Monthly Archives: November 2012

And you’ve got your father’s eyes; lovely bold eyes

I was talking to Dad today. Dad gave blood today, see.

Dad believes very highly in giving blood. He does it on the exact day he’s allowed to every…whatever it is, three months or something? I don’t know. I’m not allowed to give blood. Because I have mad cow disease, remember? (If you read that – well, the formatting is terrible. I just don’t have time to go back in and fix it. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am sleepy and need to go to bed, like, immediately. Pardon my rudeness.)

So he was telling me this WHOLE DETAILED STORY. And you guys. YOU GUYS. Listen, it was so like reading one of my blog posts or listening to myself talk. And I was just seriously in tears of laughter.

“So I went to give blood, because it was TIME, and the first lady asked me a whole bunch of questions, and then they sent over this OTHER lady. And she was trying to be my FRIEND. I didn’t want to be friends. I just wanted to give BLOOD. Because that’s what a person DOES. Unless they have MAD COW DISEASE. Because they lived in ENGLAND for like half a YEAR and a person couldn’t even TALK to them because of the TIME difference. So the lady first asked me a bunch of questions and she kept laughing but the answers weren’t even FUNNY. And then she told me to lie down on the table and then she told me my veins looked better when I was on the table. Do you think she was flirting with me? Because she was old and kind of strange-looking. Then she asked if I was allergic to iodine. WHO IS ALLERGIC TO IODINE? Only maybe people in the CIRCUS. So then she said ‘you have to let me rub this on your arm for thirty full seconds.’ That seems excessive. I’ve been giving blood since I was old enough to. I KNOW ABOUT IODINE. Also, did you know when you get old, your blood doesn’t flow as quickly as it used to? I don’t even win awards for the fastest blood anymore. I think my blood is the kind of blood a person has right before they’re about to die. So then she said, ‘are you ready for a little poke?’ NO ONE SHOULD SAY THAT. Don’t TELL someone they’re going to get a poke. DON’T DO THAT. Then she said, ‘ok, you have VERY THICK SKIN!’ and POKED ME SO SO HARD. My feet FLEW OFF THE TABLE. And she said, ‘did I hurt you ha ha?’ and I think that needle was very dull because I have EXCELLENT skin. Then when it was done she said she was sorry she hurt me and I said, ‘I am very tough. You didn’t hurt me. You SURPRISED me, that’s all. Where’s my coupon for free ice cream.” AND THEY DIDN’T HAVE ANY MORE COUPONS. They gave me a coupon for a free oil change at that place where they screwed over your mother that time and we don’t go there because they’re dead to us so I will burn it in the stove. There’s a story for you, now I’m going to go have some cheese. Your mother bought me CHEESE today. CHEESE, Amy!”

This made me think about genetics. And also learned behavior. Nature vs. nurture, if you will. (And also how nice it would be if someone bought me some cheese.)

*Homer Simpson drool*

The things we get from our parents – well, we get lots of things. I have my dad’s eyes and my mom’s face and my mom’s widow’s peak and my dad’s cleft chin and my dad’s feet and my mom’s smile and am built from the waist up like my mom’s side of the family and from the waist down like my dad’s side of the family. So I’m kind of like a Build-a-Bear. A weirdly-shaped Build-a-Bear. (Don’t even ask me where my unruly hair came from. I have no idea who to blame for this nonsense.)

Oh, I want to be this Build a Bear, LOOK HOW FANCY.

But then we start acquiring other traits once we get old enough to learn things. And that’s where it starts getting really interesting. Because we can’t do much about the genetic stuff. I mean, well, I suppose we COULD, if we wanted to spend money on plastic surgery (or, on a smaller scale, hair dye, or something.) But we CAN do something about the learned traits. Or we can do nothing and allow them to become part of us, if we want.

Oh, I like this. Andreas, what do we think of this?

I somehow got very little from my mom (which, as I’ve mentioned, is ironic, as she was my primary caregiver growing up.) I got my work ethic from her, I think (although Dad has a pretty kickass work ethic, too. They’re both pretty worky.) She’s more accepting of the “other” (“other” what, Amy? Other anything. Beliefs, races, etc. Dad’s…more…slow to…um. Be accepting. He does not like things that are different. DIFFERENCE IS SCARY!) I’m kind of trying to think of what else is Mom-influenced and I’m at a loss. Mom and I kind of run in different circles.

Now, I’m not talking about what we LEARN from our parents. Like crocheting or cooking how to change a wiper blade or something. Not things that we’re taught on purpose. I’m talking about things we see and imitate, either consciously or subconsciously.

I might not have gotten much from Mom. Dad, however? Dad and I are sympatico.

We might not agree* (*completely disagree to the point of screaming at one another) on things like politics and women’s issues, but you know how some people are all “ZOMG I AM TURNING INTO MY MOTHER?” Yeah. I’m turning into my Dad. (NO NOT IN A WEIRD WAY. I’m not growing chest hair or something. Wait, am I? No. No, I’m not.)

I like the slippers. Dad TOTALLY has slippers. He says he wants to be buried with them.

Dad is insanely loyal. Dad has a very small group of very close friends for whom he would do just about anything (and has, and would continue to.) Dad’s people’s enemies are his enemies – heaven help you if you cross one of Dad’s friends, because you bought yourself TWO enemies, bub. Dad is sarcastic just about always, except when he’s being sappy. Dad wants a lot of attention but also he wants you to leave him alone. Dad tells these long, convoluted stories (see above.) Dad doesn’t believe in telling people things – not unless they’re for sure. NO COUNTING CHICKENS FOR DAD. (And honestly just about ever. He’s horrified I tell strangers things online. UTTERLY HORRIFIED. Every once and a while I’ll find out something about him and I’ll be all, “WTH? Dad? Why were we not telling me this for like, my whole life?” He’ll shrug and say “Didn’t think you needed to know.”) Dad has very little time for pompous blowhards. (And often makes faces at them behind their backs. Not that I’d ever do that.) (I always do that.) Dad refuses to give people compliments when they’re making that face. You know that face, right? That, “I just got a haircut DON’T I LOOK PRETTY TELL ME TELL ME!” face. Dad will give compliments – but only when they’re genuine and unsolicited. (I refuse to give false compliments. If you hear/see me complimenting something, or you? It’s genuine. Because false compliments are like ashes in my mouth. I hate them so much. They make my soul feel dirty.) Dad is a performer – not onstage, so much, but at parties and in social gatherings and such. He’s the one everyone wants to talk to and he’s the one that’s the life of the party. Thing is? He hates parties and social gatherings and it’s all a front. He comes home exhausted because he’s been acting all night. Dad doesn’t talk to kids like they’re adults with brain injuries – he talks to them like they’re little people. (Watching him and The Nephew is such a joyous thing, I can’t even describe.) If someone he loved once betrays his trust (and it’s an utter and complete trust, the trust we give to our people), they are dead to him. DEAD. (I’ve seen this happen. It’s uncomfortable and it’s not pretty. The other day, one of my friends said, “Oh, Amy’s the best friend ever – but don’t cross her. She’ll kill you with her eyes if she hates you.” I WILL, TOO. Don’t even tempt me. I use mind-bullets. So, yeah, the dead-to-me thing? I do that. I do that, too. And people know. And it PETRIFIES them, apparently. I should probably feel worse about this, and I don’t know that the person saying it meant it as a compliment, but mostly my first thought was, “well, that person shouldn’t have pissed me off. Also, I AM the best friend ever. I’d want me for a friend.”)

You know how you don’t mess with a mama bear? I won’t flat-out TELL you I get all teeth and claws if you think you can mess with my people…but you can draw your own conclusions.

These may not all be NORMAL things, but they’re all things I grew up observing – and I picked them all up. They’re all mine now.

This tickles him to no end. “Oh, I do that!” he’ll say when I act a certain way or do a certain thing. It just utterly delights him. He can’t for the life of him figure out how he’s partially responsible, DNA-wise, for a bleeding-heart liberal feminist who wants to live in a big city and loves theater (he blames the government, of course), but he loves that despite these “flaws,” something of his stuck.

“Of course you don’t give people compliments if they want them that badly,” he’ll say. “That’s just begging. You don’t give to beggars. That just encourages them.”

Or:

“Of course people are dead to you. Listen, if you are friends with someone and they’re your friend, that’s like an unwritten contract. And you don’t break that contract. That’s not something we do. But if that friend does? Well. They’re dead. DEAD. Sometimes they apologize, and I guess you can decide whether or not you want to forgive them. But some things are unforgivable. So they should just not bother, because who talks to dead people? Only people who see ghosts like that douche on that ghost hunter show you’re always trying to get me to watch.”

So when people debate nature vs. nurture and such, here’s my thought.

You pick up things from the people that raise you. Then you can decide what you keep and what you don’t. Maybe it’s that you keep more things from the people you admire? If that’s the case, well, yeah, that works. I admire my dad. I admire him a lot. Most little girls want to be their moms when they grow up; I always wanted to be my dad. (Only with boobs. I wanted to be a lady-version of my dad. Like when Bugs Bunny wore the lady-clothes, I guess.)

I jettisoned (almost immediately) the religion and the political ideology and the small-town-ideals. They didn’t fit in my backpack. And you have to carry that backpack with you through your whole life. You really have to make sure you have enough room for everything.

But I kept a lot more than I threw away in that backpack.

And when I look in the mirror, I might see my mom’s face (mostly) looking back at me, but I see my dad’s twinkle in my eye. And my brain works like his. And I love my friends to the point I’d jump in front of herds of stampeding water buffalo for them, and I tell The Nephew long words like “antiquated” and he laughs and laughs and repeats it which makes my heart sing and if anyone messes with my people I go all Sharks and Jets in my head (and sometimes more – I’m all give peace a chance unless you dare hurt my loved ones, and that is a fact, so probably don’t try it) and I play my personal shit very, very close to the vest. (Yes, I write about stuff on here. The things I DON’T tell you, though. Whoo, boy.)

I’m a lady of a billion weird contradictions. Wouldn’t have it any other way.

So I guess, if you like the blog, even though he’d never admit it and probably wants nothing to do with it?

You’ve got to thank Amy’s Dad.

He’s the original storyteller.

Even though he’s apparently on the way out. Because he’s got slow old-man blood.

(Title from The Story’s lovely “So Much Mine,” which sometimes I listen to and it always makes me melancholy. When I was younger it made me think of myself. Now I’m old and it makes me think of The Nephew. And it’s the CIRCLE of LIFEEEEEEE!)

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I’m not broken. It’s SCIENCE.

I read this article the other day, and it was like a light totally went on in my head.

I AM NOT BROKEN. IT IS SCIENCE.

OK, so I don’t date. I have, in the past. Sure I have. Sometimes that went better than other times. Sometimes it wasn’t painful and sometimes it was like Elaine’s favorite mode of evaluating badness and could be measured in Hindenburgs.

Never, however, did it go well. Or was it a repeated event. I’m…um…kind of the worst at dating. That’s really all I have to say about that. You’d think I’d have all these uproarious stories but mostly they range from sad to things that made numerous therapists say “um. That’s not…I don’t know what to say about that” so I don’t go into details. I promise you that you don’t want me to.

HOWEVER! I am very good at falling in love with people. If awards were given out for this? I would win them ALL. Having it be requited, well, no, those awards would not be gracing my trophy case. (SIDE NOTE: no. No, of course I don’t have a trophy case, what would I put in it, my spelling bee awards from junior high? I don’t even know where those ARE. FINE THEY’RE AT MY PARENTS’ HOUSE ARE YOU HAPPY?)  Sometimes it’s a quick thing and sometimes it takes forever but all of a sudden BAM I fall crazy in love with someone and then I’m a stupid giddy schoolgirl and eventually I end up getting my heart broken or I have to tough-love myself and say, “AMY. You stop this RIGHT NOW. This person IS NOT INTERESTED.”

OK, so anyway. I don’t date after the failed internet-dating experiment of 2005 (I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT) and I try REALLY REALLY HARD not to fall in love with people who aren’t interested (and honestly, if I fall in love with them, they’re not going to be in love with me, because I can pick ‘em. Ooh, can I pick ‘em. I have a RADAR for the people who aren’t going to fall in love with me. They’re the ones I want, apparently. You know that song about “I love a parade?” That’s me, only with a CHALLENGE. I love a challege!) I try hard. It doesn’t always work but I try really hard.

But then I found this article and I realized WHY I am broken and choose these people, even though they’re honestly kind of jerks most of the time. And I’m really quite intelligent otherwise.

IT IS NOT THAT I’M BROKEN IT IS SCIENCE.

Here’s the thing that all of these men have in common: they ALL do this same thing. So apparently I have a type.

They act TOTALLY INTO ME and then they act ALL COLD AND WEIRD and then they act TOTALLY INTO ME AGAIN and this goes back and forth and back and forth and I have no idea what to make of it and it’s like a person watching a tennis match until they get all dizzy and fall over. And then get hit by a bus.

You’d THINK that would make someone say, “Hey, this person I’ve hitched my wagon to, they’re an asshole, time to move on,” but NOPE. Not me! I sit around waiting for the crumbs of acknowledgement.

So I THOUGHT it was because I was broken and also quite stupid, until I read that article I linked to above. NOT BROKEN. SCIENCE!!!

It’s apparently the “allure of unpredictable romantic partners.” That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Like a romantic comedy. Possibly starring Ewan McGregor. I’d watch that. Probably while crying.

So the sciency types did this test where they gave subjects fruit juice and water and scanned their brains while doing it. The subjects’ brains lit up like a Christmas tree with dopamine when the fruit juice/water rewards came at unexpected intervals, while the brains just kind of yawned and played another hand of solitaire when the rewards came at predictable 10-second intervals.

Apparently, our brains, going back to CAVEMAN TIMES, are programmed to signal us to pay attention when something unexpected happens. They signal us by releasing dopamine. Dopamine, in case you’re not obsessed with weird-ass shit like I am, is your pleasure chemical. Among many other things, it signals a feeling of bliss. It’s one of the chemicals your body’s stewing in when you’re all stupid-giddy in love.

So being with a partner who’s unpredictable about his/her affection is like being inconsistently given fruit juice – it fires off your dopamine like a shootout at the OK Corral. The smart, thinky part of your brain might be all “THIS IS THE WORST SUCK!” but your animal brain is all “Ahhhhh that’s the stuff! SIGNAL! SIGNAL!” and is filling your brain with DRUGS. Drugs that make you feel PLEASURE.

Your brain is a dark alley on the bad side of town filled with drug pushers. Didn’t your mom teach you to stay away from those places? Tsk.

So our smart brains say “this person is bad news!” and our drugged-up brain lolling around in an opium den is all “NO NO GIMME MORE” so you’re torn and according to science you keep going back to the person, but you don’t even KNOW you’re doing this shit, because it’s happening WAY DEEP DOWN IN YOUR PSYCHE.

This is super-distressing, science.

I totally knew I was doing this, I just didn’t know there was a reason. Other than the brokenness, of course.

This reminds me of the study with the rats and the uncertain results. Our beloved Andreas attempted mightily to find me a link to this and could not, but here, I’ll let him tell you about it, he’s better than a link anyway:

(Ignore where it looks like I’ve repeated the same thing three times, that’s just because he’s responding to my tweet three times. I promise I don’t say the same thing over and over. Well, I *do*, just not that obnoxiously. MOST of the time, anyway.)

So I remember reading about this study, probably in one of my psych classes in grad school. There were these rats. And the rats were in a cage with a lever. The lever could distribute food whenever they pressed it, or the lever could be dicked with so it gave food out at unpredictable intervals.

As Andreas said, the rats that were in the cage where they knew the outcome, they’d stop on by the lever if they wanted a nosh.

The rats in the unpredictable cage would beat their little paws bloody against that lever, hoping against hope that this time, this press, this would be the one. The one that would bring the manna down from the heavens. Because it happened once. IT COULD HAPPEN AGAIN.

(I think this is probably the same mentality that leads people to gamble until they lose their homes.)

I’m the rat. I’m the beating-my-paw-bloody-against-the-lever rat.

BUT, according to SCIENCE, we ALL are. It’s not just me! It’s ALL of us! Because of the effing DOPAMINE!

Also, being a person with a screwed-up brain (no, seriously, that’s why they put people like me on antidepressants, because our seratonin and such are all out of whack) I can only assume my dopamine is probably all weird like the rest of my brain chemistry.

SCIENCE! Why are you screwing with me? It’s not bad enough you gave me bad skin, eyes, and frazzly hair? Now you have to make me fall in love with jerks, too? (Well, happy to say, most of that is in the past. Because as an adult, I just decided I’M NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE and refuse to fall in love at ALL. That’ll teach ‘em. I just removed myself from the game. WINNER!)

Well, here’s a newsflash, people who think they can just be assholes because science backs you up and therefore you can just treat people’s hearts casually: science might be drugging us up, but our smart brains eventually get fed up.

Like addicts who have had enough, we finally reach a breaking point where we’re tired of waking up on some stranger’s porch wearing poorly-chosen clothing choices with a taste in our mouth akin to used kitty litter and we say NO MORE and we start attending AA. Or we go cold turkey. Or we just say, hit the road, Jack, no more of your stupid games, I’ll find someone who actually gives a shit ALL the time, not just when they feel like it or need something or just for the fun of it all.

Also, you might be a little bit of a psychopath. Just think about that for a minute, ok? If you’re not interested in someone, TELL THEM THAT. Don’t leave them hanging. Just tell them you’re not interested and let them move on, jerko.

BUT, that being SAID, I am just so pleased science has an explanation for why I’m a rat with a bloody paw. Thanks, science. You really came through. Now let’s talk about this unruly hair thing, science. SURELY YOU HAVE A REASON FOR THIS. I am tired of looking like a rooster.


It’s a war! Defend yourselves, men, we’re coming for your SOULS!

Men!

Men, listen, I am so sorry. I’m here to give you a warning.

You’re going to want to probably arm yourselves. I’m thinking crossbows? Maybe trebuchets? Boiling vats of hot oil? Vicious taunting?

MEN.

There is a WAR on you. A whole war! Just on you and your dangly bits!

How do I know this? Well, Fox News told me. Listen, guys. They’re both fair and balanced. It’s right in their slogan. So you know they’re telling the truth. I mean, if someone’s fair and balanced, how could they be telling us a falsehood?

You know this guy’s fair and balanced, as he’s the one who thinks we’re all gonna marry TURTLES.

Dad’s been telling me this for a while now, but I’ve been ignoring him. I feel terrible. Sorry, Dad. I guess you were telling me the truth all along. I’ll send you a trebuchet. You get the first trebuchet, Dad. Shit, there is a WAR on, you can’t go into this UNARMED.

According to Suzanne Venker, who you know you have to trust because she is a lady who writes for Fox News (she has written such illustrious tomes as The Flipside of Feminism and How to Choose a Husband and 7 Myths of Working Mothers, so she’s here for US, ladies, and let’s not even discuss how ironic it is she has time to write all these things as a person with lady-bits who should be serving her man and children in all things!) there is no war on women. Women have taken over the world. We get more college degrees, we’ve taken over the workforce, in other words: WE RULE.

Well. I already knew we ruled. And honestly, I don’t doubt those statistics, but only because there are more women than men (at least in MERKA!) so it would figure there were more women in the workforce and more women getting college degrees. It only makes sense.

But Ms. Venker (I bet she’d be so mad I called her Ms., so you know I’m going to keep doing it; also, I keep wanting to call her Ms. Venkman, like from Ghostbusters? Because I’m a dork) says that all the women are complaining THERE ARE NO GOOD MEN LEFT TO MARRY. And she disagrees. There are PLENTY of good men. They just don’t want to marry us. Why?

Women aren’t women anymore.

WE ARE BROKEN!

Yep. Women aren’t WOMEN anymore. And by “women,” she of course means the 50s stereotype: aproned, hair done just so, waiting at home for her man to bring home the bacon with dinner on the table and a smile on her face and dead, dead eyes. Women who pop out kids like kittens and keep their mouths shut to opinions and vote like their husbands tell them to, if their husbands encourage them to at all, and read books about the Lord.

Once, Dad gave Mom a vaccuum for their anniversary. She didn’t talk to him for a WEEK. True story!

In a nutshell, women are angry. They’re also defensive, though often unknowingly. That’s because they’ve been raised to think of men as the enemy. Armed with this new attitude, women pushed men off their pedestal (women had their own pedestal, but feminists convinced them otherwise) and climbed up to take what they were taught to believe was rightfully theirs.

Please read this paragraph again. No, seriously. Read it again, and then just soak it in for a minute.

  • “Women are angry.” Blanket generalizations are fantastic, aren’t they? I’m a woman. Let me check my internal barometer. Nope. Not angry at the moment. Are women angry sometimes? Sure they are. They’re also sometimes happy, sad, calm, jubilant, depressed, and sleepy. And – top secret info, my little jujubes? SO ARE MEN. You know why that is? WE’RE ALL HUMANS AND HAVE EMOTIONS IN OUR HEADPLACES.
  • Shit, now I don’t know if I’m defensive or not. I might be defensive and not even know it. THIS IS TERRIBLE.
  • Raised to think men were the enemy. Well, here’s the thing. I wasn’t raised to think men were the enemy. One of my primary caregivers wasn’t a huge fan of men, but that’s just one person. The rest of my people were pretty equal-opportunity. I was actually raised around a lot of men. The Lucy’s Football family was pretty man-heavy. So I’ve always liked men. (NOT LIKE THAT. Well, yes, also like that. But not SOLELY like that.) I’m not going to say I GET them, that’s silly, but I grew up surrounded by supportive, loving, intelligent, loyal men. None of whom are the enemy. Most of whom I would actually, willingly, give up my life for. Not raised to think they’re the enemy. Raised to think they were equals – and that I was their equal. Despite my lack of a penis. There’s a difference.
  • That last sentence – well, here’s the thing. I don’t disagree with most of it. I don’t think men-hating led us to attempt to claim equal-rights status – I think that was just the notion – the INSANE notion – that as humans, we deserved the same rights as everyone else. And I think we did have a pedestal. The pedestal of WIFE and MOTHER. Brainless, pretty, and useless except for breeding purposes. Who the hell wants to stay on THAT fucking pedestal? That pedestal SUCKS. I’m so lucky I was born in an era where not only was I not expected to be on that pedestal, every time someone pointed me toward that pedestal, I kicked it. With steel-toed Docs. The feminists (the way that’s phrased, can’t you just hear her SPITTING that hated word? FEMINISTS UGH) didn’t convince us otherwise. THEY OPENED OUR EYES. They said, “you are a HUMAN BEING. You deserve THE SAME RIGHTS AS EVERYONE ELSE.”
  • I guess I am angry. Huh. Well, it must be because I have a vagina and I hate men.

Don’t worry. Ms. Venker’s not done. I hope among the time it took her to write this article she was able to service her man and put her kids to bed. That’s what women are for, after all. Also clipping coupons. And hanging out at the beauty salon under those huge blowdry helmets.

But what if the dearth of good men, and ongoing battle of the sexes, is – hold on to your seats – women’s fault?

You’ll never hear that in the media. All the articles and books (and television programs, for that matter) put women front and center, while men and children sit in the back seat. But after decades of browbeating the American male, men are tired. Tired of being told there’s something fundamentally wrong with them. Tired of being told that if women aren’t happy, it’s men’s fault.

Contrary to what feminists like Hanna Rosin, author of The End of Men, say, the so-called rise of women has not threatened men. It has pissed them off. It has also undermined their ability to become self-sufficient in the hopes of someday supporting a family. Men want to love women, not compete with them. They want to provide for and protect their families – it’s in their DNA. But modern women won’t let them.

Who is telling men that if women aren’t happy, it’s their fault? Who’s telling them that? If in a relationship, people aren’t happy (the man, the woman, whoever) BOTH of them have to work to fix it. It’s not just one person’s fault. Both people have to change if it’s going to work. Or maybe it’s not going to work, I don’t know your life. Sometimes one of the people is kind of an asshole. Sometimes the people aren’t compatible. Sometimes they grow apart. But is there someone going around the world saying “MAN’S FAULT!” and pointing the finger at the men all the time? Because that’s a shitty thing to do. Some of my nearest and dearest have been in relationships that haven’t worked out. And I know damn well it wasn’t their fault. And – here’s a shocker – THEY ARE MEN. ZOMG! I know! Totally distressing, as a woman, I should probably have shaken my finger in their face and been all “YOUR FAULT!”, right?

Now I want you to read that last paragraph. NO SERIOUSLY. Really read it. (Her last paragraph, not mine.)

This paragraph makes men out to be GIGANTIC ASSHOLES.

Gigantic assholes from the 50s wearing fedoras and smoking many cigarettes and carrying the newspaper and expecting their wives to rub their feet and provide them with brisket when they get home. OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES DAMMIT.

I have male friends. And honestly, don’t you even presume to speak for them, ma’am. Don’t you even. Because honestly, if my male friends were presented with the kind of woman you are purporting they want? I think they’d just feel bad for them. And I think they’d probably wonder what was wrong with them, and wonder what kind of childhood trauma they went through that made them feel so worthless that they had to be subservient and docile, and not want to spend any time with them because who wants to spend time willingly with a Stepford wife?

My male friends? Some of whom are single, some of whom are in relationships? RESPECT powerful women. They like us to have brains. They LIKE us to think about things, to speak our minds, to be intelligent, funny, self-sufficient. They are not afraid of us because we have power. They would not want us any other way.

Women in power are AMAZING and BEAUTIFUL and STRONG. Screw you if you think otherwise. It’s a failing in yourself, not in them.

This is the only type of man I associate myself with. This is the only type of man I want anything to fucking DO with. If you, Ms. Venker, have been spending time with whiny-ass men who are all “GONE ARE THE DAYS I COULD COME HOME TO A CLEAN HOUSE AND A STEAK AND A BJ,” well, you can send those assholes right back where they came from – in a wormhole to Ozzy and Harrietville.

SO HAPPY! Except for the missing part. You can’t see that. The missing part is her SOUL.

Also, IT IS NOT IN THEIR DNA. No more than it is in WOMEN’S DNA. THAT IS NOT HOW SCIENCE WORKS. You can’t just make up science. We ALL want to provide for and protect our families. Are you telling me, ma’am, that single moms don’t want to provide for and protect their families? Because they have, what, unicorns and kittens in their DNA?

Also, “modern women won’t LET them?” I FORBID YOU, MAN I LOVE, TO PROVIDE FOR OR PROTECT MY FAMILY! Yeah, that happens a lot, I think. Probably all the damn time.

Well, listen. I haven’t written EXTENSIVE BOOKS about how women are ruining men, or anything, and based on this article, I am the enemy, but here are my two cents. Not that you asked for them. And not that I’d spare you two cents; I mean, I’m sure your husband is the sole provider in your family, right, ma’am? You don’t get paid for writing these articles, right? Or those books? Or for going on the extensive speaking tours you advertise on your slick website?

You are out of your everloving mind. And – AND, worst of all – you’re poisoning the minds of people I care about.

My dad thinks this shit is true. My dad saw this on your damnable television channel and ACTUALLY TOLD ME that the war on women was to cover up the actual war on men that’s going on. (Also, he’s quite sure if I were more ladylike, I’d be married right now. “But then I wouldn’t be me!” I said. He thought about this for a minute. “That’s true. I like you the way you are. I guess stay the way you are. Could you pretend to be a lady to catch a man? That might work.” “NO DAD I AM NOT USING CHICANERY TO HOOK ME A FELLA,” I replied.)

It’s not a war. It’s EVOLUTION. It’s PROGRESS. Other countries have been doing this – and doing it RIGHT, and without a COMPLAINT – for YEARS. Why in Merka is it something we have to write articles about, bemoaning the lack of 50s sensibilities? Listen, both of my grandmothers REVEL in the freedoms women today have that women in their day didn’t.

This article is 50% you trolling us (I’m sure Fox encouraged you to write it, and to include such inflammatory language) and 50% shit you believe. And Ms. Venker, that makes me sad. Because you are raising children. Who are looking to you to be an example. You are poisoning young minds. This utterly terrifies me.

Women: don’t let anyone tell you there’s no war on us. Men – the small-minded ones – are terrified of our power. Because we are powerful. And there are a LOT of us. And if we banded together, oh, the change for the better we could make.

Thanks to the amazing sj – a woman of power if there ever was one – for this image!

And men? Well, shit. I’m so sorry war’s been declared on the Kingdom of Your Genitalia. Expect your trebuchets in the mail in 3-5 business days. Well, except for those of you in Europe. Shipping costs to your lands are a little prohibitive so I gotta send those via the slow boat. Protect yourselves with vegetable peelers for the time being.

BE SAFE OUT THERE, MENFOLKS.

We’re comin’ for you.


Kind-of-Sort-of-Ask-Lucy a.k.a. I CAN ANSWER THAT! (Volume 10)

You totally knew this was coming, didn’t you? I can’t fool you. You guys are SMART. I like that about you. Keep that up. You’ll conquer the world someday with brainplaces like that.

IT IS AMY-ANSWERS-YOUR-QUESTIONS-DAY!!! And there was much rejoicing. RAH RAH.

So, in case you don’t remember, here’s a quick rundown of what’s going on here. No, I didn’t call you run-down. I WOULD NEVER INSULT YOU BECAUSE I LOVE YOU. Well, mostly I love you. Like in a platonic way, of course. Aw, sorry to break your hearts, my darlings. Because the search terms posts tend to be insanely long, I break them up into two posts: an open letter to people who find my blog accidentally (that’s yesterday’s post, in case you have goldfish-memory) and a post with just the QUESTIONS that drive people to my blog. And I answer those questions to the best of my ability, and I give advice, some of which is more serious than the rest. And don’t we have the best time? Sure. Sure we do. I mean, we could be out digging DITCHES. Think of how much worse things could be!

WE COULD WORK IN A COAL MINE. Come on. That would be worse!

So, yet again! 

Welcome to…  

Kind-of-sort-of Ask Lucy.  

Subtitled: I CAN ANSWER THAT!  

These are all ACTUAL SEARCH TERMS that brought people to my blog. So these people totally need my help, obviously, because they came to Google SEARCHING FOR HELP. And they obviously didn’t find it, because they ended up here. And how can I turn down an opportunity to be the most helpful? I just can’t. It’s in my BLOOD, baby. Like DNA or STDs. (SIDE NOTE: no no no I don’t have STDs. But, yes, I’m fairly sure I have DNA.)

“guy is the suck” meaning? Aw! I like that I have the opportunity to share the lingo with the adults. If you say someone or something is “the suck,” really you’re just saying they suck. It’s not secret code. Here, I’ll give you some examples: You can translate “The fact that I’ve been sitting here for an hour and I have to pee SO BAD is the total suck” to “The fact that I’ve been sitting here for an hour and I have to pee SO BAD sucks.” Same deal, yo. See? You can talk like the tweens and still be a grownup. It’s easy. It only makes you look like a LITTLE bit of a douchebag. You’re welcome, next month I’ll teach you about “achievement unlocked.”

am i a douche for missing my nephew’s baptism? I missed my nephew’s baptism. Are you calling me a douche? I couldn’t make it. I had to work. Most things I’ve missed, it’s because I’ve had either theater or work. Here’s the thing. No. No, missing his baptism doesn’t make you a douche. Well, unless you’re a godparent; then that kind of shows a lack of commitment because the godparents (if I’m remembering correctly) have to stand up there with the parents. See, your nephew won’t remember if you were at his baptism or not. He’s just a wee one. You’re really going for his parents and your family. Instead, make it home for his birthdays. Or just to visit. And once you see him enough, and he gets to know you? That kiddo’s eyes are going to light up when he sees you. And that, that right there? Negates any douche-ness. I promise. Trust me on this one. You’re welcome, give that kiddo a hug for me, will you?

does zak bagans have an std? Yes. Probably all of them. And some they haven’t discovered yet, that when they do, they’ll name after him. You’re welcome, DO NOT TOUCH THAT. You don’t know where it’s been.

how much is sheep? Um. I don’t…um. I promised to try to answer your questions. OK, sheep…is…$500. Does that sound right? If a person were to buy sheep? Sure. Sure it does. Sheep is $500. You can send your money to the place where there is sheep. You’re welcome, please name your sheep Woolly McBaapants.

I would assume this sheep is extra, because of the BANDANNA. And also the cuteness.

is there no internet to new york? TO New York? Why, are you attempting to contact us? I promise we’re reachable. We’re not the middle of nowhere. We have very nice internet here. HERE IS A STORY. I attempted to Skype the first time this week? I was really very terrible at it. Also, it froze up. A LOT. I kept getting this stupid “you have lost connectivity to your party” message and then the picture would freeze up and then I’d get it back for fourteen seconds and then gone again and it was all very sadface making. So I’m thinking based on this one might assume there’s no internet to New York. But I ASSURE YOU THERE IS. I think just maybe Skype was being a dick that day. So, yes. Yes, there’s internet to New York. You’re welcome, feel free to move here, we also have skyscrapers and pie.

New York: We Have Internet. Also, Pie.

missouri compromise is important to the nation why? I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I had to research the Missouri Compromise and I am still a little confused. It looks like Missouri wanted to be in the union but it was a slaveholding state, and the government didn’t want the slaveholding states to outnumber the free states in the union, so they compromised and said that for every slaveholding state, they’d allow a free state in, to keep the balance. As for why it was important…I guess because it was one of the precursors to the Civil War which led to emancipation? As much as I adore history, I don’t know anywhere near enough of it for my taste. I’d be happy for someone to give me more info on this if they have it. You’re welcome, probably don’t come to the internet for homework answers, though.

Here, I found you a map. Does this help at all? I hope you pass history. Then come and teach me about it.

what do green eyes mean? Well, people always say that jealousy is the green-eyed monster, but as a green-eyed person, I think that’s mean. (Although I’m totally jealous. I work really hard not to be, though. It’s a struggle.) And I don’t have GREEN eyes, I have HAZEL eyes. But they turn green when I cry, just like my dad’s. Or when I wear a particularly green shirt. That’s off-topic. Anyway, they really mean nothing more than genetics gave you green eyes. (Or if you’re cheating, you have green contacts in.) Also, green eyes are GORGEOUS. As are blue eyes. And brown eyes. I have an eye-thing. Pretty eyes are my downfall, I’m afraid. There’s many a terrible mistake I’ve made in my life brought about by a man with particularly fetching eyes, and that is a true fact. You’re welcome, be cautious with your heart and don’t just fall for the prettiest pair of eyes you see. Trust me on this one.

what do we honor on halloween? “Honor?” Well, I don’t know that we honor anything. It’s the day before All Saints’ Day, and two days before All Souls’ Day. If you want to get all Christian about it, I suppose. Mostly what we honor is kids dressing up like horror monsters and getting all hepped up on sugar. And when we get older, we celebrate ladies dressing up all slutty and making bad decisions with themselves. So…nah. We don’t honor anything. Except candy. You’re welcome, eat some peanut butter cups for me or something.

what does herpes look like when it first starts? ERGH. I’m so not even looking for a picture for you. This makes me sad and also disturbed. So I’m assuming you think you have the herpes, huh? Well. That’s distressing. Sorry. I hope you didn’t hit Web M.D. for that. It’ll just tell you that you have cancer. Probably of the cooch. Or brain. Whenever I do a Web M.D. search it tells me I have the brain cancer. Anyway, I did research this (NO PICTURES! You can do that on your own time) and found out it’s itching, tingling, redness, and blistering. So, you either have herpes or a sunburn. You’re welcome, stop sleeping with sketchy partners you meet on Craigslist.

what is lucys football result? I don’t know what this means. The result of Lucy pulling away the football? Charlie Brown falls on his ass. The PSYCHOLOGICAL result is a lot more damaging, of course. But isn’t it always? Sure it is. That thing being constantly dangled in front of you, and you JUST CAN’T HAVE IT? Not even once? Or are you asking something about the blog?  What’s my result? Thumbs-up, I’d imagine. You’re welcome, be more specific.

when to not forget the comma? When it makes the sentence confusing without it. Or, ever, really, because if you can use the commas correctly you look like a winner. Don’t you want to look like a winner? Sure you do. A WINNER of GRAMMAR. You’re welcome, I’m happy I could help you with your quest to be AWESOME.

This is a place where you shouldn’t forget the comma.

when will the targaryens meet each other? Listen, I’ve only read the first four books. So when I read this I was all, “what does this mean?” so I emailed my guru of all things awesome, sj. But I asked her not to tell me what it meant if it was spoilery. And her response was “Yeah, it’s spoilery. Don’t want to talk about it. Like, spoilery as fuck. I’m sorry you had to see that.” LISTEN SEARCH TERM PERSON. Why are you spoiling me on one of my favorite series I have not had time to finish? That makes you an ASSHOLE. Luckily, I have no idea what you’re talking about, not even a guess, so I’m still safe. So, I can’t answer that for you. Because you are a jerk. Don’t you even put spoilers on my blog. DON’T YOU EVEN. You’re NOT welcome. NOT AT ALL.

Also, if you spoil any Jaime plot for me, I will COME TO YOUR HOUSE and I will CUT YOU WITH A SPORK.

when you know what you know is what i know not, then please know how to make me know without making me know how i am inept in knowledge. I know this isn’t a question, but it’s questionING, so I’m putting it here. I’m sorry you think you’re inept in knowledge. I’m sure you’re not. I bet you’re lovely. This is a very confusing sentence. Can you imagine having to diagram it? I have no answers for this. I just thought it was kind of awesome. You’re welcome, I’m gonna make you a big big stahhhh.

where are cake dammit? SHIT I WISH I KNEW. If I knew where cake are dammit, I would EAT that cake. WITH MY FACEHOLE. DAMMIT WHERE ARE CAKE? Now I WANT cake. Oh, wait, I know where are cake. CAKE ARE AT GROCERY STORE. Let’s go get cake! And EAT cake! With FACEHOLES! You’re welcome, you can have my frosting.

Here are cake! Dammit!

why did she say that to me crying at the computer? Did she say something to you, or did she say “crying at the computer” to you? This is written confusingly. I don’t know WHAT she said to you, but I’m going to assume it made you cry at your computer? Don’t let it get you down, Sadpants McGillicutty. There are a lot of fish in the sea. With their fishiness and their pretty fishy eyes. One of those fish will be YOUR fish. Promise. Don’t be sad. You’re welcome, I feel kind of bad about this.

why people don’t talk about chupacabras anymore? Hee! Well, I can tell you how Dad would answer this one. THE GOVERNMENT THE GOVERNMENT! I still talk about chupacabras. Am I not supposed to be doing this? Is it not the it thing to do anymore or something? Man. I hate to be uncool. You’re welcome, glad I can be your source for all things Mexican-goat-sucker related.

And we’ve wrapped up another month of questions! Wasn’t that something? Sure it was! Something SPECIAL. We shared something there, you and I. EW NOT THAT DING DONG JOE PUT THAT AWAY.

Until next month – may your questions be answered and your searches bring you somewhere helpful, like here, or elsewhere. But I can’t guarantee your results elsewhere, my little gumdrops. You might get ANSWERS, sure. But will they be HELPFUL? Will they be AWESOME and HELPFUL? OK, fine, they MIGHT. But I’ll be sad you’re gone. Don’t make me sad. Don’t you even.


An Open Letter to People Who Find my Blog Accidentally (Volume 17)

Dear People Who Find My Blog Accidentally:

November! What a month it has been. SO MANY THINGS HAVE HAPPENED. Just SO many things. November has been very very good to me, jellybeans. I know most people are not fans of November because it’s all cold and dreary and almost winter and shit but as of right now, November, you’ve got my vote for month of awesomeness. I kind of love you.

Oh, this makes me laugh. THOSE EYES ARE HAUNTING ME!

This month’s searches ran the gamut. Lots of funniness. And LOTS of perviness. Like, so much I had to delete a lot of it. Because it was JUST TOO ICKY. Can you even imagine? Something TOO OFF-LIMITS? I know. It was that gross. STOP THAT DING DONG JOE. You, too,  Pervy Pete. I know it was you guys. Cut that right out. There’s a TIME and a PLACE. (No, wait, I take that back, there’s never a time or a place. Stop expecting there to be a time or a place. It isn’t going to happen.)

In case you’re new, let me catch you up on this recurring post.  I’m obsessed with my stats; I like to check what search terms drive people to my blog; then I feel REALLY BAD this isn’t what they were looking for. So I write them a letter of apology (this is the seventeenth one. As you can tell from the title. Seventeenth one! WHOA. Stop and soak that in for a minute. THAT IS A LONG TIME! Can you even imagine how long that’s been? It kind of boggles the mind. Search for the others; they’re stellar.) Why do I do this? Oh, I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything? I mean, I could lie and say it’s to make the world a better place, but mostly it’s to entertain the shit out of myself. As are most things I do, really.

So I’m going to break you down into categories and address you in groups. Oh, stop complaining, I can hear you from here. If I didn’t do that, this post would be even LONGER. No one wants that, now do they? Well, some people might, I suppose, but they’re certainly in the vocal minority.

Category the First: So Mad!

asshole hit and ran my car and no one see it
i dont like anyonetouching my neck. it makes me cranky

I’m sorry someone hit-and-ran you. That sucks. I was totally pissed when it happened to me, too. Your insurance might be able to help. Not sure, but maybe.

I don’t like anyone touching me at ALL and it makes me cranky, but your neck is very specific. Necks (when touched by the RIGHT person) are a very NICE place to be touched, actually. Are strangers touching your neck? That’d make me crankypantsed, too. But someone GOOD touching your neck will give you nice shivers. Promise.

Category the Second: NO NO NO

ventriloquist under control of cute giggling dummy doll boy

No dummies are cute. NONE. There’s no such THING. Argh. You have given me the shivers. This time, the BAD shivers.

Category the Third: Aw!

all of the rainbows
book page with christopher robins quote if there’s ever a tomorrow when we are not together          

All of the rainbows! Every last one!

The entire quote is “If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together…there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart…I’ll always be with you.” Which makes me weepy. And think of some people. Shut up, I know it’s sappy, I don’t even care. Thank you, lost searcher, I kind of needed this today.

Category the Fourth: A thing for The Nephew!

diesel 10        (5)

Sorry. This thing is clearly infested by a demon.

Five people came here looking for Diesel 10, which is The Nephew’s scariest train. In news of interestingness, I actually talked to Mom about The Nephew and Diesel 10 today, and she said he is no longer afraid of Diesel 10. She and The Nephew had a talk about how Diesel 10 was just a bully, and even though we don’t LIKE bullies, we don’t need to be SCARED of them. The Nephew seemed to agree with this so now he’s grudgingly ok with that scary old Diesel 10. HOWEVER, he is scared of a “monster” in one of the Thomas books. “There’s a monster in a Thomas book?” I asked Mom. “What kind of books are you reading my little guy?” She laughed. “No, the trains all think it’s a monster, but it ends up being a hedgehog. But The Grandson is so scared of that book we can’t read it anymore.”

Aw! The Nephew! Hedgehogs aren’t scary. They are AWESOME!

WEE BEBEH HEDGER! Aw, come on. NOT SCARY!

Category the Fifth: Hee!

“johnny has two batshit daddies”
audrey hepburn annoying
blergh constellation
boo you ghost
cake that looks like people
chinchilla happy birthday andrea
classy velociraptors
crazy perverted things listed on craigslist
deborah ann woll tattoos
did i piss you off off off
don’t touch me i’m crabby
eighties feather roach clips
fat murderer
fuck this i’ll be a stripper
funny semicolon jokes
grouse poop
obama wearing floaties
odins hounds tattoos
scary comma
the tv men are certainly more important than the newspapermen which is undoubtedly true but they are certainly more noisy  
this friendship will end to sex ultimately

There were a LOT of funny searches this month. A LOT. You all cracked my shit UP, yo.

TWO batshit daddies! Poor kid. That’s a double-whammy.

I don’t think Audrey Hepburn is annoying, I just hate that terrible Breakfast at Tiffany’s movie. Audrey was actually quite charming.

OMG. the Blergh Constellation. You know how people have a constellation that is like their guiding star? Mine is most definitely the Blergh Constellation. I LOVE THIS.

Boo, you ghost. BOO YOU BASTARD.

Soylent cake is people! IT’S PEOPLE!!!!

GAH WTF NO

Chinchilla happy birthday Andrea made me laugh. Were you expecting to find a picture of a chinchilla holding a “Happy Birthday Andrea” sign? That’s pretty specific. And, I’d think, unlikely.

Here are some birthday chinchillas, Andrea. It is the best I can do.

Would a classy velociraptor wear like spats or something? A monocle?

I’m fairly sure 99% of things on Craigslist are crazy and/or perverted. Searching for this seems kind of like a waste of your time.

Are you looking for tattoos ON Deborah Ann Woll or tattoos OF Deborah Ann Woll? The first is sad, the second is WORRISOME.

You did not piss me off off. Don’t worry worry.

I need a “don’t touch me, I’m crabby” t-shirt. And maybe a tattoo. And possibly it emblazoned on a business card.

Oh, I so had 80s feather roach clips. Only, they weren’t for roaches. We wore them in our HAIR. Like PRETTY LADIES. Mine were TURQUOISE feathers. With white leather bits. SO PRETTY BAM!

I bought ‘em at the county fair so you KNOW they’re classy.

Aw, listen, don’t stigmatize the murderer. Maybe if you didn’t keep calling him fat, he wouldn’t be so stabby. Did you ever think of THAT? DID YOU? Well now you have.

“Fuck this, I’ll be a stripper.” I like that someone typed this into Google. DON’T GIVE UP HOPE, JELLYBEAN!

Hee! Both funny semicolon jokes AND scary commas!

I couldn’t find any scary commas but I found this necklace so someone buy it for me ok thanks bye.

Grouse poop! Let’s see if I can find a photo of grouse poop.

Look, now we can TRACK GROUSE.

Obama wearing floaties? I don’t…why? OK, I’ll look for you. I’m helpful.

I couldn’t find one. I assume that’s because Obama’s a grown-ass man and doesn’t need floaties? But here’s a cat with a lifejacket that made me laugh like a loon, so that’s ok.

Odin’s hounds tattoos? Hmm.

Here is Odin. With his ravens and his hounds. I’m a little jealous of Odin, he has excellent pets. His hounds are named either Geri and Freki or Gere and Freke (Andreas would know, I bet) and those names mean “the greedy” and “the voracious” which makes me smile.

I don’t know what this newspapermen/tv men sentence is, but it seems a well-thought-out argument. NICE JOB YOU.

WHOSE friendship will “end” to sex ultimately? Ours? I don’t even know who you are. I don’t do the unskinny bop with strangers. ANYMORE. Don’t be getting any ideas, babydoll.

Category the Sixth: Pervy people are pervy.

“porno pros” awesome charlie
……………………………………………………………………… bobbitt porn movies
balloon sluts
busty woman pulling down underwear in front of door
how enjaculation happen of ladies with digram
learning the body game board
merka hot animal porn
mrs griswold nude
roxxxy sex doll         13

I like that “porno pros” is in quotes. That IS awesome, Charlie.

ALL THE DOTS! Then, as if an addendum: bobbitt porn movies. This made me giggle.

I would think whatever a balloon slut is, it’s squeaky and likely to pop. If it’s anything else, I do not want to know. I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW, I SAID.

If you’re going to search for something pervy, I guess be as specific as you need to be. Not just a woman takin’ off her dainties; oh, no, that’s not enough for you. She’s gotta be BUSTY. Also, there needs, for some reason, to be a door involved.

“Enjaculation!” “Digram!” I’m not going to answer this. Learn to spell first and get back to me.

A game board about how to learn the body? Is it like Twister? Or Operation? This can’t end well.

ZOMG YOU GUYS SEXOPOLY. This is a THING. This makes me laugh. I don’t think playing a game can make sex sexier, right? Someone play this and get back to me on that.

OMG MERKA hot animal porn. I don’t want any of that YERP hot animal porn. They don’t know how I like it.

If you don’t know Beverly D’Angelo’s real name you don’t get to see her nude. Them’s the rules, darlin’. I don’t make ‘em, I just report ‘em.

Beverly D’Angelo is DISGUSTED by your insinuations. JUST DISGUSTED.

Why are 13 people all of a sudden searching for the Roxxy sex doll when I posted about that back in April? Was there a Black Friday sexxxy sale or something?

Category the Seventh: YUM

benedict cumberbatch french accent
young handsome veterinarian
richie tenenbaum short hair

My Cumberbatch is sexy enough with his British accent. I can’t even imagine how sexy with a FRENCH accent. OOH LA LA OUI JE NE REGRETTE RIEN.

Is it time for Season Three yet, my love?

True story: the last time I went to the vet, my vet was IRISH. And SO HANDSOME. He called me “luv” throughout the examination, and I kind of wanted him to examine me as well as Dumbcat. But not in a vet-way. In a NAUGHTY EUPHEMISTIC WAY. Sigh.

I love The Royal Tenenbaums more than most anything, and that one scene where Luke Wilson is all “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow” gets me sobbing EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Also, the gravestone KILLED me. I cried so hard in the theater people thought I was having a SEIZURE.

Category the Eighth: Things for Ken

“i don’t know the rules of bon vivantery. he has far more experience with it than i.”    
heathen kenway
i am coming tomorrow back to germany          
lightsaber euphemism      
owl innuendos
very dumb goat

Whoa, Ken, it’s a banner month for you here at the Football! YOU GOT SIX SEARCHES! I’m gonna start charging you rent. I’ll take euros, I suppose. I mean, if it’s all you have.

Ken DOES have far more experience than I with bon vivantery. Also, that’s a direct quote from one of my posts, why are you so weird?

I don’t exactly know if “heathen kenway” is a Ken thing, but I’ve decided it is. The Heathen Ken Way! Starring Ken as…Ken! It would be a very good inspirational program. Probably airing on Sundays right after the televised masses that old people watch. Ken would, like, ramble around, and tell stories, and be bon vivanty, and people would be inspired to ALSO be heatheny. And Ken-like. I’d totally watch that, yo.

“I am coming tomorrow back to Germany” sounds very proper and like it’s from a letter between old-timey people. I like it much much.

Both euphemism AND innuendo! Oh, Ken. This is really your month. Lightsaber seems beneath you, though. Who can’t come up with a lightsaber euphemism? Owl innuendo, though. That one’s a little harder. That one’s more Ken-worthy. What do you think, Ken? Have any owl innuendos up your sleeve? Or anywhere else on your person?

Come on, Ken. What d’ya got?

Very dumb goat. Don’t be insulting goats. Ken is OF the goats, lost searcher. That’s just mean. No one’s allowed to be mean to Ken. Not on my watch. I’m super-protective.

Don’t worry, Ken. I’ve got your back.

Category the Ninth: Famous people

anastasiya shpagina 59
jeff goldblum            5
peter sagan sexy    

Last month 104 people wanted the Barbie girl and this month only 59, so that’s nice. Less people are being weirdos. FIVE PEOPLE, however, are ignoring our warnings in the bon vivant stories and are searching for Jeff Goldblum. Well, when he attempts to eat your SOUL, don’t even say we didn’t tell you he was evil. And, yes. Peter Sagan (who I like to call Karl Sagan in order to make my dad yell at me NO NO NO AMY!) is VERY sexy.

He made watching umpteen hours of the Tour de France with Dad when I went home this summer totally ok. LOOK AT THESE EYES. I am such a sucker for pretty eyes. Sigh.

Category the Tenth: HELLO FOREIGN FRIENDS!

Мастурбатор (wanker in Serbian!)
نونو نونو يا بغل (um…Nuno Nuno O mule in Arabic? I don’t know.)

So I got a Serbian search and an Arabic search. Both of which are pretty pretty languages, look at them! Look at that letter in that Serbian word that’s like a b AND a 6! Only what they’re searching for…I can’t help you with these things. Sorry.

“Nuno Nuno O mule” did make me laugh, though. Like a whole lot. It sounds like a song you would sing to your mule on the way to the fields, or something. It’s kind of awesome.

Category the Eleventh: I don’t…this is a thing?

sores from holding hedgehogs    
sugar gliders carry typhus

I looked up the hedgehog thing and there was NOTHING. Are you attempting to spread urban legends about hedgies? I don’t care for that. You stop that. Hedgehogs are WONDERFUL. They don’t give you SORES.

You dummy. I don’t give people SORES.

Also, no correlation between (per what I could find with a cursory Google search, anyway) sugar gliders and typhus. Why are you spreading false info? Andreas would HATE that you are doing that. He does not like fake sciencing.

Why you tellin’ people I got typhus? MEAN.

There you go, November! You are soon to be in our rearviews, and DECEMBER will be upon us, with all of the trappings of THAT month. HERE WE GO DECEMBER I WILL RULE YOU!

Until next month, my poor lost lambikins. May Google be kind in your searches.

Love, Me.

(As always, thank you to Mer for the inspiration for these posts!)


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