Who… keeps pinching me?
What… is a Blarney Stone?
Where… do leprechauns sleep?
When… is the appropriate time to barf green eggs and ham?
Why…. is Steve Miller Band playing?
Who, What, Where, When, Why: Cruise Ship Edition
Who… gave me these coconuts?
What… happened on the poop deck?
Where… are my sea legs?
When… did we get married?
Why… is Kathie Lee Gifford winking at me?
Who, What, Where, When, Why: Worst Case Scenario Edition
You always hear about the 5 Ws in journalism. You also hear about a 6th letter, H (How), but I don’t feel like messing around with that letter tonight. Take that, H! You think you’re so cool being the 8th letter of the alphabet. Well I hereby demote you.
Anyway, here are the 5 Ws that would mean things have gone horribly awry.
Who… did I sleep with?
What… did I sign?
Where… did this toe tag come from?
When… did I lose all this blood?
Why… is that gnome winking at me?
paper products; tremors
For a spill-prone person like me who is usually pretty conservative with paper towel usage (what a sad sentence that is, but it’s true. I even buy those sheets that you can tear in three pieces) there’s a comfort that comes from having bought in bulk. I currently have a bounty of Bounty.
A comfort that’s off-set by this action:
But lest you are thinking I’m saying I’ll just substitute one paper product for another, that’s totally not what I’m saying. I’m just pointing out the paper inequity.
Also, unrelated, I seem to have developed a tremor today. My hands are shaking a little. So, that’s awesome news. I’m going to assume I just had too much caffeine until something makes me think otherwise.
But on the upside, should the shaking cause me to spill anything, my ass is totally covered. Well, my ass is the one thing that isn’t covered, but you know.
Am I belaboring?
Don’t answer that.
Ides of March madness
I kept hearing people make Ides of March references yesterday and was thinking they were jumping the gun but then I realized yesterday really WAS the 15th and hence, they weren’t jumping the gun, they were concomitant with the gun. Is that the right word? Gun?
And then I was thinking that I should write a funny post about alternate March holidays like:
The Tides of March
The Brides of March
The Guides of March
The Slides of March
The Glides of March
The Wides of March (no offense, fatties)
The Tides of March (this one is about detergent as opposed to the first one which is about lunar stuff)
The Rides of March (woohoo, roller coasters!)
The Rides of March (woohoo, public transportation!)
And then I was forced to admit that there just isn’t anything funny about The Ides of March.
Brain socks
Could I be any less focused right now? No. I’m trying to write this thing that’s due and instead I feel like my brain is stuffed with old socks. In fact, I wonder if it IS stuffed with old socks which would explain why I can’t ever find socks when I need them and why I’ve taken to no longer caring if my socks match. In fact, I think it’s time the world de-embraces matching socks as a goal and yes, I know de-embrace isn’t a word. I remember telling a coworker some time ago that a guy had seen my mis-matching socks (that whole thing sounds euphemistic, right? but it’s not) and this was back in the days when only laundry emergencies would lead to mismatching socks, not my general disregard for doing what society tells me to do vis a vis socks (I’m kind of a sock rebel, you see) and anyway, she said, “Well I bet he just thinks you’re the cutest thing ever.” She had a British accent, too, so it was really convincing. Then she spoon fed me some applesauce and patted me on my helmet.
What was the point of this? Oh yes, there’s socks in my brain. And thoughts on my feet.
It’s all very upside down.
I also have a headache in my brain so technically my brain is filled with socks and stress. What are stress provoking socks? Some kind of super tight athletic socks? Just thinking about it seems to be making it worse which means I think I’ve located the specific sock which is causing the grief.
Also, there is a curious bruise on my hand and I remember yelling ouch at some point but can’t really remember much more than that, which is a good feeling.
Must think good socks!
Care to hear about my weird dream?
Care to hear about my weird dream? I think you would. So I get into an elevator on my way to a job interview/going away party for a magazine. This guy Marc, who is someone I know in real life, is in the elevator and his pants are around his ankles and he’s smirking at me, but not in a menacing creepy way, more like he’s making fun of me. At that point I notice that it feels kind of breezy and I look down and my pants are also around my ankles. I make some hasty remark and pull that shit up. Then we get out and the editor in chief of the magazine walks by me and says hi and then the editor in chief, another version of the same woman but this one is pregnant walks by and gives me the cold shoulder. I stand there wondering who that first version was. Then a bunch of people are clustered around a room which, in the dream, is this woman Sid’s (again this person exists in real life) room and the walls are gold and the furniture is white. This will be my office or something, or it’ll be a lot of people’s offices, hence we’re all looking at it. I’m noticing the way Sid has mounted shelves going up the walls. I comment that it looks like a childhood bedroom. That’s all I remember although I know there was much more to the dream.
It probably means I’m going to win the lottery, right?
Also, I think I’ve mentioned on here that a literary agent once told me that people’s dreams are only interesting to them. Clearly she hadn’t heard any of my dreams because I bet you can’t put this blog down! I bet you are rapt. I bet you are slack jawed and drooling, waiting for what comes next. I bet you are putty in my hands. I bet you are wrapped around my finger. I bet you are googling dream meanings right now. I bet you are swarthy yet smell like rain. You don’t? Ok, never mind.
Potential comment of the week
Because this is making me giggle to no end (thus proving Dustin’s point), I’m nominating this comment for comment of the week but the actual decision will be made at a later date. If you guys want to nominate certain comments, go for it.
Says Ted:
“Q: Why did the fart cross the road?
A: It was stuck in the chicken’s pants.
Not sure if that will be as funny tomorrow!”
Um, I’m pretty sure it will be!
Dustin and I discuss the word douche bag, fart jokes, catering to your audience and the Dane Cook dilemma
Wow, there’ some intense douchebaggy letterboxing action happening here.