If you could only see the abs hidden under gammie’s afghan …… I broke my hand on them once …..
But I still love him.
word searches
Sometimes I love going through the Google searches that bring people to this little ol’ blog. It’s funny. Also depressing. How it does both at once, I leave to you to decipher.
Some recent ones:
~ hawaiian word for “defecate”
You know, we’ve covered a lot of ground here in five years, but I do not think we’ve covered this. Uhm, I hope.
~ men who drink foofoo coffee drinks
THIS I did talk about, since I care about manliness and whatnot. I think it’s truly one of my most humanitarian posts, and it’s getting lots of action lately — from Twitter. Why is that? Someone tell me. Is it good if someone links to your post on Twitter? What does it mean? How does that happen? I really don’t understand enough of this world anymore to still live in it. Do enlighten.
~ how to paint like bouguereau
The artist featured on this blog. Uh, pray? Perform a ritual involving rosemary and lizard feet? Travel back in time to Paris 1845 and enroll in the Ecole des Beaux-Arts? Yes, I think that’s probably the most direct route to getting what you want here, hon.
~ eurbgs skwrao
Oh, no. No. Look, Googler. You do NOT want to be a court reporter. And if you really DO, then you must know what these are, as they fall under the heading “Required Knowledge.” And if you really DO and you really DON’T, then, well, you have precisely the requisite mental acuity to just zip zip zzzzzzzip through court reporting school and then fall flat on your face in the real world. tkpwaod hrubg, tkupl/aoe! (You Googled it backwards, precious.)
~ hindu floaty thing
Thank you, Timothy Treadwell, for adding this phrase to my life. I use it all the time. Sorry that bear ate you, ya nutter.
~ slatterns
Hahahahahahaha. We supply all your slattern needs here.
~ fat frog w/two tan lines and tan dots
Uhm, wow. Your frog needs are really specific. Tan lines? I prefer my frogs sunbathe nude, but that’s just me. Also, you do know frogs don’t live on the Internet, right? I mean, they’re out there, uh, in the real world. Well, perhaps not the one you’re looking for. And what exactly is this frog wearing to have only two tan lines? A turtleneck? A mumu? Sigh. You couldn’t just read my live-blog of “Frogs” and be happy, could you?
~ actors/actresses with vegetables
What?? Is there interest in this? Of greater concern, have I actually talked about this?
~ stupid horatio caine sucks
Well, there you go. Something I HAVE talked about.
~ sandra bezic, condescending
I love the punctuation here. It’s like Joe Smith, CPA. As in that’s what she does. That’s what she is. I personally enjoy Sandra Bezic and her figure skating commentary, although Scott Hamilton and Dick Button are my favorites. I must have mentioned her during one of my world famous Olympic commentaries.
~ stupid coloring pages
So should I be distraught over how many people are brought here by Googling things with the word “stupid”? Also: “coloring pages”?? Do we do a lot of coloring on this blog?
You know, I think I’m now going to draw and post some stupid coloring pages for the world to enjoy. Maybe of a frog wearing a turtleneck or mumu. I sure hope that condescending Sandra Bezic doesn’t see them.
Good thing there’s nothing stupid here.
Proceed apace, pippa.
gee, thanks, doc!
Doing some medical editing these days.
So let’s imagine you come to me, your caring doctor, with these problems:
~ Depression
~ Cirrhosis
~ Low back pain
~ Heart disease
All right. You’ve got a few issues, peaches. But that’s okay. Lots of people do. Again, I’m your caring doctor. I’m here to help.
Here are a few of my thoughts about you:
“Patient does sweat the small stuff. He has a lot on his mind. He feels like he is on a roller coaster. He is interested in writing, although he did not graduate from high school. The patient states that he has a gift for prose. He believes in a “Higher Power,” but does not believe in organized church.”
Wow. Yes, I am your caring doctor, but yamahama, am I condescending. Also, nosy in a decidedly non-medical way.
But I do want to help you. I do. Let’s face it, though. As a caring condescending doctor, it’s less about me helping you and more about feeling godlike about my healing powers.
So, are you ready? Here’s the plan I have for you:
“1. Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff video was recommended.
2. The patient was given a book by N.V. Peale and a forgiveness handout.
3. Should watch Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff video next time.
4. Follow up in 3 months.”
There you go!
Good luck with your back pain and cirrhosis and heart disease!
I mean, come ON. Don’t sweat the small stuff, peaches.
See you next time!
XOXO,
Your caring condescending doctor.
P.S.: Forgiveness cures cirrhosis, you know.
brothers
MB is out of town, up in the deep dark middle of nowhere, hanging out with his brother who’s over from Australia.
I’m here at home.
Because they needed man time. Brother time.
Uhm, clearly ……..
I need to stop looking at it, but I can’t. I’m sitting here crying with laughter because there is actual snow on MB’s hat and because I think that’s the stupid hat with the fishing lures on it that I always see lying around their house and because Brother’s eyes are just tiny slits of pain and because Mr. Dozen Black Belts could kill a person with one flick of his wrist, but, well, obviously, not NOW.
MB told me that the night before all of this …… he had to carry Brother home.
Hahahahahahahaha.
Protected: never ever do that
snippet
Last night, MB and I were reliving days of yore. You know, the Perky Bob lunch dilemma of five months ago. We were applauding ourselves for our choices, telling ourselves how smart we were, etc. The basic stuff that glues a marriage together. At one point, he said, “Well, it’s like we all learned from Oprah: NEVER let yourself be taken to the second location.”
The man is a sage.
original banshee says ….
“Tee Tee, your hair has stripes in it.”
True dat.
And thank you for not mentioning the wrist stump, kid.
I mean, you tell your stylist to do what she wants and you end up with a wrist stump. No more creative license for her.
Sheesh.
spotty
Hey, pippa, my Internet connection has been spotty here what with the end of days storms here in SD.
Back soon with more regularity. (What, like I’m taking fiber??)
Er, how about more “consistency”?
Yes: “Beyond the Pale. Now with more regularity.”
more about c*h*u*r*c*h
I’m still a little paranoid about things regarding Maybe Church aka Not on Your Life Church, but less so. I’m getting closer and closer to not caring anymore who from that organization finds or reads my blog. Bring it on, Slappies!
During our tenure at Maybe Church, MB would take a small sketch book with him, writing and doodling in it during the sermon. Er, “teaching.” I wrote in a composition book I always had with me. You know, outlines for all those slanderous blog posts. If I could have, I would have live-blogged the Sunday service, I imagine. (Or “meeeeeetings” as this “family of churches” likes to call them.) We’d plop ourselves in the farthest reaches of the church, as far as we could sit from anything and anybody and still be sitting IN the church, bend our heads over our respective books, and look very earnest, very notetaker-y, very Onward Christian Soldiers about the whole dealio, when, really, I was just writing blog notes and MB was doodling caricatures of various church members and, when we weren’t doing THAT, we were busily writing notes to each other.
Oh, I miss Maybe Church! I do. For all the wrong reasons, but I DO miss it.
Below are excerpts from one page of Sunday notes to each other. These were written AFTER Outing Person had outed this shameful blog but BEFORE the retarded unsatisfying fallout. (Uhm, that I have yet to even write about.) I’d scan the actual page if I could, because the visuals are priceless, but it has real names on it, so you get my transcription instead.
I do hope you will be as edified by them as we were.
At the top of MB’s page, a list …..
Pastor Talents:
~ Supporting the short-sleeve casual industry
~ Channeling John Lithgow
~ Reviving the mustache
Then various frantic scribbles ….
HE: Hey, Perky Bob has backed off this week.
ME: He is DONE w/us. Maybe he saw the Ned Reyerson thing on my blog. Oops. Oh, THANK YOU, Outing Person!
*********
ME: I need some Icy Hot for my sore ass crack!
HE: In church?? You’re “de-gifted”!
(ed: That one is for Kris)
*********
ME: He’s really stuck on this “intersection” theme …… (several minutes later) ….. he’s talked about it every DAMN week …… (and another several minutes later) ….. if he says “intersection” one more time ….. KAPOW!!! …..(annnd another several minutes later) ….. Jesus must get bored …… zzzzzzzz …….
(Why MB was not moved enough to respond to my “intersection” plight, I do not know. I was clearly suffering.)
**********
ME: Where are they? Grumpy Guy and Nan? Theories?
HE: Hunting for food? Depression festival?
ME: It’s weird. Do you think it’s related to the whole “Tracey-is-a-tramp” extravaganza?
HE: Seems viable.
*********
Then there are various spot-on caricatures of the aforementioned people. It also says “Calvin” with a frowny face — because the pastor mentioned Calvin. Uhm, again.
Ah, yes. Church can be SO edifying, you know?
drunk santa
Remember Drunk Santa?
Well, there’s a postscript to this tale, relayed to me by my sister.
A couple of days after Christmas, a neighbor knocked on my sister’s door. Drunk Santa’s son, who had been on the scene at the time.
“Hey, I just wanted to thank you and your family,” he began.
“Really?”
“Yeah, about my dad. About letting him be Santa for Piper and your nieces.”
“Oh, sure. It was fun.”
“No, you see, uh ….. he’s got Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, thanks, but, see, every year he dresses up as Santa. Then he thinks he IS Santa. We usually manage to keep him in the house when he’s dressed up, but he wandered outside and your sister saw him.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I think she was just excited to have the girls see him.”
“I know. Well, I know he wasn’t really ‘all there,’ talking to the girls, but he was so happy afterwards. He was just SO happy. That entire day, he was a different man.”
The neighbor’s voice started to choke.
My sister teared up.
“Oh, I’m glad. It really was fun.”
“Well, thanks again. It meant a lot to him. You have no idea.”
When my sister told me this, I teared up too. I was touched, but I was also chastened. I had simply assumed he was drunk. I had judged him as nothing but a drunk. It staggers me, shames me, that no other alternative even occurred to me.
He was just a drunk, weaving across the street, slurring my niece’s name.
“Drunk” Santa wasn’t drunk, Trace.
The man had Alzheimer’s.