Here we are at Saturday. That’s exciting, right? It’s the weekend and all is well in the world. Well, it will be at 6pm when work is done, I suppose. Right now, it’s still kind of blergh, because I’m toiling away. Toil toil toil. But Saturday night and Sunday will be ALL MINE! I mean, it’s not like I’m going to do anything with them but write, but they’re MINE to write WITH and that’s all that matters, really. I also have many books to read and write about and PLANS and SCHEMES and maybe a little chicanery, who knows. I don’t even know the depths my chicanery might plumb. DEPTHLESS CHICANERY.
I’m currently at work being all multi-tasky and writing this DAYS IN ADVANCE, yo. Work has been nuts this week because my cohort who does the same job as I do has decided to take a plethora of days off. You thought I was going to say piñatas, didn’t you? I wish there was a plethora of piñatas here. Every day could be made better by a plethora of piñatas. (If you are confused or not getting the reference, you OBVIOUSLY are not as obsessed with the movie The Three Amigos as you should be; please go rectify that immediately. I’d say we’d wait for you to catch up, but I’m sure we’ll have moved on by then. Time waits for no man, especially not one who hasn’t seen The Three Amigos by now.)
Anyway, so my coworker and partner in crime is gone on average 3/5 days a week lately, so it’s just me, doing my little me-thing back here. Which is fine, it’s quiet, but also it’s a lot of work for just me. Don’t they know I have blogging to do, dammit? BE MORE CONSIDERATE, OFFICE.
I have some Dad news for you all today, and I KNOW, I just had some Dad news, but this is ADDITIONAL Dad news. He’s all full of news lately.
Dad: I talked to Rooster today.
Me: Ooh, did you get a Helper Mule update?
Dad: Yes. It’s not good.
Me: It never is. What’s up with my friend the mule?
Dad: He’s just not working out.
Me: Is Rooster going to send him to the glue factory?
Dad: Oh, no. He’ll keep the mule. But the mule’s not helping, plus he’s very expensive.
Me: How’s the horse? Did she have that baby yet?
Dad: Rooster still doesn’t know if she’s pregnant.
Me: What? I thought the vet was going to come over and punch her in the stomach to test for pregnancy.
Dad: He tried, but the mule was in a bad mood that day so the vet had to leave in a hurry.
Me: Ooh, did the mule think the vet was trying to sneak in on his territory?
Dad: No, the mule was all hopped up on grain. Rooster’s wife fed him grain. You’re NEVER supposed to do that.
Me: What? I thought horses and mules and those types of animals ate grain.
Dad: No. It makes them all hyper. It’s like giving a kid chocolate. It’s like concentrated energy.
Me: So it’s like Red Bull for mules?
Dad: I guess. You’re only supposed to feed him hay and water.
Me: It sounds like he’s in prison with that diet. “Helper Mule, for starting that riot in the cafeteria, HAY AND WATER DIET FOR YOU!”
Dad: So Helper Mule apparently was about to attack the vet so he didn’t get to punch the horse in the stomach, so the horse still may or may not be pregnant. No one knows. And the vet is too scared to come back.
Me: That’s a totally unprofessional vet. You’d think that was a job hazard, you know? Suck it up, vet.
Dad: Also Rooster underestimated how expensive it would be to have a mule, and a possibly pregnant horse. Those things cost money.
Me: Yeah, you can’t imagine that horses and mules would be free. Even Dumbcat costs money.
Dad: That stupid cat. You should get rid of him.
Me: You stop it. That’s your grandcat.
Dad: Don’t say that out loud. People will think you’re insane.
Me: They already do.
Dad: Yes, probably. Also, Rooster bought a cart for the mule and the horse.
Me: What? Why?
Dad: I assume so they can pull things around? I don’t know.
Me: I hope he knows how to hook up that cart.
Dad: What do you mean?
Me: You don’t put the cart before the horse. There’s a saying about that and everything.
Dad: That’s not that funny. Sort of funny, but not really.
Me: I’ll try harder next time.
Dad: See that you do. Oh, and also, he is training the mule and the horse, so he hooks them up behind his four wheeler and then takes them running.
Me: Well, that must be a sight.
Dad: He told me he took them for a twenty-mile run the other day, but I told him to stop lying.
Me: Maybe he did, you don’t know. You don’t even go visit him anymore.
Dad: No, because he always wants me to shovel shit. I don’t want to shovel shit. I’m not a hired man.
Me: Did you tell him I’m coming to helper-mule-whisper Helper Mule this summer?
Dad: No. I’m sure he’ll be so excited, though.
Me: I think Rooster’s lonely. Poor Rooster. His mule’s not helpful and he doesn’t even know if his horse is pregnant.
Dad: And he bought an extra mule-saddle for his wife but she was like, “I’m not getting on that mule, even if he does eat carrots out of my hand.”
Me: Rooster is just the saddest. I feel terrible about this whole thing. I’ll tell him he’s internet-famous, I think that’ll help.
Dad: I don’t know if it will, but you’re welcome to try.
Oh, also, then Dad solved an international mystery, which was nice. Remember how he thinks Ken is an assassin? So this happened the other night:
Dad: They caught him. THEY CAUGHT HIM. I told you they would, one of these days.
Me: What? Who? You’re being weird.
Dad: Your friend. I told you he couldn’t get away with all that crime with no repercussions.
Me: Dad. Whoa. What friend. What’s going on.
Dad: Your ASSASSIN friend. Don’t you even watch the news?
Me: OK, I assume we’re discussing Ken? He’s not caught. He tweeted me like five minutes ago.
Dad: Well, then they let him have his phone in lockup.
Me: I don’t think they did. It’s like midnight there. I think he’s probably in bed now. Not JAIL bed. KEN bed.
Dad: Of course he wouldn’t tell you if he’d been caught. He must be so embarrassed.
Me: OK, so what was Ken supposedly caught for?
Dad: Chopping someone up in Canada and then escaping to Germany. You SAID he was in Canada and then went to Germany. HE IS A KILLER.
Me: He had a layover in Canada on his way home to Germany. Like a WEEK ago. I heard about the guy who chopped someone up. I didn’t hear he’d been caught. He got caught in Germany? Where?
Dad: Berlin. JUST LIKE THAT ASSASSIN.
Me:…who lives in Munich.
Dad: Or so he wants you to believe.
Me: No, I’m pretty sure he does. Those two cities are pretty far apart, Dad.
Dad: Listen, I don’t think you should talk to that guy anymore because that murder was really creepy. Plus there can’t be more than one assassin who was just in Canada and then Germany.
Me: I just looked it up on my phone. This psychokiller doesn’t even LOOK like Ken.
Dad: People lie on the internet ALL THE TIME. I keep telling you that.
Me: So whose photo does he keep putting on his blog?
Dad: I don’t know. Someone he keeps in his basement?
Me: Good grief this is a tangled web he’s woven. And I don’t even know that he HAS a basement.
Dad: It’s a good thing they caught him. If a man will lie to the internet about having a basement, what else could he be capable of?
Then I read the story online (um…kitten murder? Mailing body parts to politicians? Eep) and let Ken know my dad thought he was some sort of horrible murderer. Ken replied with:
@lucysfootball I would never hurt little pussy cats.
— Ken Macbeth (@lahikmajoe) June 5, 2012
Well, that seems a good answer to me, so then I had to let Dad know the next night his theory didn’t hold water.
Me: Dad, Ken totally wasn’t the psychokiller. He’d never murder kittens.
Dad: You don’t know.
Me: Seriously, he would not murder kittens. I’d never be friends with a kitten-murderer. He likes animals a lot. He totally went to the Berlin zoo when I was annoying about it once and took all the photos without even complaining one time. Not even ONE TIME!
Dad: Maybe that was all to make up for the ONE TIME he kitten-murdered. Like penance.
Me: No. Also, this guy was a porn star. Ken’s totally not a porn star. I wouldn’t even be able to take any of my friends seriously if they were porn stars. Wouldn’t watching someone you knew in porn just be so awkward? You could never talk to them again without giggling and thinking, “I saw your schlong and also you saying things like ‘harder faster oh baby uh.'”
Dad: I don’t want to talk to you about porn. Also, you don’t know. I bet at least 35% of your internet people are porn stars.
Me: I don’t…OK. He wears BIRKENSTOCKS. He listens to NPR. He is not a KILLER. And also, I talked to him TODAY. He’s not in JAIL.
Dad: Maybe in Germany they can have their phones in jail. Also, he wears man-sandals and listens to fake news on the radio? This guy’s a commie. You didn’t even tell me this guy was a commie. Were you hiding the fact he was not only an assassin, but a commie, from me?
Me: I don’t think they can have their phones in jail. You know someone would turn their phone into a shiv and ruin it for everyone. And, no. He’s not a commie. You think everyone’s a commie.
Dad: Because everyone probably is a commie. ANYWAY. Did he see that guy on the plane? You should ask him if he saw that killer on the plane. They probably did a secret handshake or something. A KILLER handshake.
Me: I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I would assume they were on different planes, since they were flying into different cities. I mean, if you were flying from Germany to San Francisco, would you see someone who was on a plane from Germany to New York? Probably not, unless you had high-powered binoculars and the timing was just right.
Dad: You think a lot.
Me: Constantly. It’s a curse.
Dad: So the assassin escapes to murder another day.
Me: Yes, that would seem to be the case.
Dad: He’s tricky, that friend of yours.
Me: Yep. That’s how I like ‘em. Tricky. Also, commies. Tricky damn commies. In man-sandals.
Dad: You would. You would have internet friends who are assassins and spies who wear suspicious footwear.
Me: Yes, I would. It’s how I advertise for internet friends, actually. “All assassins, spies, and international persons of mystery welcome here. Feel free to wear your most communist shoes.”
Dad: Don’t even joke about that, I think one in ten people is an assassin and you probably know like a million internet people so that’s a lot of assassin friends.
Me: That is QUITE a statistic. You’re all full of numbers today.
Dad: I think it was on the news.
Me: I don’t think it was. I think you made it up just now in your head.
Me: You’ll be glad I have assassin friends someday, because they can protect me from killers. With their sharpshooting prowess. You just wait and see.
Dad: Just don’t piss them off.
Me: I’ll do my best not to.
And now…because tomorrow will be all about drawing the prize winner and geeking out about my actual Bloggiversary and such, here is my top most popular post of the entire year. By a landslide, actually. Which is funny, because I wasn’t going to write it and I wasn’t going to publish it. I stayed up for hours past my bedtime writing and re-writing this one, so worried that it wasn’t right, that it wasn’t saying what I wanted to say how I wanted to say it, that it was going to make me sound like an idiot, that people were going to judge, that you don’t air your dirty laundry in public. And then the comments and tweets and messages and emails started pouring in. I’ve never loved you all more than I did over those days, seriously. Thank you. Thank you, thank you. I underestimated your awesomeness. I won’t do that again.
And I am SO EXCITED about the drawing and the winner, I can’t even. Tonight after work I’m going to get all pretty and make you all a video. Won’t that be exciting? Sure it will. Well, you can’t look like a gross schlump on a Youtube video, that’d be embarrassing.
Happy Saturday! Enjoy the sun, if there is sun! I hope there’s sun. If you like such things. If you don’t, I hope it’s as gray as a stone. ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN.