Category: etc.

“His last name is Christ. He has the power of flight. He can heal leopards.”

Michael Scott, The Office

I’m sorry. I cannot stop laughing at this.

It was a 5.9 in Baja, CA. Hm. Bigger than I thought. But, well, it felt kinda big.

Okay. I am now actively dehydrating myself so I won’t go to the bathroom for the rest of the day. Aftershocks, you know.

I don’t want to die on the toilet like Elvis.

Eek.

You do NOT want to be going to the bathroom when an earthquake hits.

Uhm, yeah.

Scary. Problematic on multiple levels.

So.

Carry on, pippa.

Because I did.

A family member got us each a Snuggieâ„¢ for Christmas.

MB’s is a screaming royal blue and when he wears it, he looks like a giant Teletubby waiting for his slice of Tubbytoast. He’s worn it twice in the last 24 hours and fallen fast asleep instantly, so the aforementioned relative clearly laced these Snuggies with opium.

I haven’t worn mine yet, since I can see that MB is being slowly drugged and incapacitated by his Snuggieâ„¢.

Or, for those of you who also possess a Snuggieâ„¢, do they just come this way? Dusted with an opiate?

Also, I don’t really understand them. Why are they open in the back like a hospital gown if the goal is to keep you warm? And why don’t they come with a hood since everyone knows people lose 431% of their body heat through their heads?

I mean, I want to be warm, yes — I mean, after all, I live in the frozen tundra of southern California — but I don’t want to become an opium breathing blob.

I’ll hold off to see if MB survives his Snuggieâ„¢.

Hope your Christmas was opiate free.

Unless that’s a tradition you have, then, well, mazeltov on your Christmas stupor.

One Christmas years ago, I opened up a package from my mom. Inside was a stretchy FURRY peach-colored sweater. I kid you not. I’ve mentioned this outfit before on this blog. It was basically a little scrap of Lycra covered with faux peach FUR. A really disturbing “oh, hello, I’m a whore” look when you’re a well-endowed sort of girl.

MB and I howled at just how MUCH of a horrible slut I looked like in that thing. After I took it off, he tried it on for about 7.3 seconds. It was a midriff on him and made him look like an 80s glam rocker. I just lay on the bed, crying with laughter. It was hilarious on him; utterly tragic on me.

So my question this week of Christmas:

What is the worst Christmas present you’ve ever received or given?

Give us juicy details, pippa.

I’m losing posts again. There was a post here last night, and now it’s gone.

Uhm, stand by.

But this “whistling” puppy is the tiniest cutest thing in the whole wide world.

And it’s not just my opinion. This is empirically true. Obviously.

(Look at his little triangle mouth!)

Okay. Fine. I’m mushy today. Earlier, while the rain pounded against the windows, I curled up in a chair, ate cinnamon toast, and watched the end of Benji: The Hunted.

Benji: The Hunted, pippa!

But, please note, that’s Benji COLON The Hunted.

And, you know, I think the colon redeems it as a slightly more matter of fact, less mushy choice.

At least, this is what I choose to tell myself.

He has terrible oral hygiene, with only one half of two teeth in his bottom.

Yes, I know what is meant here, but as phrased, well, this sounds like something quite different from an oral hygiene problem, doesn’t it? I mean, guess what, Peaches? I have exactly no halves of no teeth in my personal “bottom.”

Uhm, thank God.

Note to the peoples of the world: Please keep your tooth halves out of my bottom. Thank you.

Just think, pippa. Whenever you’re feeling sad, angry, homicidal, like you just can’t go on, whatever, you can hit your knees and thank the Lord above that you have exactly no halves of no teeth in your personal bottom.

Unless you do. And then I really don’t want to know about it.

What you do in the privacy of your own home is absolutely none of my business.

There’s one of these PSAs for Christmas, too, but it’s not quite as hilariously horrifying as this Hanukkah one.

Followup Public Service Announcement to the Public Service Announcement:

Men:

Wanna do something special for your woman this Hanukkah/Christmas? Schedule her Pap smear — then just sit back and wait for the divorce papers/Dear John letter to come in the mail!

I mean, listen, any hopeless idiot who might actually consider this: Your woman’s fondest holiday wish does NOT include a stocking stuffed with an appointment card for her fancy place to have a “schmear” with Dr. McFiddles, mkay? The real Public Service Announcement here is this: On behalf of every damn woman in the world, I dare to beseech you NOT to do this. No. I DEMAND that you don’t.

I mean, seriously, sweet baby Jesus see this and weeps inconsolably in the manger. And he’s GOD, for God’s sake.

And “Give her the gift that will light up her menorah”?

Gross, gross, gross, gross, GROSS.

Clearly, the people at CBS understand neither women NOR how Pap smears work. I think I can confidently tell you, CBS, that NO Pap “schmear” has ever EVER lit up my menorah.

And my gynecologist is a good-looking fellow, too.

Oh, memories, memories, memories.

Mostly of the fear of how high that bridge is and how, uhm, roiling that water is.