cousin (a single mother) had gotten a new cell phone. After a long day of work, she placed her phone down on the counter and started to watch T.V. when her son came to her and asked if he could play with her new phone. She told him not to call anyone or mess with the text messages and he agreed to do so. At around 11:20 p.m. when she was getting tired, she decided to tuck her son in and go to bed herself. She proceeded to his room to see that he wasn't there. She went to her room to find him sleeping on her bed with the phone in his hand. Browsing through her phone, she noticed only minor changes such as a new background, banner, ect. and headed towards the picture section. She began deleting the pictures he took when she came across the last one... When she first saw it she could not believe it. It was her son sleeping on her bed, but was as if the picture was taken by someone else above him. It shows the left half of what seems to be an old woman's face.

Okay, that's spooky shit right there if it's true. It got me to thinking how I'd react to waking up and looking at my cellphone (which just happens to be an iPhone) and seeing a pic of me sleeping in my bed taken without my knowledge. Ghost or no ghost, that's fucked up.

So this morning I got up, and while getting ready for work, I picked up my iPhone and saw that my photo app was open. What I saw next was shocking. It was a photo taken while I was sleeping of my bed... here, see for yourself:

P.S. I was kind of mad that the only pic of George in bed I could find had him with a look of horror and remorse on his face. But then I thought that's probably pretty much how he'd look in my bed. In my head though, I would call it his "afterglow look" and then he'd make me pancakes.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

Holy hell. A flock of pink flamingos landed in my neighbor Crazy Betty's yard last night!

I didn't think we were in the migratory path of flamingos. It's a neighborhood mystery. Perhaps you can help us figure this out.

I may have to call the National Audubon Society to get to the bottom of this. I mean, if I cared.

P.S. For anybody wanting to read about the insane shenanigans of Crazy Betty just do a search on her over there on my search button thingy. Or not.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBacks (0)

I do my weekly grocery shopping early Sunday morning. I go then because there are less people and that makes me happy. This doesn't mean I get to avoid people completely. I don't know about everyone else, but it never fails that when I do my major grocery shopping I always have to deal with some self-absorbed asshole who blocks the aisle or gets too close to me while I'm searching for the new Springtime Oreos. I call these people my "Grocery Store Nemesis." They are my sworn enemy. Sunday I met the Lex Luther of all my Grocery Store Nemesis. Every single aisle I turned into, there she was blocking the way. If I stopped to look at something, she was there wanting to look at the same thing. This happened in every aisle of the store. And she even looked evil. She wore a pink baseball cap and had a look on her face that could best be described as "smelling shit."

I didn't see her as I headed for the checkout. Thank God. I was unloading my groceries, and was in front of my cart placing items on the belt and then BAM! there she was in line right behind me. Her cart was so close to mine there was no slipping around and getting behind it again. Well played, Shit Smelling Lady. I looked at her and she looked at me. I heard the theme to "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" in my head. I then thrust my cart back so it hit hers. Her eyes narrowed. My eyes narrowed, and between clinched teeth I said "Excuse me" all Clint Eastwood like. Well in my head it was. She reluctantly moved her cart back. I could feel the glare of her eyes on the back of my neck. After the cashier rang my stuff up I made certain I stood by the credit card machine a bit too long. Take that Shit Smelling Lady. You have to wait while I place the receipts carefully in my wallet and slowly put the wallet in my purse. Ha. I then thanked the bagboy and casually strolled out of the store.

I loaded the groceries into my car and as I was starting it up I spied Shit Smelling Lady exiting the store. My eyes narrowed and aloud in my car I said to no one, "Till we meet again, Shit Smelling Lady. Till we meet again."

Now here's a picture of goats wearing pink chains taken by Jan at Cascade Exposures.

P.S. You all probably think I spent all of my weekend at grocery stores because I wrote about an experience with a serial killer at The Fresh Market on Saturday on Advice Asylum. I went to The Fresh Market to get rotisserie chicken. Their rotisserie chicken is so good, I would marry it if it was legal. Wait. I live in the South. It may be.

Posted by Laura at 04:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

I added a vacation picture to my "real life" Facebook album so all my old "friends" can be all ate up with jealousy. Bitches.

My Boyfriend and I at the Himalayan Mountains
2010

Posted by Laura at 03:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

I think I am going to start doing a weekly series on here called "Retarded Pictorial Story of Something That Happened Today." Catchy, eh? I'll do it on the weekends because nobody reads the Internets on weekends and I can just get stupid here without drawing too much attention to myself. Words I live by, by the way. For anybody who doesn't know the significance of T-Rex, you can read here. Or not. You will just be thinking "What the hell?" But I think everyone thinks that here. So let's get started shall we?

Retarded Pictorial Story of Something That Happened Today

What the hell could this be?

OH MY T-REX! And he has a broken leg and a hospital I.D. Bracelet!

What the fuck was I thinking? He's T-Rex. He doesn't break bones.

And oh yeah, he's not real.

OH noes! I didn't mean it!

He's very forgiving.

Now here's a picture of John Cenna holding a baby pygmy goat.

P.S. I don't know why T-Rex's head looks blue, it's not. Must be my camera settings. Or maybe T-Rex is kind of like vampires. You know vampires have no reflections. Maybe T-Rex just photographs blue. I don't know. I'm not a paleontologist. Or the Pope.

Posted by Laura at 10:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

Fetch My Flying Monkeys is going to be going through some rearranging in the next week. Don't worry. Clooney, T-Rex and goats will still be a part of this blog. Hi Justin! By the way, I appreciate all the kind words from you guys. Seriously. Hearing from readers is a big ole' ego boost. Thank you.

The rearranging that will be visible to you will be kind of minor. One of the visible things you'll be seeing, for example, is my blogroll will have its own page so that I can add more links to your sites. I have not been good at this because well one, I'm a lazy slacker, and two, the outside columns would go all wacky uneven and that would drive me crazy. I mean, even crazier than I am now. I considered going to a two column blog for a sleeker look but I don't want to give up putting links in on the left. Besides, a sleek blog is the sign of a stable person. We cannot have that. Oh, speaking of links, in case you missed seeing this one, I am putting it up here because it's fucking adorable. I know it's not a goat, but it makes me smile.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, rearranging the blog. There may be a few interruptions in posting, but IT is working hard for that not to happen. That translates to J doesn't want to hear me bitch and whine.

Now here's a picture of a goat in a Ferrari.

P.S. Don't forget to leave the url to your site so I can keep track of you people!

P.P.S. Also check out Advice Asylum, where we stopped giving advice and went more with the asylum part. Seriously. It's insane there. Join in the on the crazy.

P.P.P.S. OH MY GOD! I just saw this commercial on tv:

Goats are EVERYWHERE! It's like a sign from T-Rex that I should have one.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

Me: "Hey, I was thinking."

J: "Uh. Oh."

Me: "Hush now, listen. I drive a Toyota and they seem to having those stuck accelerator problems and maybe I can use this to my advantage."

J: "I'm afraid to ask how."

Me: "Well, what if I had, say, a stuck accelerator in a parking lot. You know, as some of the assholes I don't like are going to their cars. And I'm like, 'Whoa, my accelerator stuck!' BAM! BAM! BAM! 'Oh Hell! I'm doing donuts now!' THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP."

J: "Well, I have about given up making the moral arguments to slow you down and will go straight into telling you why it won't work. First, your Toyota isn't one of the ones with the problem. Secondly, what are the odds that the three or four you want to take out are going to line up right in front of you like that. It isn't like you could keep claiming the same 'OOPS. Sorry. Stuck accelerator.' line every other week."

Me: "Perhaps I could bait them to get them all gathered together. You know, tell them all they won a contest or something."

J: (silence)

Me: "Dammit, I'm sick of you destroying my dreams. More pizza?"

Posted by Laura at 04:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

I was talking to J the other day about creepy ass shit I can't stand the sight of. Seriously I would burn my house down if I saw one of these in it:

The spider, not the lizard. I like lizards. He argued that you could just call in an exterminator, that there was no need to burn down a house. I'm of the opinion that a lot of things are just too damn evil for regular extermination. And some are like roaches, if you see one, there's thirty you don't. All of these things you need to lock in your house and then set it on fire to destroy them. Your house is forever cursed anyway.

So without further ado, here's a list of some of these things:

If I Saw One Of These In My House I Would Burn It Down Because They Are Totally Fucked Up And Evil And Must Be Destroyed With Fire

1. Any ugly ass insect that's big enough to eat lizards.

2. Any form of a ghost/demon/spirit/angel. That's right, an angel. If I see ANYTHING all floaty and shimmery and talking, I will runout, lock the door, and torch the house.

3. A clown or mime.

4. If Paris Hilton/Lindsay Lohan/Britney Spears used my bathroom.

5. A DMV worker/census taker/Scientologist/Girl Scout/Boy Scout/Brownie.

6. George Clooney's WHORE.

P.S. Speaking of exterminators, go read about my obsession with a new reality show I found on A&E this weekend- Billy The Exterminator. Why didn't someone tell be about this show before?

P.P.S. The Girl Scout can come in if she brought cookies. But really, she can stay on the porch for that couldn't she? So scratch that.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

J tried to tell me that a pet goat would serve no purpose other than to eat and poop. I told him "That's what all my pets do so that's no big deal." He said "Well at least they're trainable" (HELLO? Have you even met Jack?) and I told him my goat could be trained too. He asked me, "Trained to do what?" And I said "Well, I could train it to be a seeing-eye goat." He looked at me like I was retarded and then I remembered goats like to jump on things 

and also I wasn't blind. 

Then I quickly tried to distract him with the awesomeness of this picture-

and he stopped talking to me because he knew I'd want a monkey to go with my goat.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

J and I were in Target this weekend and he said he needed hair gel. They were out of his regular brand, so I picked up another and told him it was just as good, if not better than his. He was skeptical at first, but I assured him it was all basically the same thing. He threw it in the cart. Tuesday afternoon I got a call.

J: "You know that hair gel you picked out? I smell like an old lady. Like roses to be exact."

Me: "It does not smell like roses."

J: "It does too and I bet you did that on purpose."

Me: "What are you saying? That it's all part of my diabolical plan? That I made you get that gel so bees will be attracted to you and your old lady hair? That they'll sting you and your tongue will swell and you'll fall over gasping for air, and you'll try to call out for help, but help won't be there. Is that what you're saying?"

J: (Silence)

Me: (laughs)"Well?"

J: "Umm, no. I was trying to say you just wanted to make fun of the fact that my hair smelled like flowers. And I'm not allergic to bees."

Me: "Oh. Then I have an insurance policy to cancel."

Posted by Laura at 05:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

Everyone came up to me Monday wanting to discuss George and his WHORE. What a fucking mess. I am done discussing her. I'm sick of her. She just simply does not exist to me anymore. There's nothing more to say.

What I am going to say is, if you're not roasting all of your vegetables, you're doing it wrong.

Here we have Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, asparagus and onion. Always throw in some onion. Drizzle with olive oil, pepper, kosher salt and bake.

Words cannot describe the yumminess. You'll never want your veggies cooked any other way.

Apparently this goat still wants to discuss her. Goats are very in tune with people.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

I watched the doomsday movie "2012" this past weekend. It was alright. The special effects were pretty cool, but the story was pretty lame. It's about a couple of geologists discovering the Earth's core is heating up due to radiation from solar flares and, of course, the government plan is to save themselves and the rich and keeping the rest of the world ignorant about it so everyone doesn't go ape shit and mess up their plans before they can make a run for it. Now that part I truly believe. The part I found hard to swallow was our president STAYS and with a few hours remaining makes a broadcast and tells the world we're all fucked and then they show everyone crying and hugging each other singing Kumbaya and going to church. That's bullshit. Maybe a few folks will be doing that, but I, for one, am going out like a fucking lunatic spider monkey on crack. First thing I'd do is go loot some major electronic store. I'm going to grab a gigantic flat screen tv. Then I'm going to loot a grocery store, and grab all the candy, Cheetos and bacon I can carry. Then while I'm watching "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew" on my looted big screen tv while wearing my stained sweatshirt, fat pants and tiara and eating a bacon sandwich bigger than my head, I'm calling all the people I have ever been forced to be cordial to in my life and I'm going to tell them all what fucking assholes they are, and how I always wanted to stab them dead. I'll end every call with a maniacal laugh, after screaming "BURN IN HELL, MOTHERFUCKER! BURN IN HELL!" Then after I run out of people I know, I'm just going to start random dialing and telling those people the same thing.

That's my end-of-the-world apocalypse plan if I have warning ahead of time. Hopefully it won't turn out to be a false alarm. Gah. Can you imagine? Going back to work after you just told everyone off? I'd have to give back my big screen tv too. Piggly Wiggly would probably file charges. I'd probably be going to prison. I'm pretty sure I could carry and eat enough bacon for it to be a felony.

Posted by Laura at 05:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

Oh shit. One of them must have been hiding in the limo.

Posted by Laura at 01:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I not only have rabies, but I have had bad insomnia for over a week now. This makes me extremely tired and cranky as you can imagine. More than my normal tired and cranky. This is one reason why I sign up for all of the social media apps like Twitter and Facebook, because they can be put on my iPhone and I can use them laying down. I don't blog from my iPhone because iPhone auto-spell is insane and it'll look like a brain-damaged spider monkey wrote it. I mean, more than it does now. Anyway, because I also have Internet ADD, I've pretty much abandoned Twitter and am exclusively on Facebook for now. I've been working some more on my "real" account too. You know, the one where I lie about my big exciting, important life so that people from my high school will be in awe and all jealous of me and shit and want to kill themselves because they can't be awesome like me? Yeah, that one. I have on there now that I live in New York City. I've been scouring the web collecting pictures of New York to put in my albums. I wanted ones that looked like I took them, not some professional jobs. I wanted to stay "real." Because when you're lying like a motherfucker you have to stay "real." Hey, I think I'm going to embroider that on a pillow or something.

P.S. Jack is still getting friend requests and also invitations to join groups in Facebook. One of his invites is to join a group called "I'm Gay and Proud" and the other is "How To Make Love to A Gay Man." Seriously. I'm starting to piece together what he's up too all day when I'm at work. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

P.P.S. Did you know I have an iPhone?

Posted by Laura at 05:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

Things I Would Have Liked A Dollar For Today

1. I would have liked a dollar for every worker who spent over two hours this morning visiting and chatting and disrupting others before their supervisor came in.

2. I would have liked a dollar for every time someone wants to ride on my lunch order but never comes and asks me if I want lunch when they are ordering.

3. I would have liked a dollar for every car that pulled out in front of me today. It was raining fuckers, you shouldn't do that.

4. I would have liked a dollar for every asshole that pulled out in front of me who was on their cell phone. Unfuckingbelievable.

5. I would have liked a dollar for every car I saw trying to outrun an ambulance/ fire engine/ cop today. Again, it was raining today and that meant lots of emergency rescue personnel were on the roads.

6. I would have liked a dollar for every cat yak/hairball I had to clean up today.

Man, I would have made some serious cash today! And I didn't have to resort to violence. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I'd take every cent and buy knives so that I could stab, and stab and stab the fuck out of all of them.

P.S. "A high-powered rifle" would have fit in just as well as "a dollar" now that I look at it.

P.S.S. Although I enjoy firing a high-powered rifle as much as the next person, I think stabbing is a better stress reliever. It's more of an aerobic workout too, which is good for the cardiovascular system.

Posted by Laura at 05:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

Unlike Angelina Jolie and Madonna, I don't go around the world collecting babies. No, I just go to makemebabies.com and pop out as many as I like in a matter of minutes. Seems weird I know, but I don't have to worry about stretch marks, hemorrhoids or an episiotomy to see what a mini-me and some dude mixed together is going to look like. And the best thing is, I can just delete them when I'm tired of looking at their faces. No jail time.

So I went over there like a big ole' fertile whore fresh out of rubbers and experienced the miracle of creating a few babies. Personally, I don't see what the big deal is, but now that I have them my maternal instincts are kicking in and I feel the desire to drag them out in public and force people to look at my babies and tell me how beautiful they are. So look at my beautiful babies and if you feel the need to buy them gifts, like I hear people like to do, their momma prefers cash.

This is the baby Brad Pitt and I had together.

I didn't bother naming her. I'm selling her to Angie.

My next baby is one I had with "I'm Rick James, Bitch."

Yeah, I know Rick James isn't around anymore. Maybe that's why my baby didn't come out quite right. Maybe Rick's DNA was either fucked up from drugs or it wasn't refrigerated correctly. Either way, the kid's a total mess. I named him Worfie.

You think Worfie's strange looking? Look at the baby I had with Marilyn Manson:

Yeah. Spooky. Who would have thunk it? I'd bet there's three sixes on him somewhere. I named him Damien.

Now here is my "special" baby. This is the baby I had with Michael Jackson.

I know. What the fuck? They must not refrigerate those sperm tanks at all. I am just glad I didn't have to squeeze that melon noggin out of my tootie. Jesus. I had high hopes I would get a child with talent so I could quit my job and just manage her career via my diamond encrusted iPhone from Neverland Ranch while riding a unicorn, but I think I'm going to be lucky if she can learn to tie her shoes. Shit. 

They say a mother should never show favoritism. And I know I've only been a parent for maybe a half hour, but it seems longer. More like an hour. With my vast experience as a mother, I can tell you that mothers do have favorites. Here's mommy's favorite widdle precious bundle of joy:

I am not surprised that we make pretty babies together. Not. At. All. It's like God wants us to be together, except c'mon, if you read this blog you know there won't be any babies. We'll just go through the motions of making one. Constantly. Like, ALL THE TIME. Everywhere.

Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah...

So if you're thinking about having a baby, go to makemebabies.com to see what that little shit is going to look like. You can upload a picture of your husband, or boyfriend, or a random guy on the street and see how the baby is going to turn out. Forewarned is forearmed. If I can prevent just one ugly baby from being made, my job here is done. Just say no to ugly baby making.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I added another photo to my so-called "real life" Facebook account showing all my so-called "friends" what last year's pool party was like. Not only were there goats, but Elvis made a surprise appearance and T-Rex hogged the Velveeta fountain all day, proving once again that you can do whatever the hell you want when you're God, not to mention a T-Rex.

Posted by Laura at 06:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

I still have rabies. And something about having rabies makes me bitter and petty. Well okay, I guess I should say it makes me more bitter and petty. Remember that Facebook account I have where people from back home "friended" me then basically ignored me? Yeah, the account where that one fucker even "unfriended" me. Well, I'm redoing it. I am inventing an exciting life where I live in an exciting city, have a fabulous career, tons of marvelous friends and loads of money. I am busy now stealing pictures of other people's fabulous lives and putting them in my photo album. I think I will randomly post little statuses about my traveling to exotic locations and hobnobbing with the rich and famous. I may even create new accounts and invent some friends who will comment back with things like meeting me for Carnival in Rio this year. Shit like that. Right now I announced that I will be flying all my friends to my summer estate this July for a pool party. Here's the photo I posted:

Those fuckers will rue the day they ever ignored me.

Posted by Laura at 05:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

It was a suck ass day and to top it all off, my rabies came out of remission. When this happens there's nothing to do but post pictures and videos because I am too much of an attention whore to just skip a day of blogging. Aren't you glad?

Know what cures rabies? Baby pygmy goats.

Posted by Laura at 05:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

1. I am obsessed with owning one of these:

A pygmy goat. I've researched the care and feeding and even priced them. The problem is that I live in the city. I need to move, because my life will not be complete without a pygmy goat in it.

2. I have a new account on Facebook and would like for everyone to "friend" me. I dumped my other account where folks from school were adding me, then ignoring me, THEN "unfriending" me. Fuckers. Click this thingy and "friend" me NOW:

And DO NOT UNFRIEND ME. I don't care how annoying I become. Because believe me, I will become super annoying. I've been having fun on it so far. I am still looking for the quiz that tells you what kind of rancid meat you are. I am guessing I am like week old ground chuck.

3. I had to leave work early Monday because I felt pukey. I still feel a little pukey. I cooked a pot of chili after I got home. I wanted to cook it before the ground chuck went rancid.

4. I had to renew my CWP. I was hoping they had live human targets. They didn't. I called and asked. I just renewed online. Bummer.

5. I think I have road rage. I cuss almost everyone in my path. I don't cut people off, or pull a weapon, or even flip them off. I just cuss. Stuff like "Hey motherfucker, why don't you speed up?" "Get the fuck out of my way, motherfucker." I bet if I had a pygmy goat I wouldn't road rage as much. I think I will name my goat "Lil Motherfucker."

6. Jack has rabies.

7. Dogette and I are forming a "gang." We always come up with some crazy shit, then lose interest shortly after. We're like ADD bloggers. We're going to have gang colors and gang signs and crazy shit like that. Why you ask? Because we think it's funny. That's all you need to know, unless we invite you into our gang. And there may or may not be an initiation that may or may not involve killing someone. Well, not really killing, maybe more like maiming. And by maiming, I mean giving a wicked Indian Burn.

8. I still want one of these:

And I won't name it "Lil Motherfucker." I will name it "Daisy."

9. I am really into watching "Hoarders" on A&E. Jesus Christ. What the hell? A crew comes in with pitch forks and cleans their shit up. And most have collected actual "shit" too. It's so gross. So they clean it all up for them and you just KNOW within a few months they're back hoarding. Every time I watch it I clean out a closet or something. I'm waiting for a "Hoarders Marathon" to do my spring cleaning.

10. I want this too:

And I will hug him and squeeze him and name him George.

P.S. Oh my God, ya'll. I couldn't find the "What Rancid Meat Are You?" quiz on Facebook so I took the "What Crazy Bitch Are You?" quiz, which is kind of the same thing, but not, and it says I'm Courtney Love and at first I'm like "Ewww, no" then I read it and it's so spot on. My fave parts "if anyone messes with you or the ones you love, you will fuck them up." and "you are blatantly honest and sometimes people can find this a little hard to take but you really don't give a shit." Who knew Facebook quizzes were so insightful.

Posted by Laura at 05:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (0)

I have, for years, secretly kept a list of people who may want to murder me. Is that weird? I don't think so. I know I have a tendency to create situations in which my death would probably not be the worst-case scenario for other people. I don't do it on purpose. Well, okay, at least half of the time I don't do it on purpose. Well, okay maybe 30% of the time I don't, but that's neither here nor there. And just how ironic would it be that I end up stabbed?

It recently occurred to me that I should post the list here since the other runs a risk of being stolen or tampered with. I mean, it's not very secure in my desk drawer is it? It also changes from time to time, and it would be best to edit it here instead of say the "murderer" editing it. So here it is, as of this moment:

 People-Who-Should-Be-Investigated-in-the-Event-of-my-Death List 

1. J, for obvious reasons. C'mon. I probably drove him to it.

2. My neighbor, Crazy Betty. She knows where I live and By the Blood of Jesus she has zeroed her crazy in on me.

3. The reptile people at work. Yes, the ones who keep turning the heat up to 200 degrees. I (along with another normal temperatured person in the office) am a thorn in their side. I will always do battle with you, reptile people. You will be defeated, unless you kill me first.

4. Steve Jobs. He's always stealing from my iTunes account and I have publically accused him of this on my blog. Also, I have a working liver.

5. The Chinese. Because I am always bad mouthing them with posts like this and I refuse to shop at WalMart. I do eat their food though. A lot. That's probably why they've allowed me to live this long.

6. George Clooney's WHORE. I mean, I do call her WHORE and voodoo her skanky ass. She should not only be questioned in the event of my murder, but slapped around and maybe cattle prodded tasered, then slapped around some more. Yeah. Waterboard her, then slap her hard, then taser her again. WHORE.

P.S. Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if I really WAS murdered, and they actually DID use my People-Who-Should-Be-Investigated-in-the-Event-of-my-Death List to investigate?

P.P.S. Wait. No. No it wouldn't be funny one damn bit.

P.P.P.S. Except for #6. That would be funny. Maybe I'll fake my own murder for that. Yeah, fake my own murder. I'll implicate that WHORE. Set her up. Then take on a new identity. George Clooney will be mine at last. We'll finally be together and that WHORE will be imprisoned. Umm, nevermind.

Posted by Laura at 05:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

Most days I wish I could secretly fake my own death and run away and start over as an independently wealthy woman. I haven't worked through all the details on exactly "how" to make this happen, but the first thing I think I fucked up is the whole "secretly" thing. Word. I just decided I'm going to end each blog entry with "Word." Let's see how long that lasts. I'm already tired of it.

Posted by Laura at 05:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

Yes! I got VD for VD and it's adorable! I also got THE RABIES!

And my favorite- Gerbera Daisies!

P.S. Sorry about all the exclamation points. I get excited when I get syphilis, rabies, and flowers in the same day.

P.S.S. Oh, I love that the title of this entry is going to show up in all your readers and you'll be clicking over here to see if I actually did stab J. Because I would if it was for reals. Taser, then stab, then taser some more. Not that I've thought about it much. No. I'm just saying that's probably what I would do.

P.S.S.S. I know it's been a weekend of photos. But that's what an A-Lister does when they are busy with their exciting, busy life. There will probably be more pics this week. I am going to go see the robot dinosaurs at the museum. Rumor has it that T-Rex will be there! Sorry, another exclamation point. BUT IT'S T-FUCKING-REX!

Posted by Laura at 09:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Day 1: Confusion and Panic

Posted by Laura at 06:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

Valentine's Day is right around the corner. And every Valentine's Day I try to help you single women out there in your search for the perfect man. And since I'd have better luck hunting down a unicorn, I just go to OKCupid instead and review the menz listed there. This year I will be reading their profiles and "breaking it down" for you with what I think their likes and dislikes are. Because that says it all doesn't it? Likes and dislikes. I will also award them a personalized Valentine Bear. Because, well, I care. It's what I do. Care.

Here we have Stan-

Stan enjoys weekday adultery, clean bills of health, and walks on the beach with his one dimensional dog "Mystery."

Stan dislikes weekend adultery, three dimensional pets, and hats.

Next we have Specialist Anderson-

Spec. Anderson enjoys napping, dreaming of watching lesbian sex, and dreaming of participating in lesbian sex.

Spec. Anderson dislikes caffeine, reality, and honorable discharges.

Then we have Charles-

Charles enjoys believing in things, hallucinogens, and MAC Eyeliner with Smudge Pot.

Charles dislikes reality, Rogaine, anti-depressants, and removing his wedding ring when he takes pictures for a dating site.

Here's Sal. Sal had no profile info except for location and that he was looking for a lady. Sal felt his picture said it all. But it's confusing. It's either trying to say "Rawrr, I'm a sexy tiger in the water!" or "Sqqqqeeeeee! I sure got a purdy mouth."

Lastly we have John-

John enjoys high heel chairs, lava lamps and receiving titty twisters.

John dislikes housekeeping, spelling, capitalization, and dignity.

Posted by Laura at 04:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

Enough about me. Let's ask these people what they think about me:

My friend Alison wrote a blog entry about how many cyclists there seemed to be in London, and how rude they are. I made this for her:

Being an A-List Blogger means advertisers knock down your door to throw money at you for allowing them to advertise on your blog. I am very choosy and want to make sure the partnership is a good fit. I don't want just any ole' ad on my blog. So far I am in talks with these people:

Don't you just hate it when people post pictures of their food? Not me.

I know it looks kind of weird but that Swiss Chicken was delish. I made it EXACTLY like the recipe, except no egg noodles, and I added fresh mushrooms, capers and wine. Other than that, it's the same. Kind of. Not really.

I noticed that a good many of the blogs I read are in the middle of a redesign. The authors are putting up new themes and rearranging. New themes means having to tweak and fiddle to get them working as planned. Sometimes text and columns are all over the place. For all these people I made this blog award they can put up while reconstructing:

P.S. Dogette, another A-List Blogger, is about to start voodooing as soon as UPS delivers her voodoo supplies. Sure, there's a chance it might not end well when you dabble in the Black Magic, but that just makes it even that much more awesome to watch.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

• It's dark every morning when I leave my house for work. Every morning while going to my car I look for zombies. The fast ones. I mentally picture one coming at me, fast, and I freak a little inside. I time myself on my iPhone on how long it takes me to get in my car and lock the doors. I do this without looking like a complete spaz (ie flinging my arms and screaming for Jesus) in case a neighbor is looking out. It probably just looks like I am in a hurry or cold or something. But chances are that I probably do look like a spaz. But I don't care. I'll have the last laugh one day.
  
• I sing and have dance-offs with my pets daily. It usually ends in a fight between one of the cats and Jack. Jack is very petty and jealous and has no rhythm. Right now their favorite song is You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift. Traxler has been the winner lately.
  
• I not only mentally visualize stabbing annoying people in my life but will also imagine what it would feel like running over them with my car. The whole "thump, thump" thing is sometimes very satisfying. If they're really annoying I will close my eyes and throw it in reverse, then forward for a triple "thump, thump."
  
• I have to sleep with a fan on and/or a light on. I don't know why. I just do. Also my feet CANNOT be covered. I don't know why. They just can't be.
  
• I can hear a song twice and then sing back all the words. And I will remember those words FOREVER. I can sing songs from earliest childhood. All the lyrics. People are amazed. I cannot remember my cell phone number or most people's names. People are amazed.
  
• Sometimes I wonder what would happen if you were about to have a really bad diarrhea explosion while driving and as you were speeding home, a cop pulls you over. As you cried (because I imagine you would literally cry) that you were about to poop your pants would the cop a) think you were lying and give you a citation even after the explosion? b) back away and tell you to go and be careful? Maybe even give you a police escort? Only thing I know for sure is that you shouldn't try to outrun him. Wrecking your car then being chased and tasered with a load in your drawers would just be too nasty.
  
• Sometimes I think I think too much about what would happen in different explosive diarrhea scenarios.

Posted by Laura at 05:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

I took this same quiz back in 2008 and it said I could take on 29 five year olds. Since then I've worked out and read up on kids by reading some mommy blogs. My goal is to take on at least 40. I like setting goals for myself. J wouldn't take the quiz again. He still has some kind of ethical, moral thing against opening a can of whoop ass on five year olds. Yeah, I know. But sometimes you have to overlook a person's faults if you really care for them.

Posted by Laura at 06:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

It's been a pissy week. And when I get pissy, I get stabby. And because prison scares me, I try to keep my violent tendencies to my lists. So let's get on with it, shall we?

1. The very pregnant girl in the grocery store check out line who had her groceries separated into two piles. One pile was all the juice, milk, cheese, eggs and cereal that she had a WIC voucher for. The other pile was steaks and other assorted meats, about a dozen frozen name brand pizzas, soda pop and a full cart of other asundry things that her little Food Stamp credit card thingy paid for. The rest of us overheard you telling the lady behind you that you were eight months pregnant and that you had a nine month old at home. I was overcome with happiness that my taxes helped support your choices as I stood in line with my buy one get one free boxes of cereal that I thought I would be eating for a few suppers because I have to pay for my medical bills and my GINORMOUS electric bill, BOTH I'm also certain YOU don't have to pay. You're welcome. The best part was watching you load your huge haul into your new Toyota Camry. I thought of Andre Bauer, and I didn't hate him as much, and for that I really wanted to stab you.

2. Those fucking reptile people at work who turned the thermostats up so high I swear to God my hair almost caught on fire sitting at my desk the other day. My buddy at work and I used to do sort of a tag team thing where we would take turns walking behind them and turning down the heat. She's been out, and I have been losing the battle. Just yesterday I had to hook myself up to IV fluids because I was so dehydrated. I would LOVE to fucking STAB all of them in their reptilian, anemic hearts.

3. I want to stab J for saying I sound like a Chinese leprechaun every time I attempt to do a foreign accent. I don't care if I try to do a French, British, Chinese or even IRISH accent. He claims it all sounds the same. He always says "What the hell was that?" and bursts out laughing. STAB.

4. The damn squirrel that got in my attic and decided to gnaw on a piece of wood, waking me up from my sleep. I'll have to admit you kind of scared me as I was trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. It sounded like you were in the wall right behind my head and my first thought was "It can't be a body. Not enough room." I know, because I measured it for that once. Wait. Nevermind. At least you didn't cause a fire gnawing wires. But you forced me to go into the attic and run your rodent ass out and nail down the mesh screening you pushed past. Stay out of my house, fucker. If you come back I will taser you. I've been wanting to use it.

5. The lawn guy I fired last year who I have been unable to replace. He left a letter and business card on my door saying I'd get a discount for any referrals! I mostly want to stab myself because it looks like I will hire him back.

6. The IRS. Why do things have to be so complicated? Oh my God. I've started to do my taxes twice and had to stop because my tears of frustration were smearing the ink. But I know I must get them done soon. Baby mommas need their DeGiorno Pizzas.

Posted by Laura at 05:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

With great power comes great responsibility. No truer words have ever been spoken. When you're an A-List Blogger like Dogette and me, it's always apparent that you are the leader, the trendsetter, the manipulator the one that everyone looks to for guidance. It's the A-Lister's job, nay, DUTY to dictate the wants, needs and desires of their minions readers.

I've been an A-List Blogger now for three days. And I don't want to fall behind in my duties. From time to time I will show you snapshots of products that you will look at and think to yourself "Oh, if I only had that I could be just like her! I could be AWESOME!" It's kind of like the burden Oprah must have with her Favorite Things List.

None of these products I use myself, and most of the products I just get paid to show you. Of course there's now that pesky little law where I'm suppose to disclose if I've been paid to hawk them, but even that doesn't matter. All you will think is "OH MY GOD! I get to see what SHE recommends! I MUST have these overpriced things so maybe it will make me closer to greatness. Hell, maybe she'll even notice I got one and link to me!" I'm going to start slow on this and just recommend one product today. I know once you see it, their website will crash from all the traffic coming in to order it, so if the site is down, just keep trying. Remember I don't use this, but by me featuring it on my A-List Blog, your life will not be complete until YOU own one.

It's a Dildo Helmet Head Massager! With free shipping! So order your Dildo Helmet Head Massager today! Hurry! Do it!

P.S. This is the part where I tell you that no one paid or offered me anything for suggesting you buy this Dildo Helmet Head Massager. The only compensation I got was the hilarious mental image of you all wearing this while reading my A-List Blog. Minus that creepy ass facial expression those models have though.

Posted by Laura at 05:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

Having an A-List blog is harder than it looks. It's not like I became an A-List blogger overnight. Wait. Yes I did. Anyway, now the pressure is on to hold onto the A-List title. This is where my investigational skills came in handy. In my research of A-List bloggers I read a lot of A-List "Mommy Blogs." Yeah, you read that right. I looked at about four or five of them before stopping myself from gouging my own eyes out and noticed they all had a few things in common. First thing I noticed was they were all what's called SAHMs (Stay At Home Moms) and secondly, most were on "mood modification" drugs; anti-depressants, sedatives and stuff like that. Being on these actually endeared them to their fan base. The Queen of all the Mommy Bloggers, Dooce, is on mega drugs and is always having to go get them tweaked when her crazy becomes immune to the current ones. Her fans find this delightful and go on and on and thank her for making crazy AWESOME or something. Seriously. I had a friend who had kids and was crazy and had her meds tweaked all the time and all she got was a few DSS investigations. She should have had a blog.

Anyway, I'm single and have to work, and that Baptist I gave a down payment to for a Haitian kid rental hasn't returned my calls, so I can't be a SAHM for A-List Blog Month. I can, however, take drugs. Though it's been suggested to me numerous times in my life to go get "professional help" and seek "treatment" I never did. I do, however, go to the doctor a lot, what with having rabies, and that one bout of feline leukemia. There are lots of meds in my bathroom medicine cabinet. So I went through them looking for medication I take that could be considered "mood modification" drugs which I could possibly write about and endear my fan base (all five of you) to me. I found these:

The Midol is pretty much self-explanatory but I bet you're wondering why the hell I consider Flintstone Vitamins to be a "mood modification" drug. Well, they keep me on an even keel. Last time I came off of them I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. Okay, it wasn't in Reno. And well, it wasn't really a man, it was my brother. And I was like eight and he was nine. And I didn't exactly shoot him; I kicked him in the nuts. Really hard. But you get the idea. I can't get off the Barneys, man. Bad things happen.

A-List Blogger Crazy- Check.

Posted by Laura at 04:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

Dogette and I have decided that we are A-List Bloggers. Don't ask how we decided this, we just did. So I am calling February "A-List Blog Month."

I know some of you are thinking "What the hell are these yo-yos up to now?" Listen, we are not two retards putting on cardboard Burger King crowns and running around the playground screaming "Look at me! I'm the King!" until we fall into the ball bin. No, we are two retards, err I mean, bloggers telling you we ARE A-List Bloggers because this month we are going to BEHAVE like A-List Bloggers. We will live it and be it. We have visited many so-called A-List Blogs and we think we know their secrets. We really won't be sharing that with you, because A-Listers don't share. DAMN! I gave one secret away! I need practice. Pretend you didn't read that.

So while we are mocking emulating A-List Bloggers, be sure to tell everyone you know that you read Fetch My Flying Monkeys and Two Nervous Dogs and add us to your blogrolls because this will make you cool by association. Not really, but it will make you feel cool.

So to kick this "A-List Blog Month" off right, be sure to leave me comments telling me how awesome and hip I am even though I basically phoned this entry in. Oh, but I did make this-

So there's no mistake. This IS an A-List Blog.

Posted by Laura at 04:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

It rained yesterday. That was it for our winter storm. This morning the railing on the backstairs had a little bit of ice on them. It scared me, but I ventured on to the store. I am brave like that. The Toilet Paper Scare of 2010 was completely averted.

Now on to the Craptastic Giveaway-

Congrats Zombie Mom! Email me a shipping address and I will get a box out to you this week.

This is it for the cool crap giveaways for a while. Thanks to everyone commenting wanting the crap. My house is full of crap, so if you didn't win this time around I am sure there will be more chances later. Now don't start hating and stop commenting if you didn't win. Remember, if you didn't win it's Jack's fault. He's the one who did the selecting of the winner. He knows that he has probably angered a few people, and made a few enemies so he's left town for a few weeks until the heat is off. This is his cousin Walter visiting while he's gone. Yeah, that's it.

Posted by Laura at 04:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

It's gotten colder. It's raining. It's supposed to turn to sleet and ice shortly. The temperature tonight is going to be in the 20's. I have plenty of bread, milk, and eggs. I do, however, just have 2 rolls of toilet paper. TWO ROLLS. I will try to hang on. Ration them. Single sheet time. I will be brave. I will fight the good fight. I am uncertain how long before I can get to a store. I am uncertain even if the stores are stocked. There is just one thing I am certain of, and that is that my next month's electric bill will be $28,000. But I can't worry about that right now. I must just worry about making it to the next day, and the day after that. Oh, the things that go through your head during these trying times. But I've lived life to its fullest. I have but two regrets. I regret not buying double rolls, and I regret eating a bowl of Raisin Bran last night for dinner.

I will try to keep you updated. Or not.

Posted by Laura at 11:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)