Author: ME

Horses, Dead People, and Smelly Nerds…Oh My!

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,
Sure, they look harmless. They're actually Googling "how to meet a sexy MILF for fun and profit."

I’m not really sure why I write this blog, but I am fairly certain that if I didn’t write this blog and these stupid thoughts didn’t get out of my head, I would hurt something in a monumental way, and maybe even hurt a monument in a monumental way. I could easily break something off of Mt. Rushmore if I didn’t write, so by you reading this crap you are actually helping to preserve our American heritage. And by my giving you something to write about so you can read it and save history, I’m really enabling you to be a hero. You’re welcome.

And since I really do want to help you save America by reading my blog, I did some research into what hoop-jumping steps people are willing to go through in order to find this site. Research might be a strong word, it’s more like I clicked on the Summary button on my dashboard. But I read the Summary. That’s important, right?

I probably shouldn’t have looked up the Summary because as it turns out, an alarming number of people found my blog by Googling “smelly nerds.” I don’t ever remember writing about geeks with body odor, and I’m sure if I had written about that Klout would have instantly made me influential about body odor, but more than 250 people searched for smelly nerds on the internet and found my blog. I’m both curious and scared that so many people were even looking for smelly nerds and apparently they want to hook up with smelly nerds that they meet online. Leave me out of it, guys.

Other top searches included horse (108 hits), horse run, horses eating grass, eating a horse, and an unrelated search, raping a cow. I do specifically remember blogging about eating a horse, but the rest of that stuff is Greek to me. There were a lot of searches for condoms that brought people to the fun that is my brain, as well as a lot of zombie searches and crotch shot detectives.

I would like to say to the no-doubt saintly woman who had to Google “my husband pees on stuff,” I hope the search brought her to my blog post about the cool ways to kill my husband.

Now that I know what my reading audience likes to hear about, do expect a lot more blog posts about horses and body odor and possibly a combination post or two about horse body odor. My vivid descriptions of the smell coming off of zombie horse crotches could very well save the Statue of Liberty.

I’m Taking Out a Mob Hit on The Lorax

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WARNING: The following blog post has been brought to you by mixing Nyquil with large amounts of liquor.

I don’t give a rat’s ass how brilliant Dr. Seuss was. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he was an amazing writer who inspired countless millions of children to want to read and blah-di-fuckety-blah. All I know is some stupid book comes out about how this Onceler shithead chopped down all the Truffula trees and The Lorax tried to speak for the trees and then those bears in their pajamas had to move away and take the ducks and the fish with them, then it’s up to this kid who probably steals money from his mom’s wallet to buy weed and he has to replant the entire world with trees. Thus ends my book report on The Lorax.

Somebody who probably loved that book as much as I used to saw a random real-life tree and thought to himself (it was definitely a man who did this to us), “Hey! That white fluffy tree looks exactly like those Truffula trees from that wonderful Dr. Seuss book! Who cares if they smell like whale semen? We should plant them EVERYWHERE! And I mean, EVERYWHERE!”

And now I’m surrounded by these stupid fluffy trees called Bradford Pears and they’re all trying to kill me at the same time. I am so allergic to those trees that they should be illegal. And they don’t even produce pears. And I’m sure the guy they’re named after was an asshole.

LOOK at all that pollen! Do you see what he's doing to us???

I know, it’s kind of sad how worked up I can get over a member of the plant kingdom, but the trees really are trying to kill me. My eyes water so badly that my contact lenses slide right out and run down my cheeks. I’m producing more snot than an entire kindergarten class. I’m coughing and sneezing and during those magical moments when I happen to cough and sneeze at the same time, I also end up peeing myself. If I knew where The Lorax lived I would cut him.

To make matters worse, there’s no medical treatment for being this allergic to something and that only makes me want to punch the lady from the Claritin commercials for being Claritin-clear. The only thing that halfway brings any relief is drinking Nyquil straight from the bottle and washing it down with undiluted Jack Daniels. The store didn’t have any cherry Nyquil, so I had to get the antifreeze-flavored Nyquil instead. It’s all kind of put me in a mood, if you couldn’t already tell. I’ll feel better when the little flowers fall off the trees or once that Lorax opens the package I mailed him.

The Spite Baby

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This kid is just scary looking. And expensive looking. There's no way she has 20/20 vision with those eyes.

I try really hard not to discuss politics on this blog because I simply don’t know what I’m talking about. I try to also leave religion out of it, too, but that’s just because I know full-well that my religion is better than your religion, so there’s no need to brag about how awesome my religion is because that would be just rubbing it in your face. (By the way, I’m Catholic. The un-Rick Santorum kind.)

But sometimes there’s something going on in politics that is both so angering that I have to think about it and so confusing that I at least have to read what the internet had to say about it. Apparently, and I could be confused by the facts on this one, we don’t have enough babies in America.

I realize China has grown into a super-human country where they have so many people the borders literally can’t hold them all, and I don’t actually think the government is trying to compete by making our citizens have as many babies as they have in China, but something’s not adding up. Our government is arguing over whether or not my health insurance has to cover birth control, but I don’t think everybody’s thought this through.

Has anyone done the math on a few years’ worth of birth control versus providing health insurance for a baby from its pre-pop-out days all the way through its college graduation? I don’t think they have, so if the government makes me have a baby I’m going to make sure that I give birth to the anti-Christ, just for the fun of it.

I don’t mean that I’m going to be neglectful or teach the child cruelty. I mean, it is actually going to BE Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t really know how I’m going to bring that to pass just yet, but if anyone can give birth to a medically evil human being, I can.

More importantly, this baby is going to be the most expensive child my health insurance company has ever met. It will have every three month check-up. I will take it to the emergency room for every sniffle and fever higher than 98 degrees. I will have it tested for every disease and medical condition known to medical science. I’ll have it tested for diseases that don’t even exist in this country, and a few diseases that only occur in animals. The child will have orthodontia, glasses, and corrective shoes (I realize that will make my child a target for bullying at school, but he’ll be okay once he figures out that he’s the anti-Christ.). I will buy the prescription-only children’s vitamins instead of Flintstones. Did you know you can even get a prescription for WATER? Yes, my child will drink only the Rx water and the doctor who wrote the prescription and the pharmacy who sold it to me will all send their bills to my health insurance provider.

It would be a whole lot cheaper if the health insurance providers just shut up and covered my documented medical condition: hyperfertility, or the ability to get pregnant while doing normal activity (well, okay, normal grown up activity…and define “normal.”). The providers should be required to cover the treatment because it’s a really real medical condition. After all, you just read about it on the internet.

You Have No Idea How Much I Want a Jet Pack

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There's an 71% chance that this won't end well.

I know what you’re thinking, you don’t have to say it. You’re thinking about the awesomeness that would be me if I had a jet pack. You’re already envisioning me expertly zooming around and then coming to hover in front of you to hand you that piece of paper your dropped, then zooming off again. I make it look so easy.

But this is me we’re talking about. If somehow this was the future and I was actually wearing a real-live jet pack and then by some strange chance the thing actually worked, flames would shoot out of it and I would end up setting my own ass on fire. The jet pack would go haywire and I would fly haphazardly into stuff, slamming my head off of every surface in the room while the smell of bacon coming from my singed ass flesh made every dog on the block go nuts at the same time (They’ll still have dogs in the future. And bacon). The high rate of speed the jet pack caused me to take would only make the flames worse, fanning the ass flames until I was pretty much just a burned up charcoal briquette.

And you actually think I should have one of these things? You’re sick in the head.

What is actually very cool and very safe for me to use is the leaf blower. I had a lot of fun with that today. It’s a lot like a jet pack, if you’re a leaf and you want to get somewhere by having someone aim the jet at you and blow you in the direction you want to go. I had to use the leaf blower because I was specifically told not to use the leaf blower. But it was my husband who told me not to, so not only does that not count but it’s actually like a command from the Universe to go ahead and do it.

I was really afraid that this would turn into a YouTube video if my neighbors happened to be outside with their camera phones handy and then there would be videos of me falling backwards from the power of the leaf blower. No such luck. I had braced myself for impact and everything. I did, however, learn that rocks are not impervious to the power of the leaf blower. I aimed the leaf blower at the small pile of stuff I was trying to move after my brain powers didn’t get it all the first time and it sent decorative gravel from our flower bed flying in all directions. There’s even a few pieces embedded in the side of my car. If the leaf blower is powerful enough to fling gravel like that, it would stand to reason that I could turn it on its end, strap it to my back, and at least get a little nudge while walking if not actually be lifted off the ground and transported. And it won’t set my ass on fire for even a second.

How Hard Can It Be?

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I think it would be really, really cool to get to give myself stitches. Don’t throw up yet. I don’t want to get anything amputated by mistake and then have to sew my own arm back on with some spider silk or anything Bear Grylls-ey like that and I really don’t want to have to do my own emergency appendectomy in the middle of the desert and sew my stomach closed. I’m not a complete weirdo. But if I were just a little bit hurt, like I’d cut myself a little bit on something that was sharp but still really clean and it wasn’t all covered in tetanus and then the cut was already numb because they’d given me a shot, it would be neat to get to put in a stitch or two with proper supervision to make sure I didn’t go crooked.

But when you ask the doctor if you can try out the liquid nitrogen blow torch that she’s about to spray onto your face growth, she looks at you funny and tells you no. And that’s just bogarting that blow torch.

The blowtorch looked a lot like this, only it was purse-sized and cuter.

I’m a teacher and I would never be stingy with my teacher stuff like that. I would absolutely let you jump up and come to the board to show the class how to work that problem. I don’t have to be selfish with the chalk just to prove that I went to college to do this and you didn’t.

But the doctor who was freezing the thing on my face wouldn’t even let me hold the mini-blowtorch and I don’t think it was because I’m not qualified to do it. It could be because I asked before she started if my nose would come apart if she held it on there long enough like in those videos where they drop a mouse in liquid nitrogen and then drop it on the ground and make it shatter. Maybe I sounded too excited by that idea. She was also both impressed and a little bit alarmed that I had a picture of my nose-growth in my camera phone. When she asked me why I had taken a picture of my own nose, I blew my chances of ever playing with the blowtorch by saying, “I blogged about it and let people vote on what it is.”

I still think she’s hoarding her toys because she wants to look super professional and important. Why else would she wear that white coat ALL THE TIME? I get it already, you have a coat, you’re a doctor. Maybe she was actually a little bit insecure, like she thought I might do a better job than she could. Or it’s possible she never learned to share back in kindergarten. She was probably in a really strict academic program for little kids who were going to grow up to be doctors, so grew up knowing only cutthroat competition and her parents made her neurotic and gave her an eating disorder by riding her case all the time to be valedictorian of the preschool. Poor Dr. Stingy-Pants. Now I feel bad for her, and I’m the one who didn’t get to use the blowtorch.

The Rocket Scientist Behind Oral Sex

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This is an artist's depiction of Planet X hitting something. Kind of like all those real artist's depictions of Big Foot.
This is an artist’s depiction of Planet X hitting something. Kind of like all those real artist’s depictions of Big Foot.

I think everyone is pretty much in agreement that I cannot be serious for more than five minutes. I’m the idiot who had to walk out of my grandfather’s funeral because I started laughing. And no, I was not laughing because my grandfather was dead, thank you very much. I started laughing because the Grim Reapers of Kentucky motor cycle gang came to the funeral. They just walked on in wearing their leather-and-chains motor cycle clothes and lined up to sign the guest book. No, my grandfather wasn’t in a motor cycle gang and we still kind of don’t know why those people came. Ditto my ex-sister-in-law coming, but I’m glad she did. Then three women who were literally at the wrong funeral showed up, only they didn’t have the good sense to leave. It all just got to be too much funny at one time and I had to step out to the parking lot and laugh it off for a while.

But someone at work decided I would be the most excellent choice of reporter to interview a real live NASA rocket scientist. I think he’s actually an engineer or something, but that is nowhere near as funny as calling him a rocket scientist. Rocket engineer doesn’t work for me. It makes me think he’s going to wear a striped cap and blow the whistle while driving the rocket.

Believe it or not, I can actually pretend to be a grown-up professional person for as many as five minutes at a time, but sadly, this interview took eight minutes and that left me three minutes to turn stupid on him. I really was okay for those first few minutes, but then he told me about the book he had written on being prepared for emergency situations like earthquakes and terrorist attacks.

ME: Does your book tell me how to be prepared for the zombie apocalypse everyone keeps talking about? Should I have really good shoes on, for example?

NASA PhD: No, it doesn’t. Because my book is actually very serious and zombies are not serious.

ME: (that’s-what-you-think eye rolling) Oh. What about how everyone’s saying our planet is going to slam into Planet X and blow us up? Are there any guidelines in your book for being ready for a planetary impact?

NASA PhD: The things you read on the Internet about Planet X aren’t real.

ME: How would you know?

NASA PhD: I work for NASA.

ME: (extra-effort eye rolling) I answered telephones at an escort service back in college, but that doesn’t make me a blow job expert.

NASA PhD: You did?

ME: Well, no. But if I had been the girl who just answered the phone, I still wouldn’t know diddly about actually diddling anyone. Forget it. What about how we’re all gonna die when the Mayan calendar expires?

NASA PhD: No, I don’t talk about that either.

ME: So what exactly does the price of your book help me live through?

NASA PhD: Well, earthquakes…

ME: Did it.

NASA PhD: Tornadoes…

ME: This is Alabama. Our babies are born with the tornado siren ringing in their tiny ears.

NASA PhD: A cruise ship capsizing…

ME: I can swim.

NASA PhD: Forest fire.

ME: Duh, I just told you I can swim.

NASA PhD: What?

ME: Nothing. So pretty much your book just tells me how to survive stuff that people have been surviving for a long time. And there’s nothing new like how to remove your own alien probe device and use it as a weapon to fight off the alien guard and get off the mother ship?

NASA PhD: Which news outlet do you write for again?

ME: Don’t worry about that. Trust me, you’ll sound way smart when I type this up.

NASA PhD: I was way smart before we started this interview. After spending eight minutes talking to you, I’m not so sure about that anymore.

ME: You’re the one who said it, not me, buddy.

Since he really was trying to be a professional and not lose his temper with the idiot who was interviewing him, he did offer to send me a copy of his book so I could read it and understand more about what it is he’s trying to do with this book of his but all I heard was, “I’m gonna send you a free book.” Cha-ching! I know he’s only being nice because he secretly hopes I really do know a lot about blow jobs.

UPDATE: Sadly, the whole Planet X thing has now been debunked. Thanks for sucking the fun out of conspiracy theories, NASA.

UPDATE: In Which I Seriously Make You Look at a Commercial

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UPDATE: My book-book is ready, too! The ebook is available and people have taken to it like flies on poop, for which I thank you (if for no other reason than I just got to use the phrase, “flies on poop.”) But now, the promised print edition is also available! Or, the roach-smashing edition, as I like to call it. It’s available if you click HERE to get it from Amazon.

If I can pull off being serious for just a minute (I swear I feel like I should change my font, or something…this part isn’t funny), I’ve had more than a couple of people tell me they wish they could have given my autism book to someone they know who has a kid like my daughter. There are two ways to do that: first, the autism book also has a book-book edition right HERE, but what about that pretty link over on the right of your screen? Yeah, the second way to share that with someone is to either a) “gift” them a copy of the ebook and help them read it on the free Kindle app on their computers, or you can actually give your Kindle copy away once you’ve read it. I set it up that way on purpose. I really do want a lot of people to know about autism so they stop rolling their eyes at my daughter in the grocery store. Thanks!

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So all along, my goal has been to be a writer. Since no one really thinks I’m that good at it and since I’m always a little surprised when people tell me they read my book (and I start thinking, “Wow, let me buy you a different one at the store so you have something good to read”), I started this blog so that I actually can write about things that make me giggle and not worry about the fact that the reader just wasted an entire 99cents on the Kindle edition of something I wrote. That 99cents could have paid for one-tenth of an eyebrow waxing, or something important like that.

I went ahead and wrote another book just to give people an option. At least now when they say they read my book, I can reply with, “Oh, you didn’t like it? Yeah, you totally should have bought the other book. It was way better.” It doesn’t matter which book they bought in the first place, I can always use that line. If they happened to have bought both books, I’ll just fake having a stroke until they go away.

Having said all of that, my second book is now available on Amazon. Yup. You totally should have bought this one instead of the first one. Actually, if Amazon will let you, you only really need to buy maybe a third of it because (depending on how long you’ve been reading this blog) it’s mostly a compilation of a lot of the funnier posts that appeared here, with a bunch of extra stuff thrown in and some new content. It’s like you had secret backstage access to the book before everyone else in the whole world! Cool, right?

Pretty sweet cover, if I do say so myself. Good grief, if I'm this unhumble now, wait 'til someone actually buys a copy.

Now for a commercial break: If you would like to purchase the ebook of It Was Like That When I Found It, click right here. The book-book will be available in March, but it’s heavier than the ebook. You can use it to prop open windows or to kill roaches. Either one works.

In case you didn’t know, my first book is available as an ebook and as a book-book now, but it’s not funny. It’s a really mean book where I yell at you for being a completely inept parent. I’m just kidding. I would never yell at you. It’s really about working with autistic kids and some things that I know have worked with our kid. The ebook is HERE and the book-book is HERE.

I feel like one of those timeshare breakfasts where they feed you and offer you a free television but first you have to sit through an eight-hour presentation and then all the other people who got suckered into it develop Stockholm Syndrome and they start pressuring you to buy a vacation week in Omaha for the rest of your life. The only difference is I didn’t hold your children hostage during this commercial. Like I need extra children running around.

True Love is a Real Bitch That Way

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Here's a photo of the growth on my face.

A few blog posts ago I let my readers decide for the doctor whether or not the thing on my face is cancer. I am pleased to share with you the results of the poll. While only one asshat voted for it to actually be cancer (and I’m pretty sure that voter was my brother who still hasn’t gotten over the fact that I lost one of his Matchbox cars in 1976), it was just a little weird that a large number of voters actually wanted this red, irregularly shaped splotch to be Mitt Romney. I was uber-pleased by the number of commenters who said, “I voted for it to be Mitt Romney because that will be the only time I ever vote for that man.” Basically, I’m taking one for the team and agreeing to have Mitt Romney growing out of control on my face so you can be responsible and save America. It’s an even trade.

But now the clock is actually ticking and I’m supposed to go see the doctor in a few days to decide if it’s cancer or Mitt Romney, and if those are my only two choices I’m going to have to mull it over and get back to you. I can’t really bring myself to say, “Oh sure, doc, let’s call this thing cancer!” but I also can’t commit to being stuck with Mitt Romney even for four years, let alone for the rest of my life. (note: I could be willing to agree to it being Mitt Romney if I get to hear the doctor say, “I know how to fix this. We’re going to freeze Mitt, burn Mitt with these hot zappy little electrodes, pour chemicals on Mitt, then finally scrape him off with this putty knife. There won’t be anything left of Mitt Romney when we’re through with him!”) (different note: I think I’m going to be put on some watch list now for saying that I want a presidential candidate frozen, zapped, poisoned, and scraped.)

While I’ve been walking around with this cancerous Mitt Romney stuck to my face, my husband has been amazingly supportive, saying things like, “Oh, it’s hardly noticeable. I wouldn’t even bother with the doctor if I were you. Have you tried some Neosporin?” Because you know they make Neosporin in chemotherapy-strength now.

But last night when we discussed the potential for cancer, he said the most romantic-yet-stupid-assed thing I’ve ever heard: “If you lose your nose to cancer, I won’t leave you.”

Um. Yeah. I wasn’t really thinking about the possibility of a) losing my entire nose or b) my marriage crumbling and my children being fatherless because of a Mitt Romney growing on my face. But it’s good to know that he won’t abandon our entire family if I become deformedly ugly. Thanks a pantsload, Mitt Romney.

Beer and Condoms Make It the Most Magical Place on Earth

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See? This creeped you out. I'm not just overreacting.

I just returned from a whirlwind three-day jet set down to Orlando to take the kids to DisneyWorld. This was actually their Christmas present, but it’s one of those things I had to take some time to mentally prepare for. Luckily, this ain’t your Uncle Walt’s DisneyWorld anymore.

For example, they sell condoms in their gift shops.

Yes, my friends, re-read that. You can buy condoms next to the Mouse Ear hats. While, not actually like RIGHT next to the hats. They’re not perverts. I think. Does selling condoms in the gift shops of kiddie Mecca make you a pervert?

Sadly, I’m such a weirdo that it wasn’t the condoms that were the strangest thing I saw. (Incidentally, I bought some condoms just to check them out and no, not everything in DisneyWorld has Mickey Mouse’s face plastered on it. They were just regular Trojans, which was a relief. And now I’m registered on some list somewhere for actually buying condoms in DisneyWorld.) No, the weirdest thing to me was the amount of alcohol just ambling around the park. C’mon, reader, keep up…the alcohol wasn’t wandering around, it was in a glass carried by a bleary-eyed parent. The parent was wandering around, usually towing a screaming child.

The best thing was you could spot the parents from a mile away who were drinking. They were the park guests who were towing a screaming child but WEREN’T losing it themselves. Every time a pint-sized tantrum-beast would get another lungful of air for a great screaming blast, the drinking parents would just turn up that clear plastic cup and drown their sorrows. Since my children are perfect and since I happen to adore all things DisneyWorld, I didn’t feel the need to walk around Epcot with a beer in my little fist; however, my husband kept plying me with Guiness from the Great Britain pavilion just so I would quit running from attraction to attraction, screaming, “Hurry up! This one has a short line!”

I have to freely admit that there are a lot of things in life that are made better by just a smidgeon of $6-per-glass beer. Your child’s second grade school play would go a lot smoother (at least in your mind) if there was an open bar, and ditto PTO meetings. Beer improved things so much in the line for Space Mountain that I think Disney cast members should be rolling you joints just to get you on It’s A Small World.

All in all and every bit of depravity aside, it was a good trip. I had just enough beer to make it all that much more fun, and thanks to the condoms from the gift shop my husband and I won’t be having a surprise baby and naming it Walt.

Gay Time Traveling Puppies Are Running for Public Office. And They Have Rabies.

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Forget my influentialness for a minute...THIS photo is now indelibly burned somewhere on my hard drive just so I could make you laugh. I hope you're worthy.
Forget my influentialness for a minute…THIS photo is now indelibly burned somewhere on my hard drive just so I could make you laugh. I hope you’re worthy.

I thank the social media gods every day for the engineering school drop outs who left college to start a multi-bazillion dollar company called Klout. It’s the most awesome source of humor fodder I can find. Today’s surprise was the notification I received that Klout had decided I am influential about seventeen topics, the newest of which is puppies.

I can add puppies to a lofty list of my expert topics that includes LGBT, Time Travel, Rabies, Politicians, Mustard, and Terrorism.

The amazing thing about this is I don’t have to actually know anything about any of those topics, I just have to tell you that I do. And that makes me influential. It’s now time to write a blog post about Republicans strapping bombs to mustard-covered rabid dogs and setting them loose on an unsuspecting public. Oh, and the Republicans are gay. Or maybe the dogs are gay. I’m not real clear on that part.

Either way, half the battle is knowing the limits of the scope of my knowledge and influence. Apparently, there is no limit. I can be influential about anything I want. Stay tuned for my next newsworthy post.

IN UNRELATED NEWS: I’m headed to Orlando tomorrow so I won’t be posting over the weekend. You’re welcome. Take these few days to reflect on your own life and enjoy the quiet that comes from me not showing you a picture of a dog wearing a cape made out of condoms.