You know what is the best scent ever? Febreze. Now, I've never stood in a rose garden at dawn while a light, dewy breeze tickles my nose with the satiny scent of a thousand different buds and blossoms. I'm pretty sure that would smell okay. But Febreze? I'm willing to bet Febreze is way better. Febreze is like cocaine, except for your nose. Wait. I mean... I don't know, I've never done cocaine. I guess what I'm saying is, from what I hear, Febreze is a lot like cocaine -- it goes up your nose and you can't get enough of it. Except I don't think you can OD on Febreze, because if that were possible I'm pretty sure I'd be sitting in an urn somewhere by now. Because to me, Febreze is the olfactory equivalent of a glass of champagne, a deep tissue massage, and a really excellent blow job all rolled into one. So I want it as frequently as possible.
(Incidentally, I'm always worried that people will think I'm a coke-head, even though I've never done cocaine. I happen to have a very itchy nose, so I'm always walking around, rubbing my nose, which is what coke-heads do on TV. I especially try to resist rubbing my nose when I've just come out of the bathroom, so as not to invite suspicion. But then as soon as I think to myself, "Self, don't itch your nose," my nose gets all itchy. It's like hearing the word "yawn" and then trying not to yawn yourself. You are totally trying to resist the urge to yawn right now, aren't you? HA!)
Anyway, I think Febreze is heaven-sent. Or heaven-scent, since I love a good pun. So when I saw that they have Febreze-scented laundry soap and dryer sheets, I about spotaneously combusted with joy. (Is combusted a word? Or should it just be combust? Hm.) Fresh laundry? Delightful. Fresh laundry that smells like Febreze? Transcendant.
BUT WAIT, THAT'S NOT ALL. I got the stroke of genius to put the Febreze dryer sheets in strategic places throughout my apartment, completely banishing unpleasant odors! I stuck some of the little guys in my closet, which tends to smell like an elderly, flatulent, chronic halitosis sufferer is buried under the floorboards. The other day I was sitting at my desk at work thinking, "Wow, there is a very pleasing aroma around here, I wonder what it is." Then when I went to lunch, the lovely smell followed me. Because sometimes I'm slightly dumb, it took me all day to realize that the heavenly smell was me! I smelled like Febreze! And not old closet stink!
So, in all of my geniusyness, I put a dryer sheet inside the garbage cupboard. I thought this was an inspired idea -- cover up 5-day old pizza smell with Febreze! Except now I have this kind of weird olfactory dysphoria where I can't tell if my laundry smells like fresh garbage, or if my garbage smells like rotting laundry.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Finally, something to put on my buttbrush
If having kids means I am required to purchase something called BUTT PASTE, I think that is reason in itself to go ahead and have my ovaries replaced with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Or something else that is equally as comforting and non-troublesome.Also, I have posted three times today. Can you tell I am so bored at work that I'm ready to spoon my eyes out?
DIY blasphemy kit
My BFF Emily and I are both recovering born-again Bible-thumpers, so I can always count on her to exchange eye-rolls and smirks with me whenever one of our still-thumping acquaintances does something particularly Jesus freak-ish. (Like our engaged friends who vowed not to kiss until they got married. Because that's what Jesus, who apparently was made of injection-molded plastic from the waist down, would do.) It's always more fun to have someone else to blaspheme with.
Today, Emily sent me a link to this awesome site where you can create your own church sign. This is hours of diabolical enjoyment. Here are a few examples of my handiwork:
Today, Emily sent me a link to this awesome site where you can create your own church sign. This is hours of diabolical enjoyment. Here are a few examples of my handiwork:
Now go forth and create your own blasphemy:
Orbit-uary
I don't know if you remember the moment when you found out that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Or that there was no Easter Bunny laying delicious chocolate eggs outside your front door. Or that the Tooth Fairy was just your mom. Or that Milli Vanilli were just a couple of pretty-boy, no-talent charlatans. These are the kind of shocking revelations that shake us to our very core and make us question everything we've ever known.
And that, my friends, that is how I feel about Pluto's planetary status being revoked. It hurts my heart.
I feel like that was one of the basic things we were taught as kids -- there are 26 letters in the alphabet, 2 + 2 = 4, the capital of Rhode Island is Providence, "i" comes before "e" except after "c," and Pluto is the smallest, coldest, cutest planet of the 9 planets in our solar system. Now I'm like, "What? 2 + 2 = Texas? HUH? The capital of Rhode Island is butterscotch pudding?! 'I' comes before 'e' except after 3.1415? Whaaaaa?" Nothing makes sense anymore. I mean, I don't know that much, but now I'm not even sure I know what I know.
I just think it's sad that a bunch of bully scientists decided to gang up on Pluto all of a sudden. What did Pluto ever do to THEM? Meanies.
(Illustration of Pluto being kicked out of the solar system):
And that, my friends, that is how I feel about Pluto's planetary status being revoked. It hurts my heart.
I feel like that was one of the basic things we were taught as kids -- there are 26 letters in the alphabet, 2 + 2 = 4, the capital of Rhode Island is Providence, "i" comes before "e" except after "c," and Pluto is the smallest, coldest, cutest planet of the 9 planets in our solar system. Now I'm like, "What? 2 + 2 = Texas? HUH? The capital of Rhode Island is butterscotch pudding?! 'I' comes before 'e' except after 3.1415? Whaaaaa?" Nothing makes sense anymore. I mean, I don't know that much, but now I'm not even sure I know what I know.
I just think it's sad that a bunch of bully scientists decided to gang up on Pluto all of a sudden. What did Pluto ever do to THEM? Meanies.
(Illustration of Pluto being kicked out of the solar system):
I know, I know. That was SO lame. But I couldn't resist. Heh.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Because, Feck Driving
As I near the 10th anniversary of my driver's license, I feel it is an appropriate time to examine my relationship with Driving. In the last few years, my relationship with Driving has been sort of, well, rocky. But I can remember an earlier time, a more tender time, a time filled with wonder when my relationship with Driving was new, and (who knows!) we could go anywhere together.
It started out very innocently... a parking lot here, a trip around the block there. But before too long, Driving and I were inseparable, spending all our time together. I couldn't keep my hands off the steering wheel! And finally, inevitably, I was ready to go all the way. With the gentle coaching of my driving instructor, I did it... on the freeway. I felt excited and nauseous and certain of my own imminent death and invincible all at once. I almost passed out when the instructor made what must have been his favorite joke: "Ok, and next time we learn how to make a u-turn on the freeway." Except I didn't know it was a joke, because he was foreign and had an accent, and for a second I thought maybe this dude didn't know the FIRST THING about driving in America, and holy shit, he was going to kill us both! Except I probably thought "holy heck!" or something far more innocuous than "holy shit," because at that time I was a C! I was a C-H! I was a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N (I-A-N!) and I knew Jesus would strike me down with acne if I were to speak any poisoned words of the devil, even if I only spoke them in my head.
Before long I dominated the freeway with my Driving, and I'd go flying along in my 1983 Toyota Celica convertible*, blonde hair whipping in the wind and a flurry of whoops and hollers and marriage proposals trailing behind me on my way to the beach, or along a winding road in the hills, or on my way to the House of the Lord where I would sing His praises, amen. Man, did I love Driving. I loved Driving with a love I thought would never die.
But you guys, I think that love might be gone forever. I mean, I get behind the wheel and I'm just going through the motions -- half the time I'm practically comatose. Now Driving is demanding more and more of my time and money, and what do I get in return? A sore back, a trucker tan, a responsibility to remain sober way too much of the time. I just feel like this relationship has become completely one-sided. And now I find out Driving is in cahoots with Carbon Dioxide to sweat us all off the planet? Oh, hell no.
That's why on Sunday, after having driven nearly 400 miles in the course of one week, a normal week, a week wherein no special trips were taken, I finally said "FECK DRIVING," and decided to take the Metrolink for the first time ever. And you know what? It was awesome. And weird. But mostly awesome.
See, there must be something about the way I look or my aura or my pheromones or something that makes strangers want to talk to me. Because I made no less than three new friends in the course of an hour on public transportation yesterday. And I'm not complaining at all -- I love talking to strangers, and the stranger the stranger the better. Barring, of course, creepy rapist/murderer types, which none of my new friends were.
While I was waiting for the train at the Covina Metrolink station, this adorable, smiley Japanese kid kept asking me questions about riding the train (I pretended like I had all the answers and never let on that I was totally new at this, too). Finally, still smiley, yet now somewhat frantically smiley, he came over and asked if I could help him buy his ticket because his English wasn't so hot and he couldn't figure out how to do it. How cute is that? So I was like his guardian train angel.
Later, on the Red Line, this really cute pregnant lady sat next to me. It wasn't until a crazy guy came on the train and was shouting meaningless obscenities that preggers made friends with me. She turned to me and told me that the problem with LA is that people are too much in a hurry, and they're too selfish, and they swear too much. And the whole problem would be fixed if people would just, like, help old ladies across the street and stuff. I found out that she's pregnant with her 3rd kid, and she's separated from her (verbally) abusive husband, though they're still technically married. And she's going to take the Greyhound to Georgia to visit her family... and truth be told, she's thinking of moving there because a change of scenery might be just what she needs, you know? So then we were BFFs and she patted me on the knee when she left and gave me blessings from god.
Pretty much immediately after that, an older man with a cane fell almost comically into the seat vacated by preggers. He gave me a sheepish laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and then proceeded to make statements that I was completely incapable of understanding. I think because he was speaking a combination of broken English and Crazy Old Man. I was able to figure out after a while that he was trying to tell me he spoke French, except he was saying something like, "I espeak Francey." He later tried to convince me that he also spoke German and Russian, so apparently it's just his English that's a little spotty.
But, new friends aside, taking the Metro was a very zen experience. My right butt cheek didn't cramp as it usually does when my foot flits back and forth from the gas to the brake during an hour+ of LA traffic. (Otherwise known as a visit to the "L.A. Festival of Traffic" -- (C) baddminton.com). And it didn't matter that I completely zoned out the whole time, because there was no risk of me drifting across a freeway and causing a massive pile-up. It was wonderful, and it's made me realize that maybe it's ok if I take a break from Driving for a while. Maybe I don't need Driving as much as I thought I did -- it's not healthy to be that co-dependent, anyway. So, here goes...
Dear Driving,
It's been real, but I've met someone new. I mean, you had to have seen this coming. You and Carbon Dioxide have been cavorting around behind my back for all these years... did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I wouldn't get even? Well, I've got news for you -- I've discovered Riding. And I think Riding and I are going to be very happy together, maybe happier than you and I ever were. I mean, I could never be completely over you, and I know I'll still need you sometimes. But I'm pretty upset right now, and I think it's best if we take a break. I'm so SICK of shelling out hundreds of dollars a month to support your filthy gasoline addiction. Do you know how many beers I could get for the price of just one tank of gas? Beers that I could actually drink, guilt-free, if I didn't have to worry about YOU! I just feel like you're being really selfish. Riding never asks me to stay sober. Riding also never asks me to park, and don't even get me started on THAT.
I mean, yes, it's going to be hard. Especially late at night, and also around the holidays, when Riding won't be there for me as much. But I think this is for the best, for everyone involved. See you later, Driving. Keep in touch.
Your friend,
Becky
* I use the word "convertible" here to refer to a vehicular state of being in which there was no "top." My car wasn't actually "manufactured" this way... it was more the result of a whim of one of its previous owners. So even though there was mold in the back seat, there was still the desired effect of long, blonde hair whipping about in the breeze on sunny California highways. Think the opening credits of "The Hills," except way, way, way lower budget.
It started out very innocently... a parking lot here, a trip around the block there. But before too long, Driving and I were inseparable, spending all our time together. I couldn't keep my hands off the steering wheel! And finally, inevitably, I was ready to go all the way. With the gentle coaching of my driving instructor, I did it... on the freeway. I felt excited and nauseous and certain of my own imminent death and invincible all at once. I almost passed out when the instructor made what must have been his favorite joke: "Ok, and next time we learn how to make a u-turn on the freeway." Except I didn't know it was a joke, because he was foreign and had an accent, and for a second I thought maybe this dude didn't know the FIRST THING about driving in America, and holy shit, he was going to kill us both! Except I probably thought "holy heck!" or something far more innocuous than "holy shit," because at that time I was a C! I was a C-H! I was a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N (I-A-N!) and I knew Jesus would strike me down with acne if I were to speak any poisoned words of the devil, even if I only spoke them in my head.
Before long I dominated the freeway with my Driving, and I'd go flying along in my 1983 Toyota Celica convertible*, blonde hair whipping in the wind and a flurry of whoops and hollers and marriage proposals trailing behind me on my way to the beach, or along a winding road in the hills, or on my way to the House of the Lord where I would sing His praises, amen. Man, did I love Driving. I loved Driving with a love I thought would never die.
But you guys, I think that love might be gone forever. I mean, I get behind the wheel and I'm just going through the motions -- half the time I'm practically comatose. Now Driving is demanding more and more of my time and money, and what do I get in return? A sore back, a trucker tan, a responsibility to remain sober way too much of the time. I just feel like this relationship has become completely one-sided. And now I find out Driving is in cahoots with Carbon Dioxide to sweat us all off the planet? Oh, hell no.
That's why on Sunday, after having driven nearly 400 miles in the course of one week, a normal week, a week wherein no special trips were taken, I finally said "FECK DRIVING," and decided to take the Metrolink for the first time ever. And you know what? It was awesome. And weird. But mostly awesome.
See, there must be something about the way I look or my aura or my pheromones or something that makes strangers want to talk to me. Because I made no less than three new friends in the course of an hour on public transportation yesterday. And I'm not complaining at all -- I love talking to strangers, and the stranger the stranger the better. Barring, of course, creepy rapist/murderer types, which none of my new friends were.
While I was waiting for the train at the Covina Metrolink station, this adorable, smiley Japanese kid kept asking me questions about riding the train (I pretended like I had all the answers and never let on that I was totally new at this, too). Finally, still smiley, yet now somewhat frantically smiley, he came over and asked if I could help him buy his ticket because his English wasn't so hot and he couldn't figure out how to do it. How cute is that? So I was like his guardian train angel.
Later, on the Red Line, this really cute pregnant lady sat next to me. It wasn't until a crazy guy came on the train and was shouting meaningless obscenities that preggers made friends with me. She turned to me and told me that the problem with LA is that people are too much in a hurry, and they're too selfish, and they swear too much. And the whole problem would be fixed if people would just, like, help old ladies across the street and stuff. I found out that she's pregnant with her 3rd kid, and she's separated from her (verbally) abusive husband, though they're still technically married. And she's going to take the Greyhound to Georgia to visit her family... and truth be told, she's thinking of moving there because a change of scenery might be just what she needs, you know? So then we were BFFs and she patted me on the knee when she left and gave me blessings from god.
Pretty much immediately after that, an older man with a cane fell almost comically into the seat vacated by preggers. He gave me a sheepish laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and then proceeded to make statements that I was completely incapable of understanding. I think because he was speaking a combination of broken English and Crazy Old Man. I was able to figure out after a while that he was trying to tell me he spoke French, except he was saying something like, "I espeak Francey." He later tried to convince me that he also spoke German and Russian, so apparently it's just his English that's a little spotty.
But, new friends aside, taking the Metro was a very zen experience. My right butt cheek didn't cramp as it usually does when my foot flits back and forth from the gas to the brake during an hour+ of LA traffic. (Otherwise known as a visit to the "L.A. Festival of Traffic" -- (C) baddminton.com). And it didn't matter that I completely zoned out the whole time, because there was no risk of me drifting across a freeway and causing a massive pile-up. It was wonderful, and it's made me realize that maybe it's ok if I take a break from Driving for a while. Maybe I don't need Driving as much as I thought I did -- it's not healthy to be that co-dependent, anyway. So, here goes...
Dear Driving,
It's been real, but I've met someone new. I mean, you had to have seen this coming. You and Carbon Dioxide have been cavorting around behind my back for all these years... did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I wouldn't get even? Well, I've got news for you -- I've discovered Riding. And I think Riding and I are going to be very happy together, maybe happier than you and I ever were. I mean, I could never be completely over you, and I know I'll still need you sometimes. But I'm pretty upset right now, and I think it's best if we take a break. I'm so SICK of shelling out hundreds of dollars a month to support your filthy gasoline addiction. Do you know how many beers I could get for the price of just one tank of gas? Beers that I could actually drink, guilt-free, if I didn't have to worry about YOU! I just feel like you're being really selfish. Riding never asks me to stay sober. Riding also never asks me to park, and don't even get me started on THAT.
I mean, yes, it's going to be hard. Especially late at night, and also around the holidays, when Riding won't be there for me as much. But I think this is for the best, for everyone involved. See you later, Driving. Keep in touch.
Your friend,
Becky
* I use the word "convertible" here to refer to a vehicular state of being in which there was no "top." My car wasn't actually "manufactured" this way... it was more the result of a whim of one of its previous owners. So even though there was mold in the back seat, there was still the desired effect of long, blonde hair whipping about in the breeze on sunny California highways. Think the opening credits of "The Hills," except way, way, way lower budget.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Puppy love
So, last September I was feeling the tiniest bit lonely, and I was also frequently bored at work. Which was a bad combination because the boredom at work led to me pretty much camping out at www.1-800-save-a-pet.org, where I would spend hours clicking on pictures of dogs and reading about their "special needs" and plotting how I would scoop them all up and take them home with me where we would frolick in the back yard together and then watch TV marathons of "The Dog Whisperer" in one big, furry, slobbery heap on the couch. Because if I had a houseful of puppies to come home to, it would surely be impossible to be lonely. There would be too much cuddlin' and wrasslin' and lickin' and general mayhem to even consider being lonely.
So one Saturday, I just happened to be in the general vicinity of my local Petco, where the pets go, and oh, huh, isn't that funny, they coincidentally happen to have pet adoptions at Petco on Saturdays. So I convinced Emily, who was with me, that maybe we should just poke our heads in, just to see what was going on, because they were just right there, the puppies and the kitties, just across the parking lot from Target, and what was the harm in just going in and saying hello to them? None! Of course, none.
Upon walking into the Petco, our voices shot up about 42 octaves because Ooooooooohhhhhh!!! The puppiiiiiiiiiies! They were soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!!!! And ohmygod look at the tiny tiny kitty! It only has THREE LEGS!!!! AGGGGGGhgggggghh! So we basically just died for about twenty minutes from cuteness and fuzziness overload.
And eventually we noticed the teeniest, most excited little guy who was hoppinghoppinghopping much higher than should be possible for a little tiny dog, Olympic-record-type hopping, and you could just see that he was thinking, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease come talk to me and be my verybestfriend! Look how high I can jump! Isn't it awesome! Huh!? Huhhuhhuh!!!?"
And so, wooed by the hopping, I went over to say hi and pick the little guy up, at which point he snuggled into my arms and asked me with his little doggie eyes to be his mommy. And the evil pet adoption people, seeing that I was weak, knowing that I was in puppy love at first snuggle, sensing my 1-800-save-a-pet addiction, ganged up on me to convince me that I needed to give this springy little wigglebutt a home. They even offered me a discount on the adoption fee -- I could pick up a new best friend for just 40 bucks. Bastards.
Except in reality there was very little arm-twisting, and it was not at all coincidental that I happened to show up at Petco, where the pets go, on a pet-adoption Saturday. I knew that the hours of online pet shopping had by this point rendered me completely powerless against a pair of little brown, pleading puppy eyes.
And that is how I came to adopt my little dog, whom I re-named Uncle Rico because I couldn't bear for him to go on living as "Tigger," his previous and totally lame moniker. Also, I had been contemplating getting a Beta fish a few months earlier and had settled on calling the fish Uncle Rico, because I thought the "Napoleon Dynamite" character of same name was fantastic. Then I decided having a fish was boring and stupid. I had been disappointed to not have something to call "Uncle Rico," though, because I thought it was an excellent name for a pet. So of course when I adopted my little guy, who was clearly a natural-born athlete, someone capable of throwing a football over them mountains, it was obvious that he must be known henceforth as Uncle Rico. If coach woulda put him in fourth quarter, they would've been state champs.
Of course now he has any number of nicknames: Rics, Ricmeister, Ric-a-lic, Turdbutt, Ric-o-la, Idiot Dog, Fatty, Rictastic, Piglet, Mister, Puppy, Nutball, Dumb Dog, Munchkin, Richard, Kitty, and Poopy McCrapsalot.
But even from day one, we were completely bonded. That first night, we took him to The Press for a celebratory beer, and my buddy Katie said that when I left to go to the bathroom, little Rics became distraught and kept looking for me until I came back to the table. AWW! After that day, I've been completely cured of my online pet shopping addiction.
Anyway, my whole point in telling that story was just so I could post some pictures of my adorable Uncle Rico. So here ya go.
Sleepy Rico in Em's lap
"You're going to want to make a right at the next intersection."
"Noooo, I love YOU more!"
Dude, Rico is magic. How did he DO that??
Snuggling is definitely what he does best.
So one Saturday, I just happened to be in the general vicinity of my local Petco, where the pets go, and oh, huh, isn't that funny, they coincidentally happen to have pet adoptions at Petco on Saturdays. So I convinced Emily, who was with me, that maybe we should just poke our heads in, just to see what was going on, because they were just right there, the puppies and the kitties, just across the parking lot from Target, and what was the harm in just going in and saying hello to them? None! Of course, none.
Upon walking into the Petco, our voices shot up about 42 octaves because Ooooooooohhhhhh!!! The puppiiiiiiiiiies! They were soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!!!! And ohmygod look at the tiny tiny kitty! It only has THREE LEGS!!!! AGGGGGGhgggggghh! So we basically just died for about twenty minutes from cuteness and fuzziness overload.
And eventually we noticed the teeniest, most excited little guy who was hoppinghoppinghopping much higher than should be possible for a little tiny dog, Olympic-record-type hopping, and you could just see that he was thinking, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease come talk to me and be my verybestfriend! Look how high I can jump! Isn't it awesome! Huh!? Huhhuhhuh!!!?"
And so, wooed by the hopping, I went over to say hi and pick the little guy up, at which point he snuggled into my arms and asked me with his little doggie eyes to be his mommy. And the evil pet adoption people, seeing that I was weak, knowing that I was in puppy love at first snuggle, sensing my 1-800-save-a-pet addiction, ganged up on me to convince me that I needed to give this springy little wigglebutt a home. They even offered me a discount on the adoption fee -- I could pick up a new best friend for just 40 bucks. Bastards.
Except in reality there was very little arm-twisting, and it was not at all coincidental that I happened to show up at Petco, where the pets go, on a pet-adoption Saturday. I knew that the hours of online pet shopping had by this point rendered me completely powerless against a pair of little brown, pleading puppy eyes.
And that is how I came to adopt my little dog, whom I re-named Uncle Rico because I couldn't bear for him to go on living as "Tigger," his previous and totally lame moniker. Also, I had been contemplating getting a Beta fish a few months earlier and had settled on calling the fish Uncle Rico, because I thought the "Napoleon Dynamite" character of same name was fantastic. Then I decided having a fish was boring and stupid. I had been disappointed to not have something to call "Uncle Rico," though, because I thought it was an excellent name for a pet. So of course when I adopted my little guy, who was clearly a natural-born athlete, someone capable of throwing a football over them mountains, it was obvious that he must be known henceforth as Uncle Rico. If coach woulda put him in fourth quarter, they would've been state champs.
Of course now he has any number of nicknames: Rics, Ricmeister, Ric-a-lic, Turdbutt, Ric-o-la, Idiot Dog, Fatty, Rictastic, Piglet, Mister, Puppy, Nutball, Dumb Dog, Munchkin, Richard, Kitty, and Poopy McCrapsalot.
But even from day one, we were completely bonded. That first night, we took him to The Press for a celebratory beer, and my buddy Katie said that when I left to go to the bathroom, little Rics became distraught and kept looking for me until I came back to the table. AWW! After that day, I've been completely cured of my online pet shopping addiction.
Anyway, my whole point in telling that story was just so I could post some pictures of my adorable Uncle Rico. So here ya go.
Sleepy Rico in Em's lap
"You're going to want to make a right at the next intersection."
"Noooo, I love YOU more!"
Dude, Rico is magic. How did he DO that??
Snuggling is definitely what he does best.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Little Lewis Turns 21: Part I
So, I have this younger brother, Little Lewis. Except you probably wouldn't believe we were related unless you were presented with irrefutable DNA evidence and the sworn testimony of a forensics expert, because we are so, so, SO different. He basically is the embodiment of everything I stand against. Consider the following:
Little Lewis enjoys country music. Like, car radio pre-sets enjoys it.
Little Lewis owns "Cowboy Up" paraphernalia. In case you have never seen any Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia, I have given an example, below:
Stay tuned for Part II, in which much bull-riding is done by all.
Little Lewis enjoys country music. Like, car radio pre-sets enjoys it.
Little Lewis owns "Cowboy Up" paraphernalia. In case you have never seen any Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia, I have given an example, below:
I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how hideous this crap is, as you are probably cringing in your seat and maybe throwing up a little bit in your mouth at this very second. When I found said Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia on Little Lewis' person, I sneered, "Oh my god, you are so 909." LL didn't know what being 909 meant, which was obviously further proof of his 909-ness.
Little Lewis is a fan of organized religion. A #1 fan. Like, if the Christian Community Church were a baseball team, Li'l Lewis would have season tickets behind home plate, hats, t-shirts, one of those giant foam fingers, penants, a coozie (inside of which would be some kind of non-alcoholic beverage, perhaps Yoohoo), and a ball signed by all the members of the Holy Trinity plus Dr. James Dobson, Billy Graham AND Pat Robertson.
Little Lewis is a republican. No, actually... he's a Republican, capital "R." Like, pro-war, pro-Bush, pro-clubbing baby seals -- the whole bit.
Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the only thing worse than a Republican is a Born-Again Republican... but I'm telling you anyway. Ahem: the only thing worse than a Republican is a Born-Again Republican. Who is your brother. Because then you end up receiving a keychain from them for Christmas that has the following image on it:
And then when you smirk so flagrantly your mom can practically hear it, she will turn to you and say, "*SIGH* -- Jesus doesn't just save the USA, Becky." Except she probably won't call you Becky, because I'm betting that's not your name.
Anyway, those are just a few of the ways in which Little Lewis is SO not me, so the opposite of me, so completely and entirely the antithesis of me that I fail to understand how when we are in the same room we do not cancel each other out and just disappear off the face of the earth forever and ever, amen.
SO, I was filled with delight when Little Lewis' 21st birthday rolled around a couple weeks ago.... AND all his of-age friends were out of town... SO! I could finally get my claws into the little Puritan and show him how much fun Irish car bombs and lemon drops and red-headed sluts can be!! Hooray!
Of course, when he found out what I was planning, he said to me, (and I quote), "Ok, but I'm not going to do anything immoral." (WHAT!) But then he redeemed himself a moment later by saying, "Ok, but if I'm making out with someone you can't stop me." So maybe we really are related after all.
I rounded up some fellow sinners to take the kid out and show him how a 21st birthday is done. Our first stop was the IO West for a little improvisational humor and a lot of damn cheap beers. (It should be noted that when Little Lewis was telling me what he wanted to do for his big day, he said that he wanted to see a comedy show, and that it should be "clean." hUh?) (It should also be noted that I have been seriously missing out by not spending more time at the IO, as it is a) super cheap, with super cheap drinks ($2 PBRs!!) b) hilarious c) features a handful of F-list semi-celebrities and d) is TEEMING with hot dudes. Hot dudes who are FUNNY!)
Anyway, here are some pictures of us at the IO. You can tell which one Little Lewis is by his tongue, which appears to have a life independent from the rest of his self. And it is actually photographic evidence that the two of us are indeed related, because we both have the same horrifying spawn-of-satan eyes.
But in case you can't tell, it goes Emily (drunk eyes), Little Lewis (Lucifer eyes), Madeleine (ginormous baby-blue eyes), Me (pupils of fire), Marcy (four eyes).Stay tuned for Part II, in which much bull-riding is done by all.
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