What are the aliens going to think in 200 years?

Think about it. When the aliens come to our little, dead planet in 200 years (yeah, we're going to destroy it in 200 years), what are they going to think?

Naturally, a family of aliens will be taking a space trip across the galaxy on their way to grandma's for some holiday. And they'll be lost because the dad refused to consult the star map.

"There's a planet over there," the little daughter will point out with one of her six fingers.

The other dad will make the driving dad (aliens will fully embrace same-gender marriages cause they're cool like that) pull over and park on this little, blue orb. And there, they will discover a dead planet. Well, not completely dead; there will be tons of cockroaches.

And within days tons of alien archeologists and researchers will camp out on what used to be Portland, Oregon. Another team will be somewhere in Russia. And a third team will be studying the Pacific ocean.

They'll explore houses and shopping malls. Disassemble cars and airplanes. Discover guns and biology labs.

And they'll dig up the dead.

And they'll notice that most of the corpses buried in the years 2010 and on are freakishly well preserved.

"Specimen 78416, female, aged 76 at expiration," one alien will log, "appears to be very similar to a photograph found in her tomb. In the photo, she is aged 56. How could this specimen have not aged in 20 units? And even more peculiar, how has this specimen managed to decompose as such a slow rate?"

Using carbon dating, they'll notice that bodies buried hundreds of units (they eventually figure out that a year is a revolution around the sun, but not at this point) before have decomposed almost entirely. Yet newer specimens haven't. Their decomposition rate is unnaturally slow.

Back on the home planet, as the aliens dissect humans, they'll discover metal bones, capped teeth and acrylic fingernails. They will discover that these bodies had been modified during their living period. That artificial parts had been inserted. That muscles had been pulled and sewn. And that chemicals had been absorbed into the skin.

And as one alien discovers a breast implant inside of an 80 year old specimen (at time of expiration), he'll step back and look at his colleague.

"What the fuck?"

"That's nothing," the other alien will say. "This specimen, 45 years old at expiration, male, has them in his legs."

The aliens will become intrigued. Why did the human inhabitants of this planet go to such extremes to modify their bodies. In some instances, it was obvious that repairs were made. In others, they couldn't tell why. Some specimens had tight faces and deep scars in their scalps. Others had teensy scars in their abdomens; these humans had less lipid residue in their cavities. Some had genital reconstruction.

After years of research, after exhuming thousand and thousands of humans, after finding many many issues of Cosmo and reality TV shows, the aliens will start to admire these odd little creatures from the blue planet.

And the aliens will attempt to mimic the surgeries on themselves.

They will make their breasts larger and their wastes tinier. They will make their skin smoother and their eyes wider. Their teeth will become brighter as their lips will plump.

And the aliens will be happy. Because dammit, they will all be hot.

Hello, mid-twenty.

I am now twenty-five years old. And this blog is very short. Exactly twenty-five syllables short.

The battery on my laptop is about to die.

Apparently, I have twenty-nine ...

... no, twenty-eight ...

... crap, back to twenty-nine minutes to write this ...

... thirty? What in the hell has changed in the last thirty seconds ...

...thirty-one? My Mac is mocking me. Seriously. How is time being added to my battery life when this computer isn't plugged into the wall?

That was seriously the most bizarre thing I've seen today. Well, except for that over-sized RC Cadillac with the dubs on it. But that's not really too weird. I had to really revisit my day, think about what all I've encountered. And according to my Mac's battery gage, I took two minutes thinking.

Now I've completely forgotten what I was going to write about. The writing muse has not been my ally these last two weeks. Perhaps she's flown south for the winter. I wouldn't blame her. After all, it's as cold as a witch's toes here.

Just for the record, a witch's toes are thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. If you asked me what thirty-eight Fahrenheit was in Celsius or Kelvin, I couldn't tell you to save my life.

Apparently the sixth-grade-math-skills muse is MIA as well. But she was never really around for me.

Stupid muses and their absences. They're probably hanging out in the mystical land of Mac battery life. Perhaps if I vacuumed, they'd return to my apartment.

Too bad the clean-the-apartment muse has also disappeared.

Someone is cutting holes in all of my socks.

Where is this mysterious little imp? The one with the scissors. The one who sneaks into my drawer and snips the tips off of all my socks.

I'm going to catch that little rogue elf. I'm going to snatch his snippers. And then use them to crop off the top of his pointy-toed slippers.

I'm going to set a trap for that little jerk bastard. I'll build a Rube Goldberg machine better than any anti-elf contraption that you've ever seen.

Maybe I need more security. I could fasten the drawer with many locks. After all, that's cheaper than always buying new socks.

...

Yeah, you know what? This is all the blog's getting tonight. I'm about written-out for the day.

Is Jerry Springer still on the air?

Reality TV is a pretty unique beast. Or perhaps it's just humanity in general.

People spend so much time and money trying to be perfect and classy and impressive.

Stick a camera in their face, though, and they turn into loud, obnoxious idiots.

It's like any attention is good attention. Having people know you as a whore is better than them not knowing you at all.

But we're all aware of this. Although we still act surprised when rich, spoiled LA kids act racist on film. Or celebs flash their junk to paparazzi swarms. Or musicians smoke crack while their friends film with their cameras.

How is any of that, though, different from the crap we used to see on Jerry Springer?

It isn't. We enjoyed watching strangers wreck their lives. Now we enjoy watching pseudo-celebs do the same thing.

Everyone loves a train wreck.

I'm over it.

I'm so glad I don't know any celebs. How sad it must be watching a loved one live in the public eye. Watching as their dirty laundry gets aired on talk shows. See their most painful secrets get spilled and then dissected on the internet.

Some people get off on that, though. So to each his own.

I guess.

I'll gladly just live my life from this private little corner. And if any of my friends ask me to join them on the Jerry Springer show, I'll drop them without thinking twice.

Italiancize it!

I'm over itallics.

Bold is boring.

Underlining is dead.

I want a new font treatment. I want Italiancize. I want to hit Cmmd/Ctrl i and see my type covered in hair and gold chains. I want my words to change from my blah, accent-less speech to New Jersey, Mafia boss phonetics.

I want a whole library of stereotypically based font families.

Pigeon Toe would make all of the serifs point inwards.

Introverd would be similar to upping the kerning like crazy. All of the letters would try to be alone.

Hunched would make the the tops of every letter a little, well, slouchy.

One treatment would cause all of the i and j dots to droop. I'd call it [censored for political correctness].

Hey, don't censor my blog you [censored]ing sons of bleeding [censored]ups.

Who is doing that? Stop censoring my blog! This isn't funny. Freedom of speech! Freedom of speech.

Don't make me Hannibize this font! Oh, wait. That wouldn't work. The letters would just start eating one another.

There's too much crap in the mail box.

Shelly rifled through her mail.

Bill. Bill. Coupon packet. Bill. Marketing piece. Marketing piece. Spam. Bill.

Spam?

Shelly held the slimy slice of meaty substance to the light. She squeezed it and smelled it.

It really was Spam. And it had "Pen15 Lift!" burned into it's surface.

Shelly decided to just toss the slice away and pretend that finding it never happened.

The next day, Shelly opened her mailbox only to smell something odd. She held her breath and pulled out a small package (which she had been expecting) and a small cube of Spam wrapped in a bow and tagged.

"How's ur luv life?" the tag read.

Shelly examined the hunk of meat and tossed it into a rubbish bin before retreating into her home.

Two days later, Shelly found a mailbox full of greasy gym coupons and four different pieces of Spam.

One was in a tiny gift bag. A tag read, "Affordable Mortgages 2day!"

Another was cut into a star shape. "Vegas is around the corner," it informed Shelly.

One piece of Spam was badly burnt. It had dollar signs all over it.

And the last piece was a chunk covered in plastic wrap. It told Shelly to stop debt. She wasn't sure that debt was lurking around her corner. So she tossed that chunk into the trash along with the other three pieces.

Shelly received nothing but ordinary mail for the next few days.

Then she just happened to see the postman as he was filling her box.

"What have you got for me today?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh, just the usual," the postman said as he handed her four envelopes. Just as Shelly was going to thank him, he added, "And this," as he handed her a heavy sack.

The postman continued his jaunt down the street as Shelly caught a whiff of the sack's contents. She opened it and discovered Spam, Spam and Spam.

Some of it was cubed. Some was wrapped in newspaper. Some was disguised in cute boxes so it looked friendly. All of it was greasy and gross and putrid and frightening.

"DatingMadeEasy"

"Pain Pump Info"

"Lowest Quote Online"

"gr8 sexy singles"

Each piece of Spam had some odd message that Shelly didn't like. She decided to take action.

That next day, she attached a large sign on her mailbox. "No Spam," it said. And it worked for a while.

Then the Spam got clever. It arrived in thin slices inside of colored envelopes with return addresses that sounded like friends' addresses. So Shelly made lists of the false addresses and added those to the "No Spam" sign.

Then the Spam would multiply if she accidentally opened one. So Shelly had to create another filter.

Eventually, Shelly couldn't even tell what was real mail and what was inconspicuous Spam. She had to get a new mail box.

And that worked.

But not forever.

So she got a new mailbox and used the old one for Spam only. Every once in a while, a piece of the sneaky meat would find its way into her clean mailbox. So every year or so, she'd have to add another mailbox to her lawn and use the latest old one for Spam.

It got annoying for all of Shelly's friends to have to change her mailing address in their records. But luckily for Shelly, they knew what she was going through. For they were being Spammed to death, as well.

Tony the Tiger's High School Reunion Part 2

Tony stood in the park and stared at all of the athletic people running around.

He tightened his sneaker laces (again) and adjusted his shorts (again) and got a sip of water from the fountain (again).

He inhaled deeply. Exhaled completely. And finally started his jog.

"This is great!" Tony thought as the wind rushed through his fur. "And it's so easy!" He knew he'd be back in fighting shape by the time his reunion rolled around. He'd be just as lean and handsome as he was when he was 18. And his old girlfriend would notice.

Thirty seconds into his sprint, Tony ran off of the jogging path to a tree. There he heaved and wheezed and nearly vomited in pain. He felt like wild hippos were horning him in his obliques. And that his lungs had been replaced with two hives full of angry bees.

"Mommy, look," a young boy chirped, "that big, fat tiger is blowing chunks."

The mother lightly scolded her son. After all, it's not nice to point out the misfortunes of the so-obviously down and out and out of shape.

Tony composed himself and decided to stick to walking for today. After he got used to physical activity again, he'd up the ante.

***

Big, orange paws cradled a very large cereal bowl. Tony smiled as he thought about all of the frosted cereal he'd eaten out of that bowl.

Then he filled it with shredded lettuce and sliced vegetables. He dumped in enough low fat ranch to completely cover anything green.

A disgruntled grrrr erupted from the great tiger's throat as he forcibly wolfed down his foliage. "This crap's for rabbits," he grumbled.

And that made him wonder. Who else would be showing up at this reunion? He heard that the Trix Rabbit had been arrested for indecency. That Count Chocula had moved to Massachusetts with the Cheerios Bee. And that Tucan Sam of Fruit Loops fame was a tour guide somewhere in the Tropics.

Perhaps Tony should track his old classmates down. This looked like a job for MySpace!

This cursor is mocking me.

This little vertical line, this teeny blinking cursor, this animated Satan bar is mocking me.

For an hour now, this cursor has been the only item existing in this otherwise blank blog entry box. We call it a form field in the biz, FYI.

Usually after an hour has elapsed, I have a stroke of genius and I manage to eek out a story about cake-loving livestock or I passively complain about my irritating neighbor. Or I pretend that I'm a high school principal or a restaurant ketchup bottle.

Not tonight, though. Oh no no no. Tonight, I'm going to do what all writers eventually do. I'm going to write about writing. Or I guess I'm really writing about not writing. Whatever. This is what writer's block does to you. It makes you a moron.

When the act of writing is good, it's very good. Words pour from fingertips like punch at a frat party. One words is just holding hands with the word behind it and together all of these friendly little words form happy little chains that are genius.

But when the words aren't cooperating, well, writing is on par with childbirth. You know it's necessary and it's going to hurt your genitals, but you have to do it anyway. Unless you get a cesarean, but those are terrible things and you should never yank a story out of your stomach like that. It's just not natural.

I have tons of topics I could spew about. Politics, for instance. Or the aforementioned cesarean. I've got tons of opinions about child birth. Or I could stand atop my dusty, moral soapbox and preach about the plague of celebrity. Or I could preach about religions. There's a topic.

But my smarts kick in. And I realize that this is a public blog. Any single person (or married person, for that matter) could be reading this thing. And the last thing I need to do is jeopardize my employment or a friendship or a family relationship. I'm not careless.

But then according to some I do write some oddly inappropriate stuff. Luckily, though, this is fiction. I can't be faulted for fiction, can I?

I can be faulted for writer's block. What an idiotic affliction. Creativity is an odd beast. Sometimes it's an unstoppable monster running through the woods, tearing down trees and shrieking at the heavens. Other times it's a meek, little quiet sock monkey just sitting at the foot of the bed. Eye balling you in a creepy fashion. And sometimes, creativity is hanging out in that imaginary land where your lost socks go. A mystical place that living humans can't find.

... Well, I'll be damned. I've managed to write something. Thanks for the croonings, Muse, you sick bitch.

When I get my knee fixed, I'm going to do so much stuff!

My physical abilities have been handicapped for five years. No more!

In no particular order:

RIDE A MECHANICAL BULL
I'm a Texan. I grew up on horses. I've competed in rodeos. I can tell you what all of the straps on a saddle are called.

But I've never gotten hammered and ridden a mechanical bull. This is blasphemy.

Naturally, since I'm a cute female (or so I've been told), I have to be obnoxious about my maiden ride. I'm going to wear a really tight shirt, jeans that show my G-string and a cowboy hat.

I'm going to walk up to that headless, metal body and mount it like it was Cillian Murphy (I think he's totally hot, okay?). Then I'm going to hang on and whoop and holler until I'm sure every man in the bar is looking at me. Then I'll dismount and wait for the free drinks to come my way.

If I fall off of the bull, oh well. I'll just make sure to puke on it before I leave the ring. Riding a mechanical bull isn't about class, after all. It's about being a redneck. A drunk, gyrating redneck.


GO ROLLER SKATING
I was never ever good on skates. I was the kid who wore the knee pads, the elbow pads and the wrist guards. And it's a good thing, too. Because my safety gear got lots of use.

But screw it! I'm going to get on some skates and awkwardly skooch my way around a rink.

And you know what else? I'm going to do it in style.

We're talking short shorts, knee socks and pigtails. Oh, yeah. Getting my knee fixed is really about wearing trampy things in public.

GO INDOOR ROCK CLIMBING
Despite my crippling fear of heights, I used to enjoy indoor rock climbing. I mean have you seen my guns? And by guns I mean super-ripped arms? And my super-ripped arms, I'm not talking about torn skin. Oh, no. I'm talking about all of this fine sinew I've got stretched over my bones.

And by all of that, I mean my toned yet deceptively weak girl arms. I'm going to need a good belayer.


DO RANDOM ACTS OF GYMNASTICS
Oh, look! There's a knee-high obstruction that I must step over. But why step when you can CARTWHEEL!
Booyah.


PLAY ON SOME RANDOM CO-ED SPORTS TEAM
Softball. Volleyball. Tetherball. Any sport, really. Not that a knew ligament will make me good at sports. After all, despite my athletic physique, I'm about as coordinated as Dick Cheney with a gun (oh, I went THERE)*

But seriously. I always dreamed of being an adult and playing on a corporate team. And at DDB, I couldn't play on any of the teams. Because when you're physically incapable of running, you're not really an asset. That's going to change!


JUMP ON A POGOSTICK
I might be the best pogosticker in the world. Despite my aforementioned lack of coordination, for some reason I rock the house on a pogostick. I even won a hundred bucks once because my mom's friend bet he was better than me. He got about forty jumps in a row before losing his balance and dismounting.

Then, because I'm nice, I gave him one last chance to back out of the bet. He said no.

I stayed on that pogostick for god knows how long. I even pogosticked with my hands up in the air. I won a Benji and the respect of a bunch of old people.

Another time in the third grade (I think, it might have been fifth) I wanted to get in the Guiness Book. So my friend and I went to the driveway and she counted as I jumped on the pogostick.

Somewhere around a thousand (or was it threethousand?) jumps, she wanted a turn. So I let her have one.**

So when my knee's better, I'm going to hustle people in the park with my pogostick. And yes, I own one.


KICK SOME ASS, LITERALLY
It's about time I take a self-defense class. I've always wanted to. And I busted the knee when I was finally ready to try. But once this puppy is fixed, I'm gonna make some big, muscly man cry with my kar-rah-tay!
I'm no stranger to getting punched and kicked (hello, gymnastics coach for years!). So there's really going to be no stopping me.

Except for these damn, girly arms. Maybe I'll just do reps with my hand weights the few days post surgery.



*Lewis Black is on in the background. Have you seen "Red, White & Screwed?" Hilarious. I was not paid to tell you that.
**I can't even stress how true these stories are.

There is only one major flaw with cell phones.

You can't deny it. Cell phones have made our lives infinitely better. Or at least more convenient. You can contact a friend from the road and say, "I'm running late." You can check your team's score while at your kid's dance recital. You can send an I-love-you text message in the middle of the work day.

You know what you can't do, though? In a fit of burning rage, you can't scream, "I hate you," or, "You're an asshole!" and slam the phone down.

Because cell phones don't have cradles. They have buttons. Not even buttons. They have keys and touch screens.

Yelling, "I never want to hear from you AGAIN!" is not very dramatic when followed by poking your iPhone or flipping your RAZR shut.

Plus, the person on the other end is left wondering, "Did she hang up? Or was this call dropped?"

Back in the '90s (holy crap, someone said it!). people knew when they were angrily hung up on. Because you'd get that silence and that angst-filled tone. The tone that just sounded like another tongue lashing.

The hanger-upper, of course, got the satisfying sound of plastic beating plastic and the accompanying ring that phones made when shook. And the best part, a hanger-upper knew that the phone would be okay. That it would still work.

You get pissed and slide your cell phone shut too quickly, well, the top slides right off. Now you've got an anger management problem and no phone. Then when you reconcile your differences with the hung-up-on party, they'll notice you have a new phone. And you must pathetically admit that you broke it in a huff.

Teenagers today are missing out. They have no idea what it's like to slam the phone on a significant other or to hastily drop the receiver when a best friend is being an idiot.

All they have are these sleek, space-agey phones that look cool to talk on. But not cool to be angry on.

Kinda makes me want to get a landline and someone to fight with.

My sister and I like to bastardize songs.

It's another addition of PC Song Lyrics!

Can you guess which songs these politically corrected/intellectualized lyrics belong to?

(1)
Artificial Plants Encased in Bark Made of Petroleum Byproducts
(This one's actually a title.)

(2)
Share with me the some of your ponderings on the supreme divine being. Share with me if I am extremely distant.

(3)
Those people are attempting to force me to enroll in a self-repair center.

(4)
Perhaps I arrange myself horizontally on this spot. Perhaps I simply arrange myself horizontally on this spot. By chance you could arrange yourself horizontally alongside me and simply disremember the planet.

(5)
Stroll as if you were from an ancient, northern African civilization.

(6)
Is there any amazement as to why I am fatigued? Is there any amazement as to why I possess stress? Is there any amazement as to why I am confused about the overall good?

(7)
Following twelve o'clock AM, this group (including myself) shall allow the total of everything to dangle below.

(8)
In no way is this a locale. It is a competition between two or more parties for military supremacy cursed by the supreme diving being.

(9)
Such a treacherous sport to engage in, to force this particular consciousness on me. Such a treacherous entity to accomplish, to allow me to mentally visualize you during slumber.

(10)
Hushed voices at the public transit station. My ears detected tales of evenings spent in educational facilities' lawns. I unveiled things concerning you.

My birthday is sacred or something.

My mom's heart is broken. She was hoping that Peyton Manning and the Fillies* (or whatever his team's name is) would make it to the Super Bowl this year. But alas, that's not going to happen.

She wanted her favorite boy to play her favorite game on one of her favorite days.

You have to understand something, the Super Bowl is sacred to my mother. After all, it was during kick off in 1983's Big Game when she welcomed her first child into this world. That's right. I'm a Super Bowl baby. (In case you were wondering, when they flipped the coin, I was all heads.)

And ever since that fateful day, I've had no interest in the football. Because I've always seen it as competition.

But my mom, oh my mom, gets jazzed about the Bowl. When I was wee little, we'd always go to someone's house to watch it. Or host a party of our own. Or go to a sports bar/grill to watch it. Even on my birthday.

At least there was always guacamole.

This year, my birthday is on a Wednesday. So my dear mother doesn't have to pick between her kid and her team. And for that, I'm grateful. Because if the team Manning plays for did make it to the Bowl and my birthday were on the same day, well, Manning would win.

I'm starting to think that my birth got in the way of Mom's Super Bowling instead of the reverse. Crap. Explains why my sister gets everything. Her birthday only interrupts Thanksgiving every so many years.



*I honestly can't remember what team P.M. plays for. Colts? Patriots? It's one of those, right?

These are possible titles and covers for my future book of mini stories if I can get my ass in gear and write it.

"Draw A Mustache On Me"
The title would be very small and on the bottom. The rest of the cover would be my smiling face and the jacket would be a glossy paper. Every book would come with a dry-erase marker. Guess what you do with the marker?


"Please Title My Book"
It's a completely white book jacket made of hi-gloss paper. There's a line on the front. The title is in tiny, 12 pt. type under that line. The book would come with a dry-erase marker. (I like markers!)


"Vegetarian Vampires & Other Oxymoronic Tales From the Crowded Mind of an Over-Analytical Twenty-Something"
White and red. Big, block type. That's it. Oh, and it would be sideways.


"This Book Costs $12.99 (Unless it's on sale, of course.)"
A faded price sticker. It would look like it's been sitting there for ages.


"Smells Like Vanilla"
I have no idea what this would look like. But I'd get my people to get Chip Kidd to design it. Oh, and it would smell like vanilla. But not over-powering, cheap vanilla. Real vanilla.


"My Mom Was Proud That I Wrote A Book. And Then She Read It."
There would be beautiful sketch of a family tree on the front. One branch would reach around the spine and onto the back of the book. There, on the back, would be the sawed-off edge of that branch. Standing on its edge would be a lady with a chain-saw (my mom). On the ground would be a dejected rendering of yours truly.


"The Word 'Jerk' Is In This Book 87 Times"
Just a note, the number might change depending on how many times the word "jerk" actually would appear in the book.
The cover, however, would be a page from the book. Ideally one with the word jerk all over it. And all of those jerks would be highlighted in yellow.


"I Want To Kiss You!"
Naturally, it would be kissy lips, pursed and ready to be smooched. Then, on the back cover, it would say, "This book has herpes."


"[Command] O This Book"
The [Command] would be the Apple key squiggle (Mac users know what I'm talking about). Command O is "open."
I'm not sure what this one would look like either. I'd ask AK to design it.

Quick Dialogue Between Johnson and the Knee

Ben Franklin wrote a dialogue between himself and his gout. It's my turn to be mad at my body.

For years, I've been living with a bum knee. It's pretty much hindered my entire life. Last night, my knee bent sideways while I was bowling.

You have no idea what gross sounds like until you've heard your knee bend sideways.



Johnson: You are an asshole.

Knee: No, I'm a knee.

Johnson: No, you're an asshole. You pop out of socket for no reason other than your sick enjoyment of gravity vs. body.

Knee: Yeah, true. It was kind of funny when you just toppled over while bowling.

Johnson: That hurt, by the way.

Knee: It was worth it.

Johnson: Is it worth the swollen-ness and pain today?

Knee: Come to think of it, no.

Johnson: You're an idiot.

Knee: Yeah, but this idiot holds all the power and controls a good half of you body. Boo-yah!

Johnson: I hate you. I'm going to get you sliced up and sewn back together with surgery.

Knee: Nooooooooooooooo!

Johnson: Oh, yeah. In a few months, we'll be running again. Imagine that. Running! It's been years.

Knee: This isn't fair.

Johnson: Me: 1. Knee: 0.

Knee: It's more like Knee:8. You: 1.

Johnson: True. But not for long.

Knee: Fine. Get the surgery. But remember, the rest of you is allergic to pain killers.

Johnson: ... Crap ...

Knee: Knee: 9. You: 1.

It really sucks being a mannequin.

Help.

Please. Won't somebody help me?

I'm completely immobile and one of my nippleless breasts is exposed. Some brat thought it would be funny to readjust my shirt. Now it barely covers an arm and one breast. Now young boys are snickering at me. And now the other mannequins are laughing on the inside at my misfortune.

It was bad enough being in this outfit- a neon yellow, cable-knit sweater with green wool pants and an fat-beaded, red necklace. I look like an Easter egg. But now I'm a half-exposed Easter egg. At least I'm not smiling or headless like those unfortunate mannequins at Express.

Last week, for some weird reason, I was wearing eight scarves. Eight! How can you justify wearing eight scarves?

You can't. At least they were all pretty. I thought the scarf tied around my thigh was overkill, though. You know, after the six other extra scarves.

God. These teeny boppers who work here and dress us are total freaks. This one girl who (from what I can tell) gets paid to talk loudly about the other employees and smack gum knocked me over the other day. She was putting a jacket on me (without a shirt, mind you) and she got frustrated because my arms don't bend. So she kicked my stand and I toppled into a table.

My head came off. And this little tramp just thew my jacket to the ground and runs off to be emo. Meanwhile, some poor little toddler is screaming because my head is laying at her feet. Not the best way to learn about mortality. At least my headless body landed face down. A small blessing in a pot of crap.

I do enjoy it, though, when the kids jump into my window and pose. It's really quite flattering, actually. They will vogue and freeze and purse their lips. They'll go for as long as they can without breathing or blinking. It usually only takes about thirty seconds before someone starts giggling. They'll mime conversations with all of us mannequins. It's really cool.

Then emo gum smacker will chase them off. And it's back to fashionable loneliness. It's a good thing I'm not a smiling mannequin cause faking my emotions would just add insult to injury.

I really wish someone would come over here and cover me back up. It's trashy to have half-naked mannequins. It kind of defeats the purpose of mannequins in the first place. Well, unless you're talking about lingerie mannequins. But that's the most thankless job ever. Not only are you always in your skivvies, but freaks have dirty fantasies about you. Eww.

And speaking of dirty fantasies ... Some creepy kid is staring at me and just licking a sucker. I really hate this. He's all sticky with sugar and my breast is STILL EXPOSED.

Oh well. At least it's not the Christmas season anymore. If I never see a polkadotted Santa hat again, it'll be far too soon.

My bed is a people-eating alien.

I had a creepy feeling last night. Something just wasn't right.
So I forced myself awake and was given a fright.

My bed's headboard was glowing like some demon light stick.
And I could swear that something gave my feet a lick.

"Is my bed alive?" I thought to myself. "No, you're being crazy.
You ate before sleeping and that's making things hazy."

So I pulled the blanket up to my chin and gave a mighty yawn.
Then I heard a chomp, a slurp, a gulp and my pillow was gone!

"Mom!" I shouted as I ran screaming towards her room.
"My bed's a people-eating alien. If I sleep in it, I'm doomed!"

"Stop being so silly, dear," Mom said, "And go back to sleep."
I tried to argue with her but she shhhed me, "Not a peep."

I went back to my room and it was covered with teddy bear fluff.
While I was gone, that jerk alien bed had eaten my stuff!

I figured I should spend the night on the couch. It would be okay.
The living room was safer. My bed couldn't fit through the doorway.

So I lay down on the squishy, cushy couch and sank into the soft.
And it was far too late when I realized something was off.

I thought it was the bed in my room going, "Slurp slup!"
But I got sucked into the pillows of the cou... "BURP!"

Ever had a conversation with the past?

The Past: Hey.

Girl: (startled) Ah!

The Past: (startled) Ahh!

Girl: Oh, it's you.

The Past: It is.

Girl: You startled me.

The Past: Sorry about that.

Girl: You can't just sneak up on people like that. It's rude.

The Past: Guess I forgot my manners for a bit.

Girl: You sure did. (pause) This is a really bad time, you know ...

The Past: ... I know ...

Girl: ... for you to pop up. I mean, stuff's going pretty good right now and ...

The Past: ... and?

Girl: God! And you just creep up like some kind of asshole fog! (angry) Who do you think you are?

The Past: I'm what you want.

Girl: How do you know that? How can you possibly know that!

The Past: Because I know you. Because I know how happy you were. And how you made a hard decision.

Girl: Yeah.

The Past: And you had hopes and dreams. And you had a plan. And it's time.

Girl: It can't be.

The Past: It is. It's now or never.

Girl: No. Not now.

The Past: You've already been given a second chance. Do you realize this?

Girl: I can't handle this right now. It's too much.

The Past: You can.

Girl: But what if ...

The Past: ... what if what?

Girl: What if things don't turn out the way I need them to?

The Past: You'll be fine. What's the worst that could hap... oh.

Girl: (sadly nods)

The Past: That would ...

Girl: I'm not strong enough. (a tear falls)

The Past: (thinks for a moment) Is the pain of possibly losing worse than not trying?

Girl: I don't know. I'm already in pain.

The Past: I know.

Girl: It hurts to just watch. It hurts to think of trying. And if I try and fail ...

The Past: ... you'll die.

Girl: It'll be over. Forever. I would have ...

The Past: ... waited too long. Just like you always have.

Girl: (stares off to the side) Why did you have to show up now?

The Past: I've always been here. You've just been too focused and really good about drowning me out. But even you can't ignore me forever.

(And the girl looks her past in the eye. And it glares right back. And together, they make a decision to for the future.)

This is the 69th blog. And that's funny.

You know what else is funny? Haikus! These all feature well-known personalities.

Let's do this.


I'm watching Colbert.
And he is chowing down grits.
That looks so tasty.


Dirty Jobs' Mike Rowe
Is one funny, handsome man.
I'd dirty his job.


John Stewart, you're hot,
And you are really funny.
I heart older men!


Who is this Heidi?
I have never watched the Hills.
Because I have class.


Rosie O'Donnel.
I don't think you're annoying.
Compared to a chimp.


Just kidding, Rosie.
I think you're kinda funny.
And now I've no friends.


Self-made celebrity
'Net blogger Perez Hilton.
How did you do it!


I want my fifteen.
Where is it, Andy Warhol?
Answer me, dead guy!


I have no writers.
Oh, wait. I don't use writers.
If so, I'd pay them.

Obituaries are crap.

Hey, Stanley.

The latest "The North Texan" arrived at my apartment yesterday.

In it is your NT obituary.

And it sucks.

"He worked at Miller Brewery for more than 30 years ..." it says.

"... and was interested in music," it says.

"He earned his bachelor's degree in biology from North Texas," it says.

And that's all it says.

It's not your official obit. I know, I've seen it. I was at the funeral. But still.

It's crappy that you were amazing and you died and the world knows only that you liked music. Big fat fucking duh. Who doesn't?

And that you graduated from North Texas. No shit. Really? I mean, fuck, your obit is in the damn North Texas magazine. They don't put dead MIT grads in this pub.

I know journalism. It's what I got my North Texas degree in. I know that obits're for public record and their primary purpose is to record the fact that people a) existed b) died and c) may have others in their blood lines. That's about it.

But couldn't they at least mention that you loved the Beatles? Or that music was a fan of you? Such a fan that some famous cowboy singer wanted to take your ashes on the road and spread them across the country?

Or that your nickname was 90 Mile-an-Hour Curry? That you had some crazy purple hot rod thirty years ago that your friends actually tracked down and were going to buy and fix up for your next birthday?

Or that you kicked cancer's ass and laughed at it for years before diabetes finally did you in? That you never complained and you looked healthier than all of us despite the fact that you were hooked up to a chemo bag?

NO! Because obits don't say any of that pertinent stuff. Because they are complete crap. Total and utter crap.

At least all of your loved ones did right by you. They celebrated your life and remembered the long-haired Stanley of yore.

And I guess when it's all said and done, that's what really matters. Right? That and beer. Which I'm sure is what you'd tell me.

You know what we should do?

Hey. How's it going?

Want to go to Mexico?

I'll have my very own passport within the month. And I want to use it! So I think you and I need to go to Mexico.

It's really not that far. An up and down in a plane ride, really. Not much worse than a roller coaster.

We can eat good food and dance the night away (but not drink the water!).

We can rent scooters and barter with the locals. Or we can stay at one of those all-inclusive resorts and wear wrist bands.

Podemos hablar espanol!

So let's do it. Let's go to Mexico. I've never been. Have you? If so, you can show me around. It'll be fun.

I hear the ocean water is so salty that you float! I want to float in the salter water. Don't you?

And it's sun shiny and warm. That beats the crap out of this bunk coldness that we're having here.

I really want to go to Mexico. I need to go to Mexico.

I need to get out of the country.

Fast.

You know what? Screw the passport. Let's leave tonight. Can you leave tonight? Will you flee from the U.S. with me and run away to Mexico?

I don't have much time. The police are probably already at my apartment. And I think someone recognized me at this coffee shop where I'm currently sitting.

So, yeah. I'm going to Mexico with or without you.

But just in case you don't get this, I'm going to be at your door in thirty minutes. Don't worry about packing anything. I've got enough money for the both of us. Don't worry about how I got it. That's not important.

What's important is that we go to Mexico tonight. I'd say Canada, but that's too far away. I think If we drive really fast we can get there in like 7 hours. I've loaded up my trunk with gas cans. Half are full of gas and the other half are empty so we won't have to stop.

Oh, crap. Gotta go. If we don't get to meet up tonight, you never heard from me. Got it?

Tony the Tiger's High School Reunion Part 1

A fat, old, orange lump of a cartoon tiger sat at a vanity and stared into a mirror.

He patted his ears down. He stretched them up. He fluffed his whiskers and then quickly licked his paws only to slick the hairs back to normal.

Tony stood up and turned sideways. He sucked in a bellyful of air and puffed out his chest. He admired his slimmer figure for about ten seconds before he exhaled like a popped balloon. His furry gut popped out and bounced as he softly growled.

"Grrrreat," Tony sarcastically told his reflection. "Just grrrreat."

Tony the Tiger ambled to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of cereal. As he topped it with milk, he paused and stared at the sugar-coated pieces floating in his bowl. His gaze traveled to his furry stomach.

"Hmm," Tony went. "Duh." He tossed the bowl into the sink and just drank milk from the carton.

Tony walked to a small kitchen table and sat down. An old high school yearbook lay within his reach. He slid it close to him. The open spread was of the senior class of 1948. Surrounding the picture of "Tiger, Tony E." were markered hearts and smiley faces.

"You're the sweetest!" was squiggled in fat, cursive letters.

Tony flipped pages and came to a picture of the football team. Then he turned the page to the cheerleaders. And there he saw a picture of a young, muscular tiger smiling amongst five very peppy girls.

A mascot for life, he was.

A soft purr erupted from Tony's throat as he traced the picture of one cheerleader in particular. He couldn't wait to see his old sweet heart again.

There was no time to waste. Tony had two weeks to get ready for his fortieth* high school reunion.

But right now, he needed a nap.


* According to Wikipedia (flawed as it is, it's my best resource at 11:20 PM) Tony the Tiger was first used in 1952. Seeing as he was most-likely full grown upon his introduction into the cereal world, there's no accurate way to tell when he would've attended and graduated from high school. For this particular story line, we're pretending that Tony the Tiger was 18 in 1968. This means that the ad agency/design firm/illustrator who came up with Tony actually drew him two years before he was purchased and placed on a cereal box. It's completely possible. Trust me. Oh, and Tony was an adult tiger his entire life. Fiction rules.

I want a song to be written about me.

More than anything, I want a boy to write a song about me.

A song about how I'm the one. About my eyes and my skin and the small of my back. About how the world looks with me in it.

A song about how I was the one who got away.

A song full of woe-heavy guitar strokes and lyrics that long for my touch. Just one more time.

I want the kind of song that makes teenage girls turn up the radio and silence their friends. A song to make all women, young and old, jealous.

I want to discover this song by pure accident. Hear it in the background of some independent movie or on a college radio station. I want to hear it and know it. Even if it's the first time the lyrics touch my ears.

I want to hear a line in the chorus that I will know is about me and only me.

I want a boy to write a song about me. About how despite all my flaws, I'm still perfect. And how every day and week makes me more beautiful. And how I also make the days more beautiful.

I want my song to be the choice song for weddings. Brides will pretend that their husbands wrote the song for them.

But, oh no, that song was written for me. And me alone. And it will always and forever be about me.

I want a boy to write a beautiful song about me. A song that will make me immortal. That will live on longer than I ever could.

A song that will make the hopeless believe in love again.

UPDATE (07.16.08): You know what? Screw a song. I had something better.