I chose two, but it was really, really hard to only choose two because HOLY CRAP you guys are freaking hilarious. It was totally a little bit like Sophie’s Choice. (I READ THE BOOK. I CAN MAKE THE REFERENCE.)
So, MLE and Tara! You guys won! I still haven’t shopped for your prizes! I am the worst contest thrower IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.
DM me on Twitter (or, if it’s more convenient for you (hahahaha, because an actual email is more convenient than Twitter! I crack my shit up sometimes.) you can email me at kdj003 at gmail dot com) with your address.
Thank you, everybody, for commenting with your slogans. Y’all are a hoot and a half and I’m now convinced that I know the funniest people on the Internet. Y’all are great.
IT IS A FULL DOCKET TODAY YOU GUYS.
I am not used to this back and forth thing, when it comes to blogging. It was never a conversation for me in the beginning. I mean, waaaaaaaaay back in 2004 when I had my first blog (since abandoned and deleted because DAMN, KID.) I did have people that commented occasionally but they were my friends. In school. Where I saw them every day. And the subsequent blog on tumblr was…not good for carrying on a discussion between people.
So, I’m asking for advice on this. Do you like when a blogger responds individually to your comment? Do you think that it weighs down the conversation/topic as a whole? How do you feel about a response being a couple days late (because of personal obligations or if I can’t get to a computer)? Does this make you feel like you are left out or forgotten? Do you care about this topic at all? Is there something I am forgetting to ask in here? If so, what? How can I make your time here more enjoyable?
I want this to be a place that you like, and I want to foster and develop friendships here, but I am in general a Nervous Over-thinking Person and a non-commenter. I am asking for your input on this because I value you. Yes, YOU. I honestly cherish every note that y’all have taken the time out of your day to write me.
I would like you to know how exactly how much you mean to me, and I will do whatever is in my power show you.
If you follow me on Twitter you might have already seen this but one of my coworkers brought in his newborn great-grandson today and he was so squishy! And cute! And had the adorable neck folds! And big bright eyes and OMG THE CHEEKS.
AND THEN MY COWORKER TOOK HIM BACK TO HIS PARENTS BEFORE I COULD SNIFF HIS WEE HEAD.
UM, EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT I HAVE A STANDING APPOINTMENT WITH ALL THE BABIES IN THE WORLD, EVER, FOR HEAD SNIFFING. DOES THE WORD “APPOINTMENT” MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?
Coworkers are really inconsiderate sometimes.
There’s this thing that happened and it is so awful and I just need you to shudder along with me.
There was a piece of used gum wrapped in one of the pallets today and I BRUSHED AGAINST IT ACCIDENTALLY WITH MY NAKED HAND.
IT WAS STILL STICKY.
WE DIDN’T HAVE ANY CARBOLIC ACID AT WORK.
So basically now I have to:
- Cut off my hand.
- Run a DNA test on the piece of offending gum.
In an effort to get us all to bond and be all kumbaya and shit, (and also, if I am being completely honest, he probably did this to get us to stop fucking wailing on each other.) Nate, our youth pastor, started the Name Game.
–Wait, what? You don’t know the NAME GAME?! OK. GOD. I KNOW THAT YOU KNOW IT BUT
I WILL REFRESH YOU.
It GOES like THIS:
Me My Mo Mahmah
So, we are traveling around the big ole van, yelling out names for the person who should go next and singing songs for Joe and Allison and Chelsea and Tony and Chris etc, etc. when Nate, our youth pastor, pipes up with “CHUCK!”
We didn’t have a Chuck in our group, you guys.
Everyone laughs because 1) we don’t have a Chuck, and 2) we know what we will be made to sing if we sing a song for imaginary Chuck.
Chris didn’t pay attention to the fact that we weren’t singing.
From the back of the van we all can hear a hale and hearty “CHUCK CHUCK BO BUCK BANANA FANA FO FUCK.”
And then he clapped his hand over his mouth and turned bright red and we all laughed until we almost peed ourselves. And then we requested songs from Chris for MITCH!
I found this refrigerator magnet today.
Guys. It is what my friend from high school, Shaye, would call a kidnap van. With the words “Old Town Locksmiths and Kids” printed on it. For it’s name. On the magnet. Where it promotes it’s business.
OLD TOWN LOCKSMITHS AND KIDS.
DO YOU, DO YOU SEE, HOW COMPLETELY AWFUL AND INAPPROPRIATE AND HILARIOUS THAT IS?
Do you also see something missing in this photo? (I was covering up their address so you wouldn’t send them fan/hate mail for their name.)
Do you SEE that it is missing an awful, inappropriate, hilarious SLOGAN?
You guys, we are obligated as THE INTERNET to make a slogan for this business. THIS IS WHAT WE DO.
I’m challenging you to come up with one and post it here in comments. Come up with as many as you want; I’m not worried about having to sift through a trillion entries to judge. Bring me your dark. Bring me your funny. Bring me your wit.
I’ll choose my favorite next Wednesday, June 27th, and send off a little prize to you for your brilliance. I can’t promise that it will be awesome, but it will probably be a little bit weird. And maybe from Target? I DON’T KNOW, I’M STILL FIGURING THIS WHOLE THING OUT, GET WRITING.
P.S. Please don’t forget about giving me advice and feedback on blogger/reader relationships and what you would like from me. I would really, really appreciate it.
A vacation recap is coming, I swear, with pictures. (Not that you CARE, but you should know that one of the stories involves me being mocked mercilessly by a tour guide, so that will probably be enjoyable for you.)
But before I get to that because I am lazy and don’t want to sort through all the pictures because that is WORK I have a couple quick things from the last few days to tell you.
Me to friend, “I am SO MAD that [bad thing] happened on [season finale of favorite show that we always discuss with each other whenever we meet].
Friend: “…I haven’t seen that episode.”
Me: “I AM GOING TO THROW MYSELF ON A SWORD NOW.”
Seriously, guys. There is NO WAY that I don’t come out of that story looking like an asshole.
COME UP WITH ONE, AND I WILL GIVE YOU A PONY.
Confession: I make “your mom” jokes. But only when they don’t make any sense/aren’t offensive in any way. And usually when someone can’t find something needed at work. Because I think it’s funny to be nonsensical.
I’m telling you all this to set you up for this scenario:
An employee from another store, a guy I don’t know really well, but well enough to joke around with, asked me where he might find the hose clamps at the store we were inventorying.
Not being from that store, and thus not familiar with it, I make a joke.
“YOUR MOM is a hose clamp.”
…Do you see where exactly I went wrong with that? Because I did not. Until it came out of my mouth.
Yes, I did turn a SPECTACULAR SHADE OF RED.
Yes, I DID walk away. QUICKLY.
YES, I CONTINUE TO BE AN UNINTENTIONAL ASSHOLE.
My mom and I were talking about the planets because TJ (Read. her. immediately. if you aren’t already.) was talking on twitter about how we are so old that we’ll have to tell our children that we used to have 9 planets and they were going to make fun of us (I would post a screenshot but I have NO IDEA how to do that on this operating system), and I was complaining to mom that Pluto was my FAVORITE because because it was so twee and I felt like I had to take care of it when I was little, all Little Prince-style.
And my mom goes, “Is that the one named after the dog?”
And I’m all, “ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW.”
And she’s all “No? Not the dog?…Was that Goofy then?”
And then I had an APOPLEXY and I HAD TO ASK MY MOTHER, THE WOMAN WHO GAVE BIRTH TO ME, “WHAT DO THE NAMES OF ALL THE PLANETS IN OUR SOLAR SYSTEM HAVE IN COMMON.”*
She answered “Ummm, they are named after razors, candy bars, and cars?…So, product placement?”
I’M FUCKING ADOPTED YOU GUYS.**
*She guessed Greek gods, finally. WRONG, MOTHER. ROMAN.
**MY REAL MOTHER IS OBVIOUSLY A PRINCESS. WHO MARRIED AN ASTROPHYSICIST.
I fell in love with Texas so long ago that I don’t remember it. It was probably in Galveston, my feet curling into the sand, my fingers groping for seashells, the waves erasing everything before or since. My love developed before I knew how to talk. It was a blind thing, this adoration, the unknowing clasp to the heart of a child who knew of nothing else.
Like all first raptures, it slowly faded.
Until last week. In spending all your time with only yourself and the land in front of you for company, you tend to find the crux of things. I found that I still had a passion for my home of these many years. It just took a change of scenery, a second honeymoon.
I would wind through the back roads in obscure counties and catch sight of craggy rocks of Hill Country and sit dumbstruck at the beauty of the state I call home; the mounds of earth would clothe themselves in graceful, bending wildflowers of ivory, sundrop gold, and plumes of violet and I would be tempted to make myself an alluringly fragrant crown. (I didn’t, couldn’t even, take any pictures of this, not because I didn’t have a camera I could work, which I did, but because you never love a photograph even half as much as you love a half-faded memory.)
Eventually, I felt my heart start to glow and my soul try to escape out of my mouth and experienced that happy terror just before the plunge into the abyss.
That is the only way I know how to describe falling in love.
Love is a distant laughter in the spirit.
It is a wild assault that hushes you to your awakening.
It is a new dawn upon the earth,
A day not yet achieved in your eyes or mine,
But already achieved in its own greater heart.
Because I am a stupid person who didn’t take care of my eyes (DON’T SLEEP IN YOUR CONTACTS. NO, SERIOUSLY. JUST DON’T. I MEAN IT.) I had to go to the optometrist yesterday. I know that I didn’t tell ya’ll this, but this is the THIRD TIME in THREE WEEKS that I’ve had to go and have my EYES all FIDDLED WITH.