ME: Look, I NEED my crack cracked, Crackie!!
**********
ME: (seeing a manly woman on the street and singing) Mustache Susie, Mustache Sam ….
**********
HE: (singing to me from Camelot in a Ralph Wiggum voice) I wouldn’t ever leeeeeave you …… especially in the autumnnnn!
ME: Uhm, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
**********
HE: It’s so cool. I sit up there in my lair, looking out on the world like so much gargoyle.
~ I’m thinking of doing like a very dark urban tale of dystopian woe.
~ So now I’m thinking of zombie love stories.
~ Oooh, that could definitely have a sex cabal. A zombie sex cabal!
~ Although, issue: Are zombies inherently unsexy? We must discuss.
~ Wouldn’t it be funny to have a company that employs zombies ? You’d have zombie bill collectors, zombie salesmen, zombie gas traders. The company has the lease on the lives of these zombies for 780 years. Companies are very powerful. Extremely. They do not have to pay zombies as much as normals, so their operating costs are minimal. Plus, zombies work 24/7/365. One lowly zombie discovers that some special zombies have been working on nanobots that will restore life. So they’ll still live forever, but as normals. This zombie (Darryl? Bob? Joe?) thinks he can steal the tech but he has to zombie-nap another scientist because, obvy, he doesn’t know how to use it himself.
And then…
Something happens. I’m not sure what. This is as far as I’ve gotten. I need liquor.
~ You could have a whole scene where the zombie workers sit around and order lunch take-out. But, of course, they only eat brains. It takes them all day to order take-out brains from, oh, Luigi’s Braineria. Because they don’t have people skills, obviously.
“Luigi’s Braineria, what can I get you?”
“Errrrwaahhhbaalggaaa.”
“What’s that, pal? Try again.”
“Gaaalbbaaaakabbballaaaaagggah.”‘
Uhm, basically, the scene goes nowhere and that’s the beauty of it.
~ Oh, and Luigi’s Brainera is ALWAYS hiring because lunch IS the delivery boy. This could be a recurring bit in your book.
~ You know, I’m not even drunk. These are SOBER ideas.
~ MB says the name of this book is The Brain Trust.
~ My Zombie Manicurist is the sequel.
~ The zombies just tap into the victim’s brain with an umbrella straw, like a pina colada or something.
~ They give smouldering, sexy looks to other zombies across the room while sipping on their brainycolada.
~ Brainycolada. Hahahahahahaha.
And you know, zombies are slow and pasty and such, but if anyone suspects, you can just say, “Oh, he’s from IT.”
~ “Oh wait, this woman’s not goth! She’s DEAD!”
~ How about dwarves? Or gnomes? There aren’t enough books about gnomes. A gnome thriller. A gnome sex cabal.
~ Which is less sexy? A zombie or a gnome? This is important stuff.
~ It is impossible to make zombies sexy. Would YOU want to be kissed by a guy with brain breath????
~ But at least they have initiative. What do gnomes ever DO??
~ Hang out in gardens. That’s all I know.
I think a zombie who has erectile dysfunction would be fun. And a gnome who – as far as I know – does not have any sex organs. It is a love that will never be.
~ How come no one has yard zombies? There are yard gnomes. I don’t think this is fair to the zombs.
~ I think we need to start this trend. Yard zombies! I love it! Oh don’t mind that zombie, that’s Harold, a lawn zomb.
Cross-posted here. But I edited. Because I’m a little hypocrite. Please leave me alone in my self-loathing.
Why do people have dedication stickers to dearly departed loved ones on their crappy cars and trucks?
Why, pippa?
Why?
You’ve all seen this, right?
You pull up at a stoplight behind some dilapidated truck and sprawled across the back window is a giant memorial decal that says something like:
In Loving Memory Of
MUFFINS O’GRADY
1948 — 2006
Uhm, yeah. I don’t get it. I really don’t.
Is it the measly sticker that’s “in loving memory of Muffins O’Grady” or is your entire truck now a rattling, smoke-smelling, oil-leaking — but loving, don’t forget loving — memorial to good and dead ol’ Muffins?
Which is it?
“I dedicate this measly sticker to you, dead person”?
Or
“I dedicate this crummy car to you, dead person”?
And do you, the dead person, looking down from heaven — one hopes — feel grateful for said memorial of a measly sticker or a crappy car?
Or would you rather have flowers? Or rather they live a loving life in your memory?
Or do you kind of wish you could come back to life for five seconds to kick your loved one in their stupid ass keister?
That’s ass keister. You heard me.
I’ve told MB that’s he’s not allowed to do this if I crump it first. It is absolutely forbidden. But then I’ve also told him if he crumps it first, I will pull his pants down in protest and THEN call 911.
Uhm, is it too early in the season to utterly renounce the Chargers?
I mean, I usually renounce them at least once per season, but we’re only four weeks in.
Maybe it’s premature. Still. I’m sorely tempted.
Also, I know this is a sacrilege to say, but I’m getting mighty tired of that LaDainian Tomlinson. He is constantly injured, a delicate diamond-studded flower. Groin pull. Twisted ankle. Hang nail. Runny nose. Ear hair.
Yup. There’s LT, standing on the sidelines, limping in pain from ear hair. Wait. A trainer’s on hand to rub the ear hair, keep it loose, etc. Phhhew. Thank God.
Come ON, precious.
Get up, take those diamond stud earrings out and win us some games!!!
I love roo.
I want to BE roo.
“Weird” is too mild a word. Honestly, you have no idea. But I have slipped into a gray aphasia on the whole thing.
I want to write about it. I cannot find the words.
I am numb today.
Let’s just talk about the coccyx some more.
Sunday night. Be prepared for TMI. I would blame myself, but I blame sarahk instead. Before this part of the discussion, we were discussing whether it was “terd” or turd.”
“Deep” and “hard-hitting” is how I would describe our chats. Yup. Also: I punctuate badly or not at all during our chats because sarahk is always all, “HURRY UP! TYPE FASTER! I’M A DESPOT!” and I get performance anxiety and my fingers shrivel. It’s bad.
And where’s Bob Dole for THAT problem, I would like to know??
me: what are you doing now?
pretend this is twitter
sarahk: hahaha.
we’re watching dollhouse.
and i’m researching refrigerators so i can go ahead and order one already
but i wouldn’t tweet that!
me: is that not tweetable?
sarahk: but BSU’s football team is now #5 in all the polls, and I did tweet that.
me: i don’t understand anything anymore
sarahk: Nah, it’s too much like, “I got up this morning, ate eggs, took a nap, put on my shoes.”
people will unfollow you for turds like that.
me: oh, so there’s a standard for twitter information? it needs to be pithy?
hahahahaha, no turds.
this is why i couldn’t twitter. it’s all turds
sarahk: yes, pithy or informational.
me: but that IS informational — you’re getting a fridge
sarahk: because, i mean, Andy Levy follows me. And I don’t want him to go, “She’s so boring. I’ll unfollow her and get back thirty seconds every day.”
me: like if i were to twitter right now, i’d say my coccyx hurts.
okay — who is andy levy?? I am amish
sarahk: once the fridge is ordered and/or delivered, I will tweet that. but the research, no.
But see, a hurting coccyx is funny just because hello, random. and also, funny word.
me: well i could just say ass.
but it’s my ass crack. i’m having an ass crack problem and i’m concerned.
sarahk: Andy Levy is on Fox News on the show that comes on at 2 a.m. (midnight here, so you probably get it at 11). he does the halftime report and makes fun of the other guys on the show and corrects their mistakes. he’s funny.
ow, what is wrong with your crack?
me: oh, okay. i don’t have cable. hello. amish.
i don’t know. i hurt my ass crack. working out or something. i don’t know — it feels bruised.
sarahk: I would just like to repaste our last 2 lines:
“ow, what is wrong with your crack?
tracey: oh, okay. i don’t have cable. hello. amish.”
me: not that i’m sitting around rubbing my ass crack.
hahahahahaha, we’re still doing it. we don’t wait for the other person to finish. it’s funnier that way.
sarahk: Ow, I hate when that happens. I get that from working out sometimes too. What a pain in the… well, ass.
me: how do i fix my asscrack, sarahk??
sarahk: It IS funnier. I just love the juxtaposition. “What’s wrong with your crack?” “I don’t have cable. Amish.”
Basically, you have to rest it for a while.
don’t put pressure on it.
me: i can’t — i have to work out. i’m now obsessed. i’m down a whole size at least
and that’s really hard for me because my basal body temp is like 96. I don’t burn anything.
i was happy a couple of years ago when i almost died from a 104 fever and pneumonia because I lost ten pounds. hahahaha
sarahk: oh, good job!
Hahahahaha.
me: another juxtaposition — hahahaha
sarahk: hahaha
me: wer’e lame — i love us
sarahk: i love us too.
I wish I’d taken a picture, but in the parking lot, a sign read:
Speed limit
14
Uhm, 14, Mickey? Not 10 or 15, but 14??
I’m sorry to tell you we were NOT driving 14 miles per hour. Clearly, I didn’t deserve to be at The Happiest Place on Earth.
…. I think it’s important to smell like citrus.
My new favorites:
Dove Energize Body Wash — grapefruit and lemongrass. Yum.
Bath and Bodyworks White Citrus Body Spray. Also yum.
Both of these are light and crisp and fresh. I haaate heavy pretentious fragrances or anything that makes you smell like you’re a filthy hippie trying to cover up your filth. (cough) Patchouli (cough).
And when I sprayed the White Citrus on Piper and Callie Sunday morning before Disneyland — they saw me doing it and wanted some — they both went “Ooooh.”
So there’s your endorsement, pippa.
You will smell like Ooooh.
A rainy road on Whidbey Island, WA.
Every autumn when I was in college, the whole drama department went on retreat to blustery beautiful Whidbey Island. I remember this old barn. The perfect weeds.
Those trees. That rain.
Oh, my heart.
