Hot dog.

9 Jul

A cat requested my friendship on Facebook today.

I wish I could say that it was the first time.

Today was another roaster. My vehicle clocked the earth at 93 degrees mid-afternoon. I was a raunchy, unpleasant carcass by noon. Seriously. I smelled like I cut an onion in half and rubbed it under my armpits, and then a child at a carnival vomited a lamb gyro on me. Nobody wants to be a part of that. All I want at this very moment is for it to be a brisk 40 degrees in autumn, up to my eyeballs in vodka-sodas donning University of Iowa gear, tailgating my day away and stealing cheesy brats from neighboring tailgates. Is that so much to ask?

On to this week’s strangest search terms:

i may be fat but you’re ugly and i can diet

does a cyclist look stupid with hair on their legs

people shitting themselves during marathons

صور ماكدونالدز

i have a double chin and im only 12

pooping cucumbers

do girls like chevy cavalier

The most baffling (next to the obvious, pooping cucumbers) has to be the Hebrew hieroglyphics. How on earth was someone led to my blog with that? I wouldn’t know how to make my keyboard produce those symbols if my life depended on it. Not even if I had a magic wand.

Well, maybe if I had a magic wand.

I would probably shit myself if someone forced me to run a marathon, too. I’m not real into exercise. I’m more into self-starvation as far as physique-preservation is concerned.

Does a cyclist look stupid with hair on their legs? Listen, Armstrong. When a bicyclist whizzes by me like a speeding rocket, the last thing I’m squinting to see is if said bicyclist has hairy legs or not.

To the 12 year old with the double chin: It only gets worse from here.

No, girls don’t like Chevy Cavaliers. They also don’t like boys who Google how they feel about Chevy Cavaliers. You lose.

My dog is bored. It’s 93 degrees outside. Sorry, dog. There is no amount of whining, coaxing, or sad-puppy-eyes-ing you can do to get me to go out into that dreadful, oppressive sticky heat to walk you, chase you, or play fetch with you.

You don’t even know how to play fetch anyway.

…or read.

Okay, I’m the idiot.

My kitchen sink smells like a dead body. I can’t determine the source. I do know that my sink does not double as a garbage disposal. Therefore, it is likely that the pipe is filled with grimy sour cream, scraps of meat, soggy macaroni noodles, and fourteen different species of mold. It smells like someone stuffed a raccoon carcass down there. One might mistake the malodorous stench for a beached whale decomposing on the shore. It’s so gross that I’m basically just banking on the germs themselves being so disgusted by it that they just move out and solve the problem on their own. We’ll see how that pans out.

Well, I’m off to shovel delicious Italian food into my pie hole, and then go see Horrible Bosses. I can’t wait. I hope to laugh myself silly. I hope to be the silliest sally in town after watching this movie.




R:  Let me flick you as hard as I can.

B:  No.

R:  Come on, just one solid flick.

B:  No, Randon.

R:  Just once—

B:  Randon, I’ll make you a deal. You can flick me if you chug the rest of that nail polish remover.

R:  What? How is that fair? You get flicked, and I die?

B:  You aren’t going to die. It’s extremely flammable. You might want to stay away from open flame.

R:  I would definitely die from that.

B:  It’s only half full. Stop being such a drama queen.

T:  “Harmful if ingested.” Doesn’t say kill.


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