McDonald’s vagina menu.
Train mows down women.
Vegaina waxing photo.
vaginal where baby came from.
Again with the search terms. Who are these people? Hide. Hide your children. Hide your wives. Hide your husbands. Perhaps the only thing more worrisome than the search terms themselves is the horrific spelling that accompanies it. WHAT is the DEAL? Vegaina? Really? Chainis? Let’s get real.
Probably my favorite recent search term however, was “Stink bugs cause suicide.”
Did this really happen? For any of you who do not live in eastern Pennsylvania, you probably can’t begin to understand how bad of an invasion is happening from stink bugs. They are EVERYWHERE! Imagine leaving a candied apple outside on the sidewalk in the middle of the summer for an entire day, and returning to find it covered in swarming ants. The candied apple is Pennsylvania, and the ants are stink bugs. More specifically, the candied apple is screens, walls, windows, roofs, blinds—you name it. They’re everywhere. They’re like Asians in San Francisco. They’re like Gothic kids in the mall cafeteria. They’re like pre-teens at a Justin Beiber concert. They have taken over.
So, might it be possible that the taking of the world by stink bugs has caused somebody to end their life? I don’t think that’s too far-fetched.
Last night was Thursday. It was breezy and lovely outdoors, so around 7 pm I opened the upper balcony porch door to let the breeze blow through the stuffy apartment. A few minutes later, I heard shuffling through the leaves below, approaching the door. Must be Trent, I thought. Then the doorbell rang. I figured his hands were full, and he needed me to open the door, so I shouted, “COMIIIIIING!!!!” as I scampered down the stairs. Just for cautionary purposes, I peeked through the peep hole to make sure it wasn’t a serial killer. There stood a little boy dressed from head to toe in army fatigue, face painted camouflage and all.
For a moment, I paused, and considered pretending no one was home. Then I realized I had yelled “COMIIIIING!” as I stomped down the stairs to the door.
I slowly opened the door. Before I could prevent heartbreak, the child chimed, “TRICK OR TREEEAT!” with both hands outstretched, holding his candy bag.
I stood there for a second blankly. His parents were standing about ten feet behind him on the sidewalk. I had to tell him the truth.
“This is really embarrassing…but….I actually don’t have any candy. I’m sorry.”
He stood, disheartened, with both arms outstretched still. All I had in my pockets were Milkbones.
“You see….I didn’t know people would actually trick-or-treat at apartment buildings. Plus, isn’t it Thursday? I’m confused.”
The child stood silently. His parents paused for a minute. For a second, I started racking my brain, trying to think of something in my apartment that I could offer him that might pass as a Halloween treat. All I knew we had was a half a bag of brown rice, many cans of chicken noodle soup, bananas, and granola bars. Kids don’t like any of those things, except maybe the chicken noodle soup, but no one wants to lug that around in a sack full of Dots and Tootsie rolls for eight blocks. It got really, excruciatingly awkward. Then the parents called him to continue on to the next “house” (apartment door).
Then it happened again with my next door neighbor’s 3-year old son. You know, the couple that keeps inviting me to play Rock Band and drink smoothies with them.
“Why go to the store for milk when you already own a goat?”
-Trent trying to say “Why buy the cow when you can milk it for free.”