Posts Tagged ‘I am going to hell’

I apologize in advance

Saturday, February 20th, 2010

Devon and I were chillin’ in the living room, Devon playing a video game and me not playing a video game, since I’ve given up World of Warcraft for Lent. (I’m a recovering Catholic, so there’s no reason I need to observe Lent except that I want to.) We flipped on the TV for Dad, who is spending the night with us, and Dad said…

Look, I’m sorry, I don’t even know how to phrase this without sounding like the biggest dick in the world. I’m sorry, really. Sorry that I think this is funny and need to blog it and sorry Dad said it.

But Dad said, “What’s up with all the negroes?  They’re all over the news.” This was in response to Gov. Paterson and Al Sharpton appearing in back-to-back segments.

My dad is 88 and has Alzheimer’s disease, but I’m pretty sure he would have said the same thing 20 years ago.

Like I said, I’m a dick because I’m still laughing. Sorry.

In other news, I finally had a movie-worthy cabbie experience going from Queens to Brooklyn. I spent last night at Dad’s, and we took a cab back to my apartment. Through the rear-view mirror, I watched the cab driver fall asleep. You heard me. I said FALL ASLEEP. He even did the deep-breathing thing people do when they are FUCKING SLEEPING.

Then his girlfriend called. To his credit, he asked her not to curse, since he had to put her on speakerphone to avoid getting nailed by the fuzz. (Yes, I just said “fuzz.” Deal with it.)

Apparently, his girlfriend was perturbed because he was sleep-working when he should have been home taking care of her sick ass. Literally. Through the speakerphone, I heard: “You motherfucker sonofabitch. I’ve got stuff coming out of everywhere, my mouth, my asshole….”

I love New York.

Wake-up call from Chase Bank

Saturday, February 13th, 2010

A conversation about Dad’s bank account that I had with a rep from Chase at 8:30 this morning, three seconds after being  jolted awake by the phone:

Chase guy: I would like to speak to yadda yadda about his account.
Me: Yadda has dementia and is deaf and doesn’t do well on the phone. Can I help you?
CG: I need to speak to someone authorized to speak on his behalf. May I speak to his wife?
Me: His wife is dead.
CG: I’m very sorry to hear that.
Me: You can speak to me. I’m his daughter and should be listed as a contact on his account. (We went through that process the last time I needed to speak to someone on Dad’s behalf. I gave him my name.)
CG: You are not listed as an authorized contact.
Me: I don’t know what else to say.
CG: May I try calling back this afternoon?
Me: Dad will still be deaf and have dementia this afternoon.
CG: Well, I can’t speak to you without authorization.
Me: OK, bye, then.

As hard as it is to believe, I’m not usually snarky with strangers. Dude was just doing his job. I guess my social filters need time to kick in when I first wake up.

Goddamn it, Fitz!

Monday, February 1st, 2010

Devon and I awoke to a nasty surprise this morning in the form of a large pee stain in the middle of the bed. I know I didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it. Fitz was curled up on the bed as far from the pee as possible. Needless to say, she’s going to be crated at night for the forseeable future. Devon pointed out that what separates adult humans from every other lifeform is responsibility for one’s urine. He noted this after spotting the cat pee in his chair. Again. It’s their special way of telling him to fuck off when the litter box is dirty. So Fitz was too lazy to get her ass out of bed and over to the pee pad, and the cats were just spiteful.

The Adult Urine Theory also applies to Dad, who got pissy – ha ha! – with me when we were at a friend’s house and I insisted that he change his diaper and let me blow dry his pants.

In other news: I started the process for carving mom’s name into the headstone. She used to joke that if she kicked it before Dad, she would be buried between her first husband and second husband – a man sandwich. Would it be inappropriate to carve “Bow chica bow wow” into the stone?

I am wholly inappropriate.

Random funny from Devon, as we were walking on the subway platform: “If people commute together long enough, do their Metrocards sync up like periods?”

Kneel before Zod

Thursday, December 3rd, 2009

Devon has been kicking around the idea of creating a zombie plague for a while now, especially since the whole “meat in vats” idea got snapped up by someone else. I have determined that the only way to stop him is to create zombies before he does. My idea: Think of the children. Yeah, you heard me.

We take a population of people that is prone to violence and irrational behavior anyway — children under 4 — and we hop them up on sugar and caffeine. Then we eliminate naps. And adult supervision. And lock them all in a room with one toy to share. Instant zombie plague! And wiping out all the children is guaranteed to trigger an apocalypse, which is one of Devon’s criterion for an effective zombie plague.

Oh, stop looking at me like that. Devon’s PCP-induced zombie rage idea was certain to wipe out all the children anyway, but at least now adults can enjoy the rides at Disney World for a little while before the end.

I am so awesome.

The anti-Match.com

Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009

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.

My apologies to Twitter and William Shatner

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

I was sold on Twitter when I realized it could help me stalk William Shatner.

I saw Shatner once in person on a college trip to Montreal. The other English Honor Society geeks and I were there to see a stage production of “Twelfth Night” with our faculty adviser, Professor Byrd, in a bus a friend had dubbed The Byrdcage.

When Toni and I spotted Shatner, it was like the full force of a thousand 14-year-old girls had been unleashed on an unsuspecting Canadian populace. There was screaming. There was squealing. There were high-pitched cries of “IT’S WILLIAM SHATNER!”

The only thing that stopped us from running out and tackling him was that we were enormous weenies.

Hey, stop judging me! You saw how Kirk took out that Gorn. The Shatner is not to be trifled with.

I never imagined 50 people would be following me on Twitter. Fifty isn’t a hell of a lot when you consider that Barack Obama has 2,530,372 followers, but it’s about 45 more than I expected. Every once in awhile, it drops to 48 when a few people realize they accidentally followed me instead of Kid Rock.

So, my apologies to William Shatner for stalking him. And to everyone on Twitter for not being Kid Rock. I’ll try harder.

Gravity rules

Wednesday, October 21st, 2009

You know what’s sad? A little boy falling out of a helium balloon and going splat against the Colorado landscape. You know what’s not sad? A helium balloon taking off by itself while a little boy hides in an attic.

Move along, people! There’s nothing to see here!

I’m a cold-hearted bastard, though. When Devon told me there was a boy trapped in a balloon and they didn’t know how to get him down, my response was, “Pop it.”

I was sure I had a maternal instinct laying around here somewhere.

Foul ball

Thursday, October 15th, 2009

My sister and I took Dad to the urologist today for a blood test to see how well his cancer meds are working, and I discovered the rich fantasy life my Dad has. He told his doctor all about the parties with girls, and how he drinks beer all day when he’s not eating cake.

The dude does eat a ton of cake, but I’m pretty sure the rest was bullshit.

Dad may need to get shots that will chemically castrate him. Our conversation, for your entertainment:

Dad: Am I getting a flu shot?
Me: No, Dad, a shot in the balls.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh, come on, it’s been ages since anyone’s touched your balls.

Yeah, I went there.

Crafts for size queens

Tuesday, October 13th, 2009



I don’t normally plug products, but this is So. Fucking. Awesome that I had to give it a shout-out.

I mean, I wouldn’t buy one, because I don’t live in a dorm, but this makes me wish I did so I could decorate my room with giant condom wrappers. But then, if I did live in a dorm, I probably wouldn’t have 50 bucks to spend on a pillow. For 50 bucks, this pillow would have to make me pizza and proofread my papers and rub my feet. And the pizza would have to have mushrooms.

I am disgusting and frighten off commuters

Wednesday, October 7th, 2009

I have a cold.

I know, this is not unprecedented in human history. It isn’t even a bad cold, at least not yet. But my throat is sore and my nose is runny.

A more together woman would have brought tissues on the train, or maybe a nice lace hanky with her monogram in the corner, but I am not one of those women. So I spent the ride sniffling intermittently, which seemed better than letting the snot run down my face and cling to my chin like baby food.

I guess the woman next to me had enough. She said, “Get a tissue! God!” and stormed off to the magical part of the subway car where everyone brings tissues and little plastic bags for proper disposal.

Dear Subway Lady:

I am sorry I was revolting. I did not think to bring a tissue. If it makes you feel any better, I also forgot my lunch bag. I did not mean to have an unplanned-for cold in your presence. A tissue would have been nice. Maybe you could have offered me one, if you had one. That would have been nice, too.

Life in New York City must be very hard for someone with your delicate sensibilities. You are too good for this world.

Love, Tissue-less Dirty Hooker