Searched For chocolate

Napoleon, don’t eat it!

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Napoleon was one sick puppy last night. It seems clear to me that he devoured something he shouldn’t have, much like a goat or a tiger shark. One day they’ll cut him open and find a license plate and a G.I. Joe. This week on “NAPOLEON, DON’T EAT IT” featured a pad wrapper, a cardboard tube, and stuffed animal stuffing. Past episodes have revolved around dropped chocolate, tissues fished out of the trash, and insects. This time I’m not sure what exactly he got into, but I should’ve known that anytime he’s not attaching himself like glue to the back of my leg, and he’s in another room and that other room is QUIET, he is getting into trouble. I heard him come out to the hallway and do that sort of constant licking thing that means that a visit from the vomit fairy is in short order. Sure enough, he vomited. And then vomited again. And then started to eat fuzz off of the carpet. I banished him to the porch, where he proceeded to eat dead leaves, moss, gnawed on the door frame and tried to snag a hair tie, and then vomited again. I took him outside to munch on some grass, and he grazed like a cow for fifteen minutes and even tried to strip leaves off of the ground cover, and when I brought him inside, he vomited again. He then ran over to his dish, devoured everything else that was inside, and then ran back out on to the porch and vomited twice more. I tried to lay down the law: NO MORE FOOD, SON, to which he responded by attempting to eat more carpet fuzz. My only recourse was to lock him in his cage with just his water dish. This made him very, VERY unhappy, and he howled his displeasure to the rafters, but he hasn’t vomited since.

Poor caged boy.

“Who the hell is Sir Charles Titswamp?”

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There’s nothing about this picture that I don’t love. The ‘bear’ pun. The word ‘hugging’ squeezed in between guns and ammo, and even the mental picture of stressed-out, gun-wielding, card-carrying NRA members gnawing on chocolate ammo to reduce stress brings a smile to my face–it’s for those special kinds of angry when chocolate bunnies just won’t do.

dslartoo has been sharing his favorite christmas music, and one of the things he enjoyed was something that my family listened to every christmas; Mannheim Steamroller’s Fresh Aire Christmas. Listening to it now, I actually grew misty-eyed, thinking about the way christmas used to be; isn’t that a special picture? Mellzah the atheist shedding tears over christmas. I’m keeping the lube handy; at any moment, a unicorn could fly up out of my butt OR Johnny Depp could show up on the doorstep and profess to having a thing for hefty broads–and the lube would be handy in pretty much either case.

In my defense, Christmas was hardly ever dull at my house; there was the year my brother begged so hard to be allowed to open a present early, and my mom relented but had a ‘special gift for him’ and went into the basement and quickly gift-wrapped a quarter, and how much he cried while the rest of us mean bastards laughed; the year my brother once again lobbied, and my mom told him that he’d be allowed to pick something out from under the tree if he ate the chili she made for dinner–watching the world’s pickiest kid GAGGING down chili, my dad yelling at my mom not to make him puke over a ‘goddamn present’ and the kid finally running in hope and anticipation to the tree…only to open a pair of socks, and how much he cried afterward.

Before you ask: yes, most of my favorite stories end in tears for someone.

On Saturday, I went to a family and friends holiday game night at Aisling’s place; one of the games we played was the name game, where you pick a slip of paper with a name on it out of a bowl, and then give clues to your team to guess the person, or if you don’t know who the person is, find another way to get them to guess the name, with rhyming words, wild arm flailing, and liberal use of the word ‘um’–you’ve got one minute to have your team guess as many names as possible before it’s the next team’s turn. The title of this post came from that game, and I’m not sure whose name it actually *was*, but I know the guy was going for us to guess the word ‘bra’ as part of the name; problem being everyone on our team was a filthy SOB and kept shouting out ‘boobs!’ ‘tits!’ ‘udders!’ and pretty much every other euphemism for breast on the planet. Bra? Not so much. The name ‘Sir Charles Titswamp’ gave Aisling and I such a case of the giggles that three rounds later we were STILL in hysterics about it.

Afterward, Aisling’s mom said she had a gift for me to ‘help me get a boyfriend’, which turned out to be a gift basket from Lover’s Package; with a 25% off coupon in case I *don’t* want a boyfriend and just need a vibrator that doesn’t sound like a chainsaw. It also had 52 weeks of ‘lovers’ cards (with some for him and some for her) in a ‘silken’ pouch and we all had a good giggle over that; what could we possibly do but open the package and see what’s printed on the cards? BUM DEAL–they’re all like scratch-off cards! Which I suppose keeps nasty cheaters like me out of there, but at the same time, that could be a dangerous proposition. “Oh baby, tonight we are going to…do you have a coin? Where are your keys? Just give me that spoon, that’ll work. Ok, here we go. Tonight I’m going to tie you to a park bench and entice a hobo to have sex with you.”

That, or maybe by week 52 they’re getting to mundane stuff like: “Would it kill you to brush your teeth before bed?” “Remember to put your socks in the hamper when we’re done.” “Clip your toenails, they’re scratching me.”

Part of me wants to root through my pocket, dig out a quarter, and scratch off every single one of those damn cards RIGHT NOW, and part of me thinks that’s a pretty sad way to spend christmas. BUT I STILL WANT TO KNOW.

Quoth the midget: De Pain, De Pain!

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On Friday, I skipped out of work an hour early, just because. I met up with Monty  and her friend Christine at the Value Village in Redmond, where we spent some time debating between bathrobes, and which ones would be most appropriate to wear bowling that evening. I left with a hideous houndstooth-ish, tweed-y bathrobe, and plaid pants, and Monty left with a bathrobe that looked like it had been stitched together from baby seals.

After Value Village, we went to Redmond Town Center, because we’d all gotten postcards in the mail for a week of free tanning, and figured, ‘what the hell? Let’s give it a shot’. I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was in some sort of light-up coffin. 10 minutes of OMGI’MGOINGTODIE later, and I left with rosy-pink cheeks and no color anywhere else on my body. My skin was still translucent and scary to small children. We spent some time making fun of the people at the mall, and it was discovered that every time Monty dropped an F-bomb, there was ALWAYS a child in the vicinity.

It was starting to get late, so we headed back to Monty’s place, showered, put on our Lebowski clothes, and started to bake the cake. I bought a soccer-ball pan, figuring I could make it look like a bowling ball with very little effort. It took much longer to bake than the directions indicated, as when the timer went off, the cake was still liquid in the middle. 10 more minutes, and 10 more minutes, and 5 more minutes, and 2 more minutes and it was finally completely baked. Unfortunately, it was now 10:30, and we were supposed to be at the bowling alley at 10:45. The cake was flipped out of the pan onto a plate, and we started slapping on frosting. The cake was still so hot that the frosting started melting on contact. By the time we arrived at the bowling alley, all the frosting had slid from the top and puddled around the sides. mmmmm, appetizing!

I bowled better than I ever have that evening, actually breaking 100 on the first game. Laugh if you must, but it was quite a feat for me. I do not know if it was the shoes or the hot pink bowling ball that gave me such luck, but I may find out as the shoes *cough* came home with me. I didn’t get too many pictures of the evening, as I was sauced, and all the pictures I took made it quite evident that I was sauced. Considering very few people RSVPd, I was thrilled that so many people showed up. It was quite a party! Next year–Vegas!

I slept over at Monty’s house, crashed in their spare bedroom, and remarkably woke up the next morning with no hangover. We tooled around for a while, and then I put on my best trucker outfit for mxpwr‘s trucker party that evening. For those of you who don’t know him, he cut the workaday shackles of his IBM job and is becoming a trucker. For the first hour of his orientation class, the instructor emphasized the importance of not showing up to work drunk or high. Somehow, I have a feeling that Chad is going to rise through the ranks very quickly. My best trucker outfit consisted of a Moonlight Bunny Ranch t-shirt (that looked like a harley logo, so it was TWO classy shirts for the price of one!) a baseball cap, and stained jeans. I would’ve gotten a big temporary tattoo of a cobra on my arm, but I forgot about it until it was too late.

Around 3 o’clock, Monty and I decided to give tanning a second shot, where we promptly spent too long in the light-up coffins and burned ourselves beyond all comprehension. The burn doesn’t kick in right away, oh no. It waits until you’ve already gone on to your second engagement of the evening before you start to get the ‘burned skin’ chills. I don’t know why I get so tired or so cold when my skin is burned, but I fell asleep watching Convoy, which is potentially the most pointless movie of all time. It’s hilarious when you’re mocking it as a group effort, but probably just sad if you’re watching it by yourself. Toward the end I kept nodding off, and every time I woke up, the “We got a great big convoy, do do do do do DOOOOOOO” song was playing. CONVOOOOOOOOOOY!

Sunday morning I met up with Carrie outside Pegasus, and we drove together into Seattle to have breakfast at Pike Place Market, and spend some time making fun of hippies. We decided to have breakfast at Cutters, and when we walked in and sat at the empty bar, the bartender’s face lit up. “Oh ladies, will you be having breakfast this morning, or a liquid breakfast?” We felt no need to limit our options like that. We started off with two rounds of greyhounds, finished off breakfast with an espresso martini, and the bartender was not yet eager to let us go. “Oh dear, those espresso martinis seem to be broken! The only remedy is for you to let me make you my excellent chocolate martini!”

By that point, there was a crazy woman down at the other end of the bar, having conversations with herself. I pondered aloud about going down there and asking her to ‘cut out the crazy, because you’re starting to scare me’, but that I’d need rocket skates to escape as I was unsure as to whether or not her kind of crazy was dangerous. She eventually wandered down by us and asked to order a new iced tea as she ‘lost hers’. She then started talking down the bar at no one, saying that she didn’t trust them to transmute her back across her astral plane to a new geometry. I was getting ready to ask her to cut out the crazy, had even gotten so far as “Excuse me?” when the bartender said “Don’t do it, rocket skates!” and ran away towards the kitchen. “Eh, are you talking to me?” “No, nothing. Nevermind.” “You know, you look like my friend S-T-A-C-Y.” “…however, my name is not S-T-A-C-Y.” “Yes, yes, but you look like her. C-O-O.”

Did she just spell ‘coo’ at me? Coo as in the lazy speaker’s version of ‘cool’ or cooing like a pigeon? Is that sort of crazy dangerous? Is it contagious? Was it terrible, terrible foreshadowing of the horror which was to come?

We didn’t want to find out. The bill was paid, and we stumbled out into the bright afternoon sunshine, and started wandering the market. We watched buskers, and tried beer jelly, and checked out the brightly colored wares on display everywhere. Carrie stopped to check out some silver bracelets with ‘inspirational’ quotes hammered into them, and while the hippies tried to convince her that they were worth the money, I felt a rather unusual sensation. Sort of like someone had tossed something at my hair. With trepidation building, I tried to get Carrie’s attention. “Carrie? …Carrie? Did a bird just poop in my hair?”

I turned so she could see, and Carrie burst out laughing. I took this as not a good sign. Yes, indeed, a bird had used me as a toilet. I may need to declare a jihad against birds. Carrie was absolutely howling with laughter as she tried to help me clean it out of my hair, and the hippies surrounding us tried to convince us that “It’s ok, it’s like…good for your hair. Cause it’s like…full of proteins and stuff. Like egg whites!”

Whatever, hippy. I don’t see YOU covered in bird poop. Now, of course, I can admit that it was (and is) very funny, but at the time I was only MORE horrified when Carrie managed to get out (between gasps of laughter, that is) “I don’t think I’ve ever seen GREEN poop before.” “OH MY GOD, IT’S GREEN!?!”

We hightailed it back to the Cutter’s bathroom, where I frantically scrubbed at my head, still laughing hysterically. As we left Cutters, still drunk (at least I was) and lightheaded from laughing so hard, I managed to catch my shoe on a crack in the sidewalk, do an awkward, flailing drunken stumble, and while catching my balance, managed to twist my ankle. Because I’m awesome. While limping down the sidewalk, I proclaimed, “My shoe just tried to kill me, OMG, it’s like…a…SHOE MUTINY.”

I ended up passing out in front of the TV at 7pm, liver pickled, skin burned, muscles aching…but with clean hair. All in all an entertaining weekend!