Date Archives May 2010

Nom or Vom: Creamy Ogre Filling Edition

Poll #1565300 Nom or Vom: ‘Creamy Ogre Filling’ Edition Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 41

Would you eat this?

View Answers nom nom nom 5 (12.2%) 

vom vom vom 36 (87.8%)


I just…who thought this was a good idea? It’s like they took a twinkie and filled it with green baby shit.

The very first porn movie I ever saw was called ‘Sex Trek’. One of the more memorable moments (ok, the ONLY memorable moment) was when Spock got a blowjob and he came green (after she swished it around in her mouth with some food coloring)…it also kind of looked like this.

How tasty does it look now?

Honk You!

One of the very best things about the walk home is that I can take my time through the Black River Riparian Forest and Wetland; there’s a lot of wildlife out and about, and even if I make it down the trail without having seen any animals, it’s still a prettier walk than along the street. I see blue herons from time to time (of course, never when I’ve got a camera on me!), and lately I’ve been seeing loads of baby bunnies.

Yesterday, as I was walking home, I saw some geese with a bunch of fuzzy goslings AND I happened to have a non-cell-phone camera on me.



The goslings were adorable, and I wanted to get a closer picture of them–of course, as I attempted to sneak up on them like a lumbering elephant, the parents began to pump their necks at me like the avian version of air jordans and hissing, which, if you’ve never heard it, doesn’t sound all that threatening. Essentially, it looks like the bird is sticking its tongue out at you in a sassy manner.

I should have already learned my lesson about geese–once, when I was driving Jennzah back to her room at UW Parkside after a parental-forbidden excursion to Milwaukee, a flock of geese were blocking the road, preventing my ’88 Mercury Topaz named Bernard (which coughed blue smoke and stalled at intersections) from passing. I honked. They stayed put. I tried to drive forward to intimidate them into moving. They stayed put. It was then that Jennzah decided that she could chase them off the road on foot; why she thought this when they would not move for a sputtering deathmobile that could crunch them like ants, I do not know, but the fact remains that she got out of the car, ran into their midst, and with insane goose hivemind, they turned on her and chased her, screaming, back into my car.

Even though I remembered this incident, and was being warned by the parents not to approach their babies, I decided to try and get closer. Clearly, it was time for another Lesson About Geese.



As I approached, the parents began to herd the babies away from me, down into long grass, down to the water, places that made it yet more difficult to photograph them (and, let’s be honest, if I got very close, I probably would have tried to catch one. No, I don’t know what I’d do with it once I caught it–I’m not big on long-term planning.), forcing me to pursue them down the hill. Once the babies were safely shuffled away from me, that is when the lesson began.

I swear you could hear the goose honking “YOU SON OF A BITCH, I WARNED YOU, I FUCKING WARNED YOU” as it launched its surprising bulk into my face, wings flapping, beak seeking to blind me as I shrieked and ran backward into the street, almost getting both the goose and myself creamed by a car. The goose gave up the chase at that point while the occupants of the car pointed and laughed.

This morning, on my way to work, I swear I saw the same goose in the distance, giving me the eye. Can birds hold grudges?

A Week of Funny Notaro Women

What is it about the last name Notaro and hilarity?

On Tuesday, Anne, Boolia and I went to see Laurie Notaro on her book tour to promote her latest work of fiction, Spooky Little Girl. Instead of reading from the book she was promoting, because she feels excerpts out of a novel are awkward, given that if you haven’t started from the beginning, you aren’t familiar with the characters or any of the significant plot points, she read an essay from the non-fiction book she’s currently writing–about the time that she convinced her best friend to dress as Blanche from “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?” for Halloween, the lies it takes to rent a wheelchair, and how she, dressed as Baby Jane, ended up trying to give the heimlich maneuver to Blanche, whose wheelchair kept trying to escape said heimlich maneuver by rolling all throughout the house and ended up looking like a scene of onscreen abuse brought to life.

Not familiar with Laurie Notaro? Here is an excerpt from “Autobiography of a Fat Bride”:

“It’s not you!” he shouts one last time. “It’s me!” That’s enough to make me stop dead in my tracks. “Really?” I ask as I spin around. “Are you sure it’s you? Because that would make my day, just knowing that it was YOU and NOT ME, especially after I caught you in the middle of an escape attempt. Is it you? Is it really you, Ben?” “Well, I guess it’s me a little bit,” he stammers as Dog Girl peeks an eye out from behind the purple curtains as one of her hair ornaments chimes. “But, well, if you really want to know, I’d say that yeah, it’s mostly you.” “Mostly me?” I reply. “It’s mostly me that’s forced you into this scene from Children of the Cornrow? God, it looks like Stevie Wonder and Bo Derek jumped you in an alley and gang-braided you!” He stands quiet for a moment, thinking, then nods his head. “Actually, it’s pretty much all you,” he adds with a sigh. “I don’t think it’s me at all. No, no, it’s you. All you. It’s not me, because the feeling I’m getting in my chakras is that it’s definitely you.”


As if I needed confirmation. I’ve seen that play It’s Not You, It’s Me before, and as a matter of fact, I’ve played the lead in that scenario since before I had boobs.

My role is “Super Idiot Girl,” the kind of female who searches out the most alluring sociopath to date, who never learns that if you see a tornado coming, especially one that works in a record store and displays no ambition outside of making mixed tapes from bootleg Grateful Dead shows, duck under the nearest table until the roar passes.


It all started in fifth grade, when my mother bought me a box of Valentines from Kmart. I searched out the perfect Holly Hobbie valentine, a little farmer boy in overalls milking a cow, for the boy I wanted to move into sixth grade with. Only a few days earlier, he had passed me a note, chunkily folded into the shape of a football, that said “Whats your shampew? Gee, your hair smels terrifik.” It absolutely declared the love that was to guarantee me perfect happiness for the rest of my life, or at least until summer vacation. In my best cursive handwriting, I signed the back of the valentine, “To Paul, I use Breck once a week. Luv, Laurie,” and, to add a sense of female intrigue, dotted the i’s with puffy hearts to let him know I was all lady, all right.


I can understand now how that kind of message would be chilling enough for a boy to shy away from the love of an oily-headed, prepubescent girl, but I still don’t think it reached the proportions required for him to stand up at lunchtime and loudly scream “I am NOT your boyfriend! I like Melissa Crow because she can sit on her hair and has horses!”

Clearly, this woman is my soulmate. I gushed at her and made her fear for her life a little, I think, but she was gracious enough to not betray her fears that I might attempt to wear her like a dress out of the store. She signed my book, signed Lanny’s book, and got to hear the story of the Christmas at which Anne vomited on the table after dinner and then promptly signed her book with the word ‘Hottenfoyzingoux’.

On Friday, Carrie picked me up for a girls’ night out–we went to dinner at Boom Noodle in Bellevue, charmed the wait staff as usual (making one laugh until he snorted), and then we went to Laughs to see the inimitably deadpan-hilarious Tig Notaro.


We laughed until our stomachs hurt, and then laughed some more, and each picked up a ‘No Moleste’ shirt–I am going to wear mine on the bus as a clear message to all the guyliner-wearing psychopaths that I’m only interested in dinner and nothing more.

Afterward, we went back to Carrie’s place to watch Sherlock Holmes, and I’ve got to say, that while it was probably the booze impairing my ability to follow what was going on at ALL, it could have also just been incomprehensible and the longest movie of all time. I say this because we started the movie around two in the morning, and when I woke on the couch at 6:30, it was still running.

I should say I was woken at 6:30; it’s not something that happens to me naturally at that hour. Oh no. You know the creepy moments in Paranormal Activity when the girl gets out of bed and just stands over her husband, staring at him, for hours, and how freaky it was? I woke up to Carrie’s roommate’s daughter standing over me in just the same way. To my credit, I only shrieked and flailed a little, but I still shrieked and flailed, waking up approximately three city blocks and perhaps even an ex-boyfriend who lives just down the street.