When I told Devon I called him a serial killer again on my blog, he said, “At least people won’t be Googling me for dating purposes anymore.”
That said, now I have to make sure he can never find another date with anyone who can use a search engine. So here goes.
Devon Jones steals from homeless children.
Devon Jones is gay, gay, super gay, Liberace gay.
Devon Jones watches “Rock of Love” while he slaughters puppies.
And this is what I do to people I LIKE.
It’s been said before that Romeo and Juliet would have resolved much more happily had T-Mobile been around in Shakespeare’s time. Juliet could have sent her beloved a text: “Hey, Romeo, luv u 4evah, don’t kill urself.” And Romeo could have replied: “U wanna hook up? C U in the crypt.”
It would have been awesome, and the Montagues and Capulets could have had a good, long laugh about their little rapscallions’ behavior.
Which led me to think how even more awesome it would be if they had IM.
CapChick: O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo. Deny thy father, ’cause his shit is whack.
LoverBoy: No worries. He’s watchin’ porn on his laptop. LOL.
CapChick: Can u come over 2nite? I Netflixed “Othello.”
LoverBoy: Talk about whack. Those dudes make me wanna kill myself. Depressing shit. BRB.
…
LoverBoy: OK, back.
CapChick: Where’d u go?
LoverBoy: Had to pee. Sorry.
CapChick: So, r u coming over? I miss u.
LoverBoy: Waitin’ 4 Dad 2 pass out in his beer. OK, BITCH.
CapChick: Did u just call me a bitch?
LoverBoy: No, BITCH. Means Basically in the Clear, Homey.
CapChick: Does not. U just made that up.
LoverBoy: No, really, I got it off of netlingo.com.
CapChick: U r sooooooooo lame. But I love u anyway, pookie.
LoverBoy: U know I would die 4 u. B there soon.
Actually, now that I think about it, we’re all better off that they killed themselves.
I took my dad to to the urologist yesterday to find out why his PSA level is so high, and he screamed like I’ve never heard a dude scream before.
When we were done and waiting for the cab, Dad said: “He stuck a finger up my ass. It reminds me of the Army. Every once in awhile, they stick a finger up your ass. Every once in awhile.”
Dad’s PSA level is 87, and his doctor says they’re not going to do a biopsy, since the only possible explanation is prostate cancer. So Dad has to go for a bone scan and a CAT scan to see whether it has spread, and, if so, how far.
Despite this diagnosis coming so close on the heels of mom’s death, I’m not too worried. Dad’s tough, and prostate cancer is slow. Plus, the treatment is merely pills and an injection once every four months, so we won’t be putting him through the horror that is chemo.
Still, I kind of wish every major medical consultation didn’t end with “You have cancer.”
That was the conclusion I came to during my mother’s wake. Her pale, dead body in her bed didn’t creep my shit out the way her heavily made-up body did in a pretty party dress.
Roman Catholics are fucked up.
Also, when people say, “She looks so good,” they are full of shit. She doesn’t look good. She looks dead. She would look better in her kitchen making pancakes or inappropriately grabbing someone’s ass. Mom liked to grab ass a lot. Man, woman, didn’t matter. Your ass was hers. Seriously, if you’re ever in St. Charles Cemetery in section 35, be careful where you stand. Your ass is not safe.
On a note somewhat related to ass, I found mom’s vibrator as I was going through her dresser. I’m choosing to believe she used it to massage her neck, and not a single one of you can convince me otherwise. La, la, la, I’m not listening to you.
And I’m OK with that. It’s important to support each other’s goals. I just wish he’d be open about it. It’s difficult to build a foundation of trust when one person won’t ‘fess up about where he hides the bodies. He keeps insisting he’s not a serial killer, but he probably just thinks I’ll be mad if I find out.
