Yes, Happy Hallerweenie to you.

Any excuse to eat candy and drink sounds like a good holiday to me. I don't like it when the kiddies come knocking at the door begging for candy. I mean, it'd be okay if they weren't 16 years old, bedecked in dirty white t-shirts and baggy pants, holding dirty floral pillowcases out demanding treats while casing my joint for electronics. But maybe that was just my neighborhood last year. This year, I'm not taking chances, I'm leaving town.

And I'll miss the best party ever thrown, hosted by Jacquoleeen Wacq. I hate myself for missing it. But again, we have to go pick up a cargo van in Chattanooga. Just pretend this is interesting.

Here are some neato hellish babydoll pictures I took of the scarybastards Jacquie hung upside down in the trees for decoration. Hope this link works for you. If not, well no big deal. Someone is probably sneaking up behind you right now with a chainsaw anyway.

I'm with Adam. I don't quite understand Halloween either. But as I said before, like Grandma always said, "If you ever want a pagan's money at the collection plate, you have to give them free candy a few times a year. But don't ask me why a bunny hides a chicken's eggs in honor of a resurrection."

And then she stabbed me with that lawn dart again and again. Merry Boo Day.

Happy Halloween Eve.

My favorite part of this picture is that all I had to do to complete the alien woman was make her skin green. The hair was her own homegrown distortion.

Oh yes, and Mike's a squeaky-clean looker with his long, blonde hair.

You see why I'd never make it in digital retouching? Because it brightens my day to turn every Twinkie I see into a gnarled prize-fighter. But this site is addictive. Thanks, JacquieWacq!

Just when you think you're professionally burned out for the day, here's something else to watch. Episode 20 will stick to the roof of your brain for about 2 days, intermittantly.

Why yes it is. And boy, it was good. Even though, in my dangerous quest for ill-gotten time-off combined with the stubborn confines of a self-inflicted grocery budget, I have been eating questionable leftovers for the last few days. I like to call it "Leftover Roulette". And this fresh Chunky Chicken soup, mixed with the painful bloat of the unidentified Zombie Chicken exhumed from the freezer depths didn't play well together in the slightest. Had I not known what I was doing, I would've mistaken my bilious stomach pains for a heartattack.

Clearly, I'm the experimental type. What's even more telling is the fact that my mom did the exact same thing yesterday with the exact same results by eating some Not-Quite-Done Barbecued Chicken from the University Medical Center's cafeteria. Rotten apples don't fall far from the tree, do they? And if they did, apparently, I would eat them.

The wicked soul of the dead Zombie Chicken lives on to haunt me this second day. Because fully recovered, except for a swagger from a sore muscle and a new sense of bacterial awe, somewhere deep in my gutt, Zombie Chicken says I must figure out a way to top myself again. So maybe that's why I just ate Leftover-Leftover-Leftover Soy Protein Chili atop Leftover Saffron Rice. For breakfast, mateys. What unholy thing have I done? It's barely 8:30am. But please, enjoy the free fireworks.

Here's an early ghost story for you. Ooo. Scary how slow the page loads, huh? Foreboding? Or perhaps, just my shitty connection here at work.

Kinda makes you think though, doesn't it? Wonder if my mom still has some of those ugly paintings I did in college. Even though she threw away all my purposely phallic pottery, I'm bound to have at least one or two hideous pinch pots left for sale. All I need to do is whip up a good one about it being haunted. Why don't I think of these things sooner? Because I'm not really that good at making up ghost stories. The last time I did that, I made up a good one about this old craggly woman, oh yes who was a giant, who lived in our attic, and when she got hungry, she'd poke her finger down the bathroom vent and stab the victim with her colossal, red, sharp-pointy fingernail. Yeah. Stab 'em right in the head as they sat unaware and straining upon the deadly throne. Then she'd pull her fresh kill up the vent into the attic and eat 'em like a cocktail weenie.

Shortly after I made up that whalloping tale, say a day or two later, a cockroach skittered down that vent and fell right on my head. And I'll never be the same. Never never never.

Ah yes, this sure takes me back. I remember my mother giving me some good advice as a child that's proven itself invaluable to this day: "Kids, never forget to wear clean underwear, and never wrestle a monkey for money." Truer words were never spoken, except for maybe "It takes 3 men to get hold of a chimp, and it takes 8 men to let go of one!"

Meet the literally strongest idea for a new reality show that I'd actually watch. But only if the wrestlers were chosen from any former reality show contestants, eligible politicians or (of course) OJ Simpson.

For those keeping up with the banality, someone stacked boxes on the new, expensive desk.

It's the little things in life that make me happy. Kinda like Kikkoman.

Hey, camping was fun by the way. No, really. I saw three mosquitos and killed two of them. Anyone who's ever lived next to a river or just the South in general can relate to this is a true success story. I'll have to tell you about the one-legged duck after I finish up workin' for The (Wo)Man today. Who is out getting a facial. The regular kind. Not the porno variety. Not anymore anyway.






Nope.


But you try it and see if Fido can guess your number.

RE: A very important e-mail to all.

FYI

The desk and chair in the space previously occupied by the color copier are items we are trying to return.

We won't be using them as they must remain in new condition until this issue is resolved.

Thanks


I'll keep you posted.








I went to the David Sedaris thing last night and this is what I got for an autograph, for so many reasons.

Number one, when I walked into the convention center and saw him sitting there waxing back and forth between not-smiling and smiling contently, my glasses fogged up. I didn't think I could hate this pair of glasses any worse than I already do, but I did.

Since I'm not completely oblivious anymore, I have a problem walking up to a highly observant person and asking them to sign a piece of paper for me.* I don't even know why, except that I really don't understand the concept of autographs anymore. "Here, sign this. You may die one day, and I can eBay it. Or maybe it will bring me nearer to some part of thee in my tiny, possession-filled life." Invariably, I may have asked him to sign it with some embarrassing little phrase I thought to be witty at the time: "Can you please sign it 'To Ron because Bethany is too embarrassed to ask for herself'?" It's the exact opposite of walking up to John Lennon with purpose and handing him your card that says only one word: "Breathe".**

I actually did get in line though. But then I realized I had nothing for him to sign. Again with the fog, and what the hell am I thinking. Maybe I could wing it. What do I have in my purse... nothing but a new $20 bill. Ok, that's really stupid. "Will you sign my American currency? I have no forsight. And I feel like I need to ask you to write your name. For me to take home. Please." I was about three people away from getting his autograph, sans beaujolais or Budweiser, glasses in coat pocket. It's better to have two little dig-marks on the sides of your nose where the dog accidentally stomped off the only soft parts of your glasses than to actually see someone instinctively whipping up a good estimation as to why your glasses are fogged.

So I stepped to the next line and fumbled for something, anything to buy. "Do you have his most current book?" The guy looked at me like I just accused his mother of secretly laundering money through a crackhouse down the street. Of course no one has his current book, not even the publisher yet. I can feel things like that coming out of my mouth, and can't stop them, not even after they bellyflop down onto the table and scream for those who missed it the first time. Since I'm used to this, I bought a CD of him live at Carnegie Hall, and here is where creation smiled upon me, and I lost my place in line as the security guard closed it off before I got back. Good.

Because I just wanted to hear his stuff and the way he would have said it. Not to meet him as one of the herd with their blank pieces of paper. And even though on-sight, I knew the girl who sat next to me full of several strong cocktails, was going to sit still as long as she could until she had to call someone on her cellphone, in her extra-long jeans and extra-pointy shoes to announce where she was, and yes, wasn't that just crazy!; and even though she laughed backwards (Ah Ah AHH versus Ha Ha HAAA), she still could have been more obnoxious, only because we had one thing in common.

So I squinted until his face came into focus. As he read through his new stuff, scratched through words that didn't work, stumbled on his own sentence structure three times in a row and said under his breath "I'm sorry", he was exactly the person I had hoped he might be. Sure. I could go on about it for days, and I'm sure I will after I tapdance on that new desk in the hall waiting to be taken away.

The endless autograph line snaked back into the auditorium after the show. I wanted to get back in line and ask him to just sign it "I'm sorry", but I didn't ask. Ron asked, "You sure you don't want to go ever there?... Just remember, it doesn't matter what you say, ten times as many people have said something stupider... to him. You sure you don't want to get one? He may never come back." I thought, that's why I'd rather keep what I have now without ruining it by being a well-meaning awkward human.***



*I know. I got John Flansburg's autograph, but that was different. When you know someone only from the sound of his voice and not written words, it's easier to ask him a stupid or completely average question. Plus, it wasn't a nice little single-spaced line formed in front of him like taking communion from a priest. And as always, beer never fails to lend a hand when you're looking for that extra confidence in asking for something tangible.

** I still unrealistically hate Yoko Ono since she did ruin everything, just everything.

***Oh, the irony. Oh well. Scott's right. I am a mushy girl, and unless something puts you in jail or kills you, it's not really a Big Deal.



Camping Van Beethoven.

I'm going camping this weekend and won't be back til Tuesday. So I hope you have a good weekend and if you want, you can go by and break into my house and steal all my good stuff. I'd really like a new plasma screen tv.

"Hey, where'd that desk in the corner come from? It's really pretty nice."

"Yes, well DON'T touch it and tell everybody else not to touch it either. It's goin' back. It's too expensive."

Well, it won't be going back UPS.

Three of the most recent searches directing unsuspecting people here:








And my personal favorite which just happens to be a second request for hemmorhoid identification:




Yeah. I'm still here, working like a sucka, f'rill though. But here's a neato mosquito puzzle for you to solve. Check it out especially you, Kittyspunk, since you solved the bunny one. And also because it's Blavod black vodka which is kind of sentimental to me since it's the same shade as my whithered liver. That's a joke. My liver is probably the color of a nicely-tanned buffalo hide.* My soul is black.

Boy-o-boy, I wish I had some of this black vodka to go with it all today. Just in time for Halloween, too. Which I still haven't decided if I'm dressing up as anything or not. It used to be a lot easier when we were all kids: girls were pretty pink pricessesses (plural must be "princessi" or "princessae"), and boys were Superman. Now of course that we're all older, the choices have completely reversed themselves.



*Which reminds me: check out Edison's Boxing Cats footage and the Buffalo Dance which does shift attention away from my absolute theory of today's Reality Shows being the Jell-o wrestling A-bombing of what's left of Western civilization when clearly people were into watching a good cat-fight at one point in time; but it does support my sub-theory that people can be easily coerced into dancing like crazy marmosets squashing-out bugs and cigarette butts as long as you promise to point a camera at them.




Check please.

"I have a question. I need to send something heavy and I need to send it cheaply. Should I FedEx it, or should I UPS it? It doesn't have to be there overnight."

"Uhhhmm...... hmmmm...... well, let me think.... I don't think we have a UPS account. Is it in town?... I can take it."

No. And now, I hear banjos.

"Igor! Reboot the monkey!"

I'd like to say it isn't, but it is.

This job is officially killing me. When it's not kicking us lifeless, collectively. But at least I have some good company who can speak out when I can't.

Well, I know what I'll be doing this weekend.

I'm so happy, I could just dress up like a Macy's elf and write an important piece of hilarious yet poignant satire.

Finally, the day stopped wringing my neck. Forget everything which or that has transpired up til 2:58 pm today in my rolling chair on a stained-carpet kind of world. Now I have something happy in my purse. This is how I feel about the little things that make the world better. Actually maybe today it's selfishly just about the little things that make my world better. Like a blood donor card packed away in a safe place autographed by a sincerely genuine John Flansburg. Or that the guys who cut my weensy front yard are actually named the Lawn Wranglers. And it's just like two pristine tickets to David Sedaris, one of the best writers still alive.

Oops. Jinxed him*. He's a dead man now. I am so sorry. Ah well. Maybe I can eBay them unused.


*Much like I'm jinxing the Cubs.




Oh yeah, I forgot to put in my two-cent blab about Arnold Schwartzenooghen becoming Governor.

What do you expect? People like to watch other people get voted off islands, out of lavish condos, into faux pop-lifestyles, and now into the political system. What ever happened to good ole roller derby instead? Jerry Springer is not a show, it's a country. And no one can find the remote anymore.

In two words: Too easy.

Zsa Zsa Boo Boo

Correction: Plato is to Pluto as Eva is to Zsa Zsa. Those two always confused me like Samantha and Serena from "Bewitched" or Jeannie and her evil, albeit sexier sister. Oh no. I just seriously used the word "albeit". What's next? "Vis-a-vis"? See, I told you my bulb was growing dimmer day by day. And it was only a 40 watt to begin with, awww snthap. Soon, I will be drooling from the corner of my mouth over Friday night Nachos at The Home. But I will be happier, more blissful, and dribbling in viable quantities.

I wonder if I should talk about bowling from last night. I don't have much to say about my stellar performance. It was fun even though I did suck like a Hoover upright on carpet setting. If it weren't for the damn trick knee, the current alignment of the planets and the fact that my poor nicked-up pink ball came back with a greasy sheen on it several times which probably only benefitted me in the end, maybe I wouldn't have resorted to the vodka tonic. But what fun would that have been? Jacquie Wack and I have decided we bowl better when we start with a single rum and Coke to get the balls rolling, and we have decided to design small cheer routines, preferably shaken to the tune of Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girl." Now I have to get on eBay and find some pom-poms. Not the skimpy, metallic 90's ones but the big, shiny 70's ones. Much akin to Wilt Chamberlain's awe-inspiring superfly afro. Or was it Dr. J...?


Better than good, it's fair.

Told you we were working hard on the Fair stuff. Not one mention of their brilliant ad campaign. Must be implied. And see, I didn't make up the pork butt on a stick.





And finally.

I love David Sedaris. The sky opened up, and he's coming here to Memphis. I gotta get tickets. I could just scream like a girl. I bet he could, too.

Sorry, I was gone. Yet another meeting.

But look who came to see me. It's the Ffffffffffffffftt Dog. That's the best name I can think of right now. To me, it looks like the sound he is making with his mouf.


What's a two-letter word for "painfully aware of the on-coming dementia"* ?

This weekend, I did a crossword puzzle. For some reason, I've started doing lots of them. Imagine Homer Simpson doing sit-ups. That is how I feel. And so I fly through them with this unfounded Mensa-like confidence until I get to the stumpers I have unwittingly created by answering them slightly wrong. Sure, I hate the punny stumpers which I will never get. For example, what is a fourteen-letter word for "McMahon and Clark, in a row" -- answer "TwoDicksinarow". Ok, so I made that one up, but you know what I'm talking about. They make me want to punch a hole through the newspaper when I exhaust myself, burning braincells I could've used elsewhere.

What's my point? What's a five-letter word for a student of Socrates? I scribbled in "P-L-U-T-O", only for Ron to catch as he worked through those harder bits now made slightly impossible. Yes, Pluto. Not Goofy, the mentally-challenged dogman who could at least talk, but the flea-scratching, bone-burying canine companion of Mickey Mouse and friends.

For those of you out there who remember the tv show "Green Acres," except for the parts where she is blonde, Hungarian, and sits around the farmhouse dressed in mirabou-trimmed satin gowns (which I would love to do all of that, by the way), I am beginning to remind myself more of Zsa Zsa Gabor's Leeza every day. If she couldn't get a puzzle piece to fit, by God she'd hammer it in and wonder why the landscape photo never appeared quite right. Worst part about me is that I realize how limited I am becoming. Why my brain shrinking, I don't know. Just please let it shrink to a manageable size where I don't know it's shrinking anymore yet I can still enjoy the taste of corndog nuggets on Wednesdays.

*m-e.



The tumor made me forget to mention.

Last night's play-off game ruled the Western Hemisphere. I'm sorry to all my Braves fan friends, but please, just let me have this one moment of victory.

In Yo' Face and Get Ready to Lick it, Florida Marlins. Go Put Yo' Foot All Up In It, Cubbies.

Some of you wish my expanding dementia tumor was much bigger now, don't you.

Well not to worry because, yea verily, now ye shall all witness my Almighty Power of Universal Jinx, as my undying support for the Chicago Cubs has surely doomed them to failure. But I've apparently waited more than a lifetime for the Cubs to get this far, jackass goat curse and all. Sports used to bore the sweatpants offa me. But somewhere along the way, I have become one ugly American when it comes to supporting the Chicago Cubs and the Memphis Grizzlies. Funny part of it is, most of the best Grizzlies came the other side of the world. Go figure.

This just contributed by Kittyspunk (Thanks, Sherry!) You are so right. There are no words to describe this site. Except for maybe goldmine.

By the way, almost two working weeks after the Unfortunate Fuck Off Incident, here on Day Ten, the Nutter Woman Who Called in with a Parasite Once has officially left the building. Yes, sacked or quit or just eternally unavailable, we don't know. Dare I say we don't care either. All of her stuff is still here, but she is not. It's kind of like she never even left at all. A moment of silence, please. Ok, that's enough back to work.

(thanks for the picture, Weezy!)

Happy October 1st!

And you know what that means:

It means bring on November, December, January and February. I'd much rather complain about the cold than the heat.

It means in 30 days, we all have the freedom to celebrate Free Candy Day*, and also attend the Opening Game of the Memphis Grizzlies.

It means Day Two without the convenience of a USB cable and Day Nine of The "Nutter No-Show" Show.

And it also means One Day Closer to Heaven or Hades for Me. Trust me, it's okay either way, I promise.

Speaking of that, I have a meeting in Blathervania now. Be back soon.


*Being so close to Halloween and all, here's a farking link just in from Lewis. I can't get the whole page to farking load, but I did catch a funny one here and there.