Everyone needs a fleet of flying monkeys to rip the stuffing out of the annoying people in their lives
— Laura
Police rendering of The Shandon Wiener Wanker.
Me: “Look at the police sketch of The Shandon Wiener Wanker. He was spotted twice last week. Twice. My posse and I missed maybe three mornings. Three mornings and we missed him.”
J: “Well he certainly is persistent.”
Me: “This pisses me off. We’ve been out there almost every morning. Damn him.”
J: “Laura, you three shouldn’t be out there anyway.”
Me: “You’re right. We should split up.”
J: “That’s not what I meant.”
Me: ”We should make ourselves look like soccer moms. You just know that it was a soccer mom who was fool enough to walk up to his car to give him directions. She looked in, saw him buck-ass naked wanking his wiener, and ran away screaming.”
J: ”Most women would run off, Laura.”
Me: “Pfft. That’s what he likes. Scaring women. He needs a good tasering.”
J: ”He needs a good psychiatrist.”
Me: ”Right, but his first treatment should be electric-shock treatment right on the ol’ winkie. (Manically laughs and laughs and laughs.)”
J: “Now I want to run away screaming.”
P.S. Surprisingly, that artist rendering above is one of the better Columbia Police suspect sketches I’ve seen. I’ve thought about applying for the position before, but I’d have to listen to hysterical soccer moms describing their ordeals and I’d just end up rendering a sketch like this and chasing them around the squad room with it laughing manically.
Yes, it's censored. I run a classy place here. Stop laughing.
P.P.S. I just remembered I had written this story about the first ticket I had to the Perv Penis Wagging Rodeo. We ran away screaming because the dude was pissed and we weren’t armed. Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed with catching this guy. To right a wrong. To fight my own demons. Nah. I just want to use my Taser.
I have a few more online courses to finish and then I should be able to start back blogging every day because I know you all get suicidal and shit when I don’t blog. Yeah, I know I’m just ego trippin’ when I write crap like that, but let’s face it, blogging is nothing but a naval-gazing ego trip. I like to pretend I have thousands of readers out there who sit at their computers refreshing every 15 minutes to see if I’ve posted anything new. I am nothing if not delusional. But delusions make me happy, and life is all about being happy, so my days are filled with delusions of baby goats, George Clooney, hobos fighting, and people reading my blog. Or is that dreams? I don’t know. I’m not a word scientist, I am a blogger. Sometimes. I really should start using a dictionary I suppose, but fuck it. I’ve got no sponsors, no book deals, and I actually twisted my back changing a light bulb yesterday. True story.
Now, vote for me for president so I can get the Secret Service to change the light bulbs. And remember, a vote for me is a vote for a free package of bacon. Oh, and freedom.
And not the cheap kind either, you'll get one of those fancy $7.99 deluxe packages.
Co-worker: “Do you think you and J will ever marry?”
Me: “I’d only marry him if one of the stipulations would be that I wouldn’t have to work; that I could sit around and watch television and eat bonbons all day. Become a lady of leisure. To hell with this working for a living crap.”
Co-worker: “I bet he’d let you move in and do that without getting married first.
Me: “Girl, we’d have to be married first because when he gets sick of me all laid up in his house in my bathrobe all day long every day, and tosses my ass out, I want half his shit.”
Co-worker: “Really?”
Me: “Damn straight. I’m not giving him the best three to four months of my life and not be compensated.”
Sunday night I got very sick. It felt like my liver and pancreas had both exploded at the same time. At first I thought it was the booze, but then I remembered I hadn’t been drinking! (I know, right?!) I was becoming concerned and thought about driving myself to the hospital, but I knew I’d never make it. I was that sick. As I lay on the couch holding my abdomen, moaning and wondering when my other organs would fail, I started bargaining with God. I told Him if He’d jump start my organs and let me live I’d change my life. I’d stop wanting to harm people. I’d be more patient and understanding of others. And if He’d just make the pain go away I’d start taking better care of myself. I’d stop drinking and eating crappy food. I’d start exercising instead of wasting all my spare time on the Internet. Just as I said I would up the ante by telling Him that if He’d just make me better I’d stop cussing, I felt an urgency beyond belief in my gut and I ran for the bathroom. It was in the bathroom that I realized I wasn’t in organ failure at all, but was suffering the horrible effects of a “Bloomin’ Onion” from Outback Steakhouse.
So now here I sit, drinking a gin and tonic, a bag of Circus Peanuts by my side, marveling at how precious life is as I’m dreaming about throwing a fucking Molotov cocktail through the window of a certain steakhouse while googling pictures of baby lambs for hours and hours.
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