Category Archives: ghosts

I think I need to get one of those helmets with a canary in it.

Random crap Saturday? Sure thing, buckaroos, saddle up. 

Winning Aunting with ADD Trains 

So it’s almost The Nephew’s third birthday. His mom’s having a party for him in the rec park near his house, happily on a Sunday so that means I can attend. Yippee! I like seeing The Nephew. He’s very excited about his birthday. He tells anyone who asks “I’m turning THREE YEARS OLD!” I think he’s also reached the age where he realizes that with birthdays, come presents. I think that’s a very auspicious age, when you can connect the two. 

I am going to show you a picture of The Nephew. I know, this is probably pretty unprecedented. If any pervs show up searching like they did on my friend Mer’s blog once, I’ll come to your house and make you eat your own testicles as an hors d’oeuvre, I swear on all that’s holy.

This is a picture of The Nephew fishing with his dad recently. It is possibly one of my favorite things in existence, because LOOK AT THAT SKEPTICAL FACE. He is NOT SURE OF SOMETHING. I love this child. To pieces.

His party is construction-themed, because right now The Nephew is into construction vehicles like dump trucks. He should come to Albany! All we HAVE is construction right now, Nephew! Come on down! I think you’d be a little less enamored with it if you were stuck behind one of these big trucks and it was driving super-slow and you JUST WANTED TO GO HOME AND RELAX IN FRONT OF THE FAN DAMMIT, but maybe that’s just me. 

My mom checked with The Nephew’s mom to see what gifts he wants for this very important birthday, and apparently, the answer is Chuggington. Which sounds like a euphemism to me, honestly. “Hey, honey, what time are you getting home tonight? Because I think it’s time for us to try out the Chuggington, right? Wink wink nudge nudge!” 

What is Chuggington, you ask? Some train shit, I don’t know. He likes trains. He used to like Thomas the Tank Engine, but there’s a scary train on it so he stopped watching that one. Listen, I just checked the website to show you which train scares my beloved little buddy and there are a LOT of scary-faced trains. Why is this a children’s show? 

I don’t trust the smile on this one, he looks like a child molester.

The hell? This might give me nightmares and I’m a grown up old person. WHY SO MAD, DOUGLAS?

Hector looks like he just walked in on his mom doing it with the pool guy on a pile of his Christmas presents. HIS LIFE AS HE KNOWS IT IS SHATTERED.

I asked my mom which one scared The Nephew and she said this one. He is scared of it because of “The Claw.” GOOD GRIEF. This show is NOT FOR CHILDREN. When I told her that, she said, “Eh, it’s British, what can you do.”

Anyway, Chuggington. I’d never heard of this so I did some research. Here is what the internet tells me about Chuggington: 

Now, come on. “Let’s ride the rails” has to be a euphemism, right? RIGHT?

It is British
It is about talking trains
One of the talking trains seems to have ADD
One of the talking trains is colorblind
Two of the talking trains are mischievous
There is a “movie star chugger” who flies (…I don’t know either)
One of the trains is a douchebag and tricks the other trains
One of the trains is named Hodge and “it takes a lot to get Hodge excited” (I think I dated Hodge in college)
There is a zoo with animals in it (I’m down the zoo situation)
The show seems to exist to teach us all about FRIENDSHIP 

OK, FINE, The Nephew, I’ll get you some Chuggington birthday presents. I’ll research this shit at Toys R Us.

Good GRACIOUS there are a lot of Chuggington toys at Toys R Us. 102! I had no idea. Toys R Us! Never one to not jump on a trend when it’s hot! JUMP ON IT LIKE IT’S HOT TOYS R US! 

“Bridge and Tunnel Starter Set.” EUPHEMISM!!!!

The problem is, if I get him Chuggington toys, everyone ELSE is ALSO getting him Chuggington toys and there’s a chance he’ll get repeat toys and I hate that. I like to stand out in the gift-giving department like the shining star that I am. I really, REALLY like to win aunting. I only have one other person to compete with, but I like to WIN, baby. 

Last year I got him a scooter, which was a total win and he did all the scooting. What should I get him this year that is better than all the other gifts, but costs like $50 or so? People that have three-year-olds or know some three-year-olds, help me out here. Remember: this is not about anything but WINNING AUNTING. Oh, what’s that? Also making The Nephew happy? Oh, yeah, that too. THAT TOO. (No, but seriously, seeing his little face light up when I’ve gotten him a good present makes my Grinch heart break the measuring device every damn time. I’m an easy mark when it comes to The Nephew. This is going to be a problem when he’s older and the gifts he wants are like computers and things.) 

I think I’m dying of black lung 

So we’re in rehearsal for our Director’s Showcase which opens Thursday (well, and closes Thursday, it’s a one-night thingamabobber) and since our building is owned by the City and our ceiling is falling in, they decided to come and fix it right now. So we’ve been coming into rehearsal and the theater is in various stages of disrepair. You’d think it would get better, but it just keeps getting worse. One day we showed up and we couldn’t get down the aisles without squeezing through ladders (BAD LUCK BAD LUCK!) then we showed up a couple days later and there are no seats to sit in so we have to sit on the stage to watch the actors, because the seats are covered in plywood. (I don’t have to sit on the stage. I get my own ROOM to sit in. I’m in the light booth. I’m running the lights and sound for this one. I’m FANCY.) 

I had to move old disgusting ductwork in the lobby in order to close the theater door (you need the doors closed when you’re doing lights, otherwise you get spill from the lobby and you don’t know how your lights will look in a dark theater – there’s some theater inside info for you! Listen, before we’re done here, you’re going to be able to run your own theater, I swear) and my hands were so covered with nastiness when I was done that would NOT come off no matter WHAT I did that I’m pretty sure I’m dying of asbestos poisoning right now. Also, there are electrical cords everywhere, and I don’t know if any of them are live, so it’s like a game of chicken to walk anywhere. Will I live? Will I die? WHAT WILL HAPPEN? 

I know what will happen. I’ll get mesothelioma and have to call one of those TV lawyers to sue my own theater, is what will happen. Cough. Cough cough. 

Oh, what, you think I didn’t take photos? THINK AGAIN BUSTER.

This is the ductwork I had to move with my own hands. That left black shit all over my hands and pants. BLACK LUNGGGGG!

This is the inside of the theater right now. In front of you: the wood on the seats. Under that wood: the seats. To your far left, almost inaccessible: the stage. Directly in front of you, to the top: a ladder, precariously balanced. Directly in front of you near the bottom – a…snow shovel? I don’t know.

This looks like a haunted house but it’s the theater. Oh, hey, there’s my light booth near the top right, hi, my light booth! This is more seats, covered in plastic. And an abandoned bucket, all lonely-like. Some hard hats. And some wood. Heh. Wood. Also, to your left? ORBS. The theater’s totally haunted, yo. Call the Ghost Douche.

This is the ceiling right now. The ceiling that I’m sure is covered in asbestos. NO, I don’t know that for sure, but since when do I not exaggerate? Also, dangerous electrical cords, you know, like you want hanging out of a ceiling.

Also, Thursday, the workmen dropped a deuce in the toilet and didn’t flush, and left us a filthy tanktop on the table we serve refreshments from. You know. Like the classy people they are. THANKS WORKMEN.

(Listen, the show looks great, though. I like working on the director’s showcase because it’s a new director, and it’s fun to see what they can do and how they bring it all together. Well, I guess it’s fun if you like the director and they do a good job. In this case, she’s doing a great job, the show looks excellent, she’s got a wonderful point of view and I think the audience is really going to enjoy it. Also, she hasn’t even complained about the mess in the theater, which, hey, kudos. Don’t worry. I’ll complain enough for the both of us. That shit is CRAZY messy and gross.) 

Righto, guv’nuh. 

So tomorrow, I am going on an ADVENTURE. I know, right? I’m actually leaving my house and purposely going on an adventure. Are we all the most excited? Sure we are. 

Cute, right? So cute.

A new tea house/restaurant opened up very close to where I work, and when they were in the process of opening it, I saw the sign and mentioned to Ken, hey, there’s a tea place opening near me, when it opens, I should check that out. Then it opened, and I kind of forgot about it. SHUT UP, I have a lot going on. But then I remembered when I saw a review of it on one of our local blogs, so I checked out the tea selection and sent the link to Ken because he has to tell me if I’m allowed to go to places like this (I don’t know if tea is any good or not, what do I look like, fancy? No), and he said not ONLY am I allowed, I NEEDED to go. So, Sunday, I’m going to visit the tea place, and then I’m writing you all up the tale of my tea adventures on Ken’s tea blog. So you have to go THERE to read it. Yeah, it’s all a nefarious plot to get you to read Ken’s blog(s) as much as I think you all should, I’m not even denying it. Plus, Ken has promised to be my on-call tea expert should I run into any tea-related emergencies while I’m there. I’m sure I will. I can’t imagine I won’t. I’m also trying tea WITH CAFFEINE IN IT. I know, this could totally be the end of me. And by “the end” I mean it could cause a migraine to happen. But it probably won’t. It’s been a long time since the doctor told me that maybe caffeine was my migraine trigger. Who knows what will happen? It’s not going to hurt to try. And I really really REALLY want to see what Oolong tastes like. Ken makes it sound delicious. And since they don’t offer it as decaf, well, you can see my conundrum. 

Also, there’s totally a tea-related gift shop, and someone I know who was mentioned a billion times in the preceding paragraph has a prize package coming to him and tea relates to his interests, so that’ll be fun to investigate, now won’t it? Sure it will. What? What’s that? NO I haven’t finished shopping for the Bloggiversary Gift Package yet. Shush, you, I only got paid Thursday and we’re teching a show, I’m a little busy. 

So be ready for tea adventures! Oh, also there’s food. There’s totally food. I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty excited about the food, too. It looks delicious. 

OK, there’s three things. THREE RANDOM THINGS! Plus lots of pictures. I’m exhausted and I think I’m dying of maybe TB like Doc Holliday so now I should go around saying lines from Tombstone like “you’re a daisy if you do” and “I got two guns, one for each of ya.” HAPPY SATURDAY! Enjoy your day, it’s supposed to be lovely!

Nonsense. I have not yet begun to defile myself.



Benedict Cumberbatch could solve these mysteries in like five seconds. Where IS he when I need him?

I have two VERY IMPORTANT MYSTERIES to tell you about but first, I totally have an omission and I feel SO BAD.

So my play opened this weekend, I realize I didn’t even TELL you all about that. What’s that? You don’t even CARE? Go read a sports blog, Slappy. My play opened Friday. Pay-what-you-will preview Thursday, opening night Friday, shows Saturday and Sunday. So I’m a sleepy potato right now, no joke. It went beautifully, and the cast is wonderful, and they make me laugh and laugh, and the director, my wonderful friend K., is just the bees knees, and I got to see some friends I haven’t seen in a while when they came to see the show as audience members, and I totally gave out ALL THE HUGS so you’re missing out if you live locally and you didn’t come to see my show yet because, all the hugs. But! Do not fret. Two more weekends! I have hugs to SPARE. We had reviews in both the papers – one was a total crapfest (although I won reviewing the reviewer when I emailed someone he was “an asshat wearing a douchecanoe jacket” and her boyfriend asked if he could use that in conversation, as if I had a COPYRIGHT on my awesome phraseology, listen, you can totally use it, words are FREE. I mean, if you want to say “I got that from Amy at Lucy’s Football HERE IS HER URL” that’s fine. I mean, unless I know you, because that would seem odd, probably then you would just say “I got that from Amy, you know Amy, the one with the crazy eyes and hair” and they’d be all “Of course, how many Amys are there with the crazy eyes and hair”) and the other was actually very complimentary and nice, overall, so that was nice. Then I had auditions for our NEXT show for two nights. So just in case the like, two of you who pay attention to such things are wondering why I’ve been kind of a ghost lately, it’s because I’ve been pretty much living at the theater. Which is a nice place to live, but I miss my place and Dumbcat and my couch and my television and my bed.

Also, I’d totally like to talk about auditions? Because there were shenanigans? But I can’t. I just can’t. It would be SO MEAN. I know, the odds of one of the shenanigan-makers stumbling upon this blog are kind of infinitesimal, but even though there were shenanigans, I can’t be mean, IN PRINT, to someone who actually got off their duff and came out to audition. I just can’t. Even though I want to. If you know me in person, however, all bets are off, and I will totally act out the shenanigans for you in great detail, because they were OFF THE HOOK INSANE you guys. Yowza.

OK! So you know how I like TRUE CRIME and MYSTERIES and shit like that? I have TWO REAL LIFE MYSTERIES that we need to discuss. One is…just effing perplexing, I can’t even. The other is kind of sciency so I think probably Andreas can solve it. But also it’s gross and potentially might cause my death and involves the word “balls.” Hee! Balls.

99…no, wait, 98 luftballons…WTF?

MISSING. If found, please call AMY'S DAD.

My dad totally told me not to blog about this – “because of the government” – but this is way too good not to blog about you guys.

So a couple of weeks ago it was my mom’s birthday and she got flowers and balloons from the ladies she works with. The flowers died (that’s why flowers are a shit gift, yo, seriously, and I’m not just saying that because I don’t ever get any? I want something that lasts, and that I could possibly pawn and/or shoot at when you inevitably leave me. NO NOT YOU DR. RUFFALO OUR LOVE IS HERE TO STAY) but the balloons stayed up. My mom said this is because they were made of Kevlar which made me giggle because the idea of a Kevlar balloon that no one could ever shoot down, ever ever, was the best. No. Mylar balloons. You know. Those obnoxious crinkly-ass tinny things that make weird noises when you walk past them and also are staticky. Although a Kevlar balloon would be a much better gift for me. SOMEONE BUY ME A KEVLAR BALLOON.

So they were in the kitchen of my parents’ house. Two balloons. The nephew liked them because he would run around all King-Kong-esque screaming letting them trail behind him. My parents went out to go shopping Saturday. They locked the house. Who doesn’t lock the house? Killers could get in and hide in your closet and you’d have no one but yourself to blame. Or – well, they live in the boonies, so I guess deer or cows might get in the house more than killers. Although there totally ARE killers up there, no joke? A few years back, this woman I used to go to church with got axe-murdered. I’ll talk about that someday. IT WAS THE WORST. And? Totally still unsolved. SO CREEPY.

Anyway, ZOMG Sherlock Holmes would get so annoyed with me as a witness with my tangentizing, when my parents got home? One balloon in the kitchen.

This PERPLEXED my parents. They thought, did it drift away? Did it float somewhere? (We all FLOOAAATTT down here, kid, want a balloon? UGH) They looked all over the house. No balloon. They called the people who have keys to their house in case of emergency. (The idea of that conversation cracks me up. “Hey, did you let yourself into our house in that hour we were gone yesterday, steal a few-weeks-old balloon from the kitchen, and let yourself back out, without telling anyone? No? OK, thanks, love you, bye!”) No one knew anything about the balloon.

At this point, my mom was all (as I would have been), “Eh, mysteries, they happen.” NOT MY SHERLOCK HOLMESIAN DAD. He tore the house APART. Upstairs. Downstairs. In the BASEMENT – even though the doors to the basement were closed. (I asked my mom if he thought the balloon was a sentient being capable of opening doors and she said she wasn’t sure.) He looked in the VACCUUM CLEANER BAG. (“You didn’t think I’d notice vaccumming up a fully-inflated helium balloon made of Kevlar?” my mom asked him.) He walked around the house looking for CLUES as to HOW THE CRIMINALS BROKE IN TO STEAL THE BALLOON. (When I asked him what he discovered, he said, “There were mysterious footprints outside. THEY WERE NOT MINE.” I said, “So…you think they broke in, stole mom’s three-week-old half-deflated birthday balloon, and NOTHING ELSE, and then left again?” “No, they probably were casing the joint,” he said. “So…you not only lost a balloon, you now live in a film noir?” I asked. He did not like that one little bit. “THIS IS NOT A JOKE,” he said.)

Dad’s theories:

Mom popped and hid the balloon somewhere he couldn’t find it to make him think he’s going crazy because he saw that in a movie once and he thinks it might be to get his inheritance but when I brought up he doesn’t even have an inheritance he was all, oh, yeah, right, she doesn’t really have much of a reason to do that, other than just to be really mean

The government did it (it’s kind of hazy why they would have, but he’s pretty sure it sounds like them)

The aforementioned “casing the joint” person

Ghosts (“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Amy, too scary”)

Aliens (“I SAID STOP IT, I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE, I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO SLEEP TONIGHT, AMY”)

I emailed my mom this morning and asked her if there was a resolution and there still isn’t and it’s been four days. “It’s still driving your father insane. I’m hoping eventually he’ll forget about it and we can laugh about it someday,” she said.

The only theory I have is that it’s been cold in my hometown, which makes my parents’ furnace kick on, and that might have created currents that blew the balloon out of the kitchen…somewhere? Else? I don’t know where. A parallel universe filled with Kevlar balloons and all my missing socks from the laundry room, maybe? The balloon was filled with helium. I can’t imagine where it went. It’s not like we have vaulted ceilings in that house. We’re poor people. It’s like this little house with ceilings I can touch if I lift my hand up over my head. It is not Westminster Abbey, for the love of Pete.

OK, minions, get crackin’! Who can solve the mystery of the Kevlar balloon? If one of you actually solves it, and my dad FINDS THE BALLOON in the place you say it will be, you’re either brilliant, or the person who’s been casing the joint. If it’s the former, I’ll totally send you a prize. If it’s the latter, ZOMG. Why are you casing my parents’ joint? I can assure you the most expensive thing in their house is a computer from 1991.

What’s Valentine’s Day without a little porn?

OK, here’s MYSTERY THE SECOND.

The night before Valentine’s Day, I went to bed with two balls in my mouth; Valentine’s Day morning, I woke up with one.

WHAT THE HELL.

Heh.

This isn’t remotely as filthy as it sounds.

So, you know how I have a tongue ring? In case you’re not aware, they’re set up like this:

The top part unscrews; the bottom part is attached to the bar.

They have a bar with a ball permanently attached to it, and the other end is another ball, which screws onto the bar.

I liked my platinum tongue ring the best, because it didn’t have the weird tendency to come unscrewed, but my dentist recoiled in horror when she saw it and was all “YOU WILL HAVE NO TEETH IN LIKE A YEAR GET PLASTIC” so I had to downgrade, dammit.

So now I have plastic tongue rings. Well, the balls (heh) are plastic; the bar is obviously stainless steel.

So I went to bed and it was firmly in place, balls and all.

Then I woke up, and when I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth I was all, “Whaa? This feels odd” and THE TOP BALL WAS GONE.

That’s the ball that unscrews.

SO! In the middle of the night, the top ball came unscrewed.

Here’s the question.

WHERE THE HELL DID IT GO.

Obviously, there are two options here.

I either swallowed or inhaled it.

Andreas! This is about SCIENCE, even though it’s totally funny that I either swallowed or inhaled balls. Is there a better chance that I swallowed or inhaled it? If I swallowed it, who cares, the digestive tract works wonders and it’s small. If I inhaled it, am I totally going to die of black lung now? Does it help your analysis that I’m totally the loudest snorer in all the land? DON’T YOU EVEN JUDGE ME IT’S HEREDITARY. But I’m thinking, since my mouth is all open and I’m snoring like Rip Van Amy, probably I inhaled it and it’s in my lungs all plastic and that can’t be good, right? It was SPARKLY plastic, too. WITH STRIPES. That’s totally going to be one jaunty tumor I gave myself by inhaling balls.

YES, I checked the sheets in case balls fell out of my mouth. They didn’t. Heh.

YES, I’m aware I have the mindset of a teenager. I don’t even care. Saying “balls” and “swallow” and “inhale” is FUNNY, yo.

Anyway, so I now have a blue sparkly tongue ring installed and it’s screwed (heh, screwed) down tight so probably I won’t swallow or inhale that one, maybe.

I know it’s utterly shocking that I’m single. It amazes me on a daily basis.

Look, it totally amazes Benedict Cumberbatch, too.

"It is beyond my capability for reason - which is immense - that someone has not snapped Amy up by now. Utterly inconceivable."


Patron Saint of Blindness and Mouthy, Obstinate Broads Everywhere

OK, so my fantastic Twitter friends (and amazing bloggers, seriously, you need to, right now, scoot on over, I’m telling you, and check out their blogs! Psst, they are INTELLIGENT and THOUGHTFUL. I know! It’s crazy! And they still talk to me! I think maybe I’m their super-enthusiastic, slightly touched-in-the-head sidekick. Or maybe their pet, like a really hyper bouncy-bounce-bounce Jack Russell terrier. I’m down with that) @heinakroon and @lahikmajoe informed me today it was St. Lucy’s Day. So, in other words, MY day. I mean, there’s no St. Amy’s day. Amy’s not a saint. Well, there’s a Saint Amata, also known as Saint Aimee of Assisi, but that barely counts, and also she’s only a saint because she was healed by her sister who was a saint and that’s about all that’s known about her. BORING, St. Not-Even-Really-An-Amy.

Now listen. I, as mentioned, grew up Catholic. I am not currently a practicing Catholic. I suppose, if you are very, very anal about it, I will always be a Catholic; at least, that’s what my mother tells me, usually when cajoling me to attend services with her when I come home for a visit. I was baptized Catholic, so I suppose, unless I were to do some sort of un-baptismal ritual, or maybe get re-baptized into another faith and/or cult, I’m TECHINICALLY, in NAME ONLY, still a Catholic. I haven’t been inside a church in quite some time, and I’m happy with that. Am I going to go into more detail than that with you? Nope. Why? Because it’s none of your business. I have nothing against Catholicism, Catholics, God, Jesus, etc., etc., etc., so please don’t hate-mail me up. It’s just not right for me. Personally. As a person. Who lives on this earth. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t make me do it, and don’t attempt to make me feel bad about not doing it. End of story.

However, I LOVE STORIES OF THE SAINTS.

I find the stories of the saints FASCINATING. I’m pretty sure it’s because the stories of the saints usually end with “and then they were bloodily murdered in a creative fashion” and you know I do love a good creative bloody murder.

For example, Saint Sebastian all pierced with his arrows. Saint Blaise, attacked with “iron carding combs” (what the hell? Ew. And, awesome!) Saint Agatha, who had her breasts chopped off. Oh, and St. Francis, not because of death, but because ANIMALS.

Yes, I’m totally dark, twisted, and macabre. I also like kittens, rainbows, and unicorns, people. Also, someone this weekend almost spit-took when they saw me crying over something. I’m really an enigma, right?

I actually took a day trip to Rouen when I was in Paris in college JUST TO SEE WHERE SAINT JOAN WAS BURNED TO DEATH. No, I’m not even kidding. On purpose. I made a pilgrimage to see where someone was burned to death. And it was kind of the most awesome. (Also, the townspeople in Rouen were lovely, friendly, and welcoming, and did not make fun of my rudimentary French, not even once. Also, the town looked like it was created by Epcot. It could NOT have been cuter, cleaner, or more picturesque. Except for the creepy wax museum, where everything was falling over and decrepit and looked like maybe it was going to come to life and eat me. That was unsettling. Also, one of the wax figures was wearing Hanes sweatsocks, which made me laugh so hard I almost choked on my croissant.) And, side note! There was a lovely little art museum there, and I was listening to my Walkman (shut up, it was the 90s) and looking at the art and feeling oh-so-bohemian and felt a tap on my shoulder and a guard was standing there and I took out my headphones and he started talking to me in VERY rapid French, which I could understand just about every third word of, and I asked him to slow down, and he was just asking what I was listening to. I said “Tori Amos?” and he laughed and shrugged adorably and then left me to wander around some more, and as I was leaving, said goodbye, and then KISSED MY HAND (I know, right? In any other setting, that’d be creepy? But he was this very nice middle-aged gentleman, and it was very courtly) and said something that I didn’t quite understand – soleil? Something about the sun? – but I smiled and left and then I wrote it down phonetically and when I got back on the train I looked it up and he’d told me, as far as I could tell, “I shone as bright as the sun.” Um. That might be the nicest compliment, in any language, anyone has ever given me ever. THANK YOU RANDOM ROUEN MUSEUM GUARD.

But somehow, St. Lucy escaped my notice. I know! That’s totally unlike me. Yes, I know the name of this blog isn’t based on St. Lucy. It’s based on Lucy Van Pelt from the Peanuts cartoons. (For further info on the twisted tale behind the naming of this blog, see my FAQ. Yep, I have a FAQ. You thought I wouldn’t? You really don’t trust me very far, do you? I promise I sort of kind of know what I’m doing, you guys. I also promise if you let me lead you into the woods, I will do my best not to let you get murdered by bears. Look out for the woodchucks, though, they’re totally bloodthirsty.) Anyway, so no, I wasn’t thinking of St. Lucy when I came up with the name for my blog. But I’m pretty sure, after finding out about this, it’s kind of kismet. Or destiny. Or whatever the hell. I AM IN LOVE WITH ST. LUCY IS WHAT I’M SAYING.

Look at this. LOOK AT THIS I’M TELLING YOU.

Nothing like an old painting to creep you the hell out. PLATE OF EYESSSSSS.

Is that not the worst? What’s that on the serving tray, you’re wondering? Oh, her eyes. THOSE ARE HER EYES. Dun dun dunnnnnnn.

So here’s the scoop. I mean, you could research this yourself, but why bother, my version will be so much more fun.

St. Lucy lived in Italy (hey, also, I love Italy, if I were given a choice of any place ever to live for the rest of my life? Italy. True! True story!) from 283-304. I know, people totally lived that long ago, it’s not even science fiction or anything. So that means she died when she was twenty-one. When I was twenty-one, I drank a lot and woke up in weird places, like on the bathroom floor or one time under someone’s bed all dust-bunny-covered.

Lucy was a rich girl with a rich mom. Rich mom arranged a marriage for her with a rich suitor. But rich suitor was…wait for it…wait for it…PAGAN ZOMGGGGG. Lucy was not down with this at all because she had chats with angels and such and was an illegal Christian. So she started giving her dowry away to the poor because she did not want to marry Pagan Pete. And listen, the main reason she didn’t want to marry Pagan Pete was not because of his paganism. It was because she didn’t want to give him her flower. No, I’m serious. Lucy’s big thing was she did NOT want to lose her virginity. It was VERY important to her. Well, that’s nice, Lucy, and I totally dig pretty much everything else you stand for, and you’re a totally righteous babe, but probably get over the whole flower issue. Give away your whole bouquet, honey. It’s not just for HIM, you know. YOU can ALSO derive pleasure from passing along the blooms. Just thought I’d toss that out there. ANYWAY. Pagan Pete got wind of this and was NOT AMUSED. “That’s MY MONEY BIATCH,” Pagan Pete hissed. “Also, give up your flower. Damn, girl.” Apparently, it was illegal to be Christian in Italy at this time (sorry, I’d research that more but at work, any website with too much religious content is BANNED and we get a BIG RED PAGE  that says BANNED BANNED BANNED due to RELIGION!!! and wouldn’t it be so ironic were I to get fired due to Catholicism searches, based on my own waffley stance on the Catholic church?) So Pagan Pete went to the magistrate and was all, “Lucy’s a secret Christian, yo.”

Get this! Lucy’s sentence was that she was to be DEFILED IN THE LOCAL BROTHEL. Is that not the most horrible, nefarious thing you’ve ever HEARD? This is so a telenovela. That magistrate totally twirled his moustache when he was sentencing her to that, you know he did.

Lucy, while this was going down, decided to start being all street-preachy. She had a LOT TO SAY. So she started talking. And she wouldn’t stop. God and purity and almsgiving and what have you. Stubborn and loud. My kind of chica.

So the guards came to take her away, but she was so filled with the Holy Spirit (SIDE NOTE: when I taught churchschool many moons ago one of my students was PETRIFIED by the Holy Spirit because sometimes you call the Holy Spirit the Holy Ghost and the poor kiddo was convinced the Holy Ghost was like a creepy haunty-type ghost and was going to pop out of her closet when she was trying to sleep so when I had to talk about the one God/three persons thing, she would get SO SCARED and she’d jump up and put her hand over my mouth and say “No no no ghosts” and it was ADORABLE. Poor scared kiddo, I wanted to hug her and give her a cookie) that the guards could not move her. She was “immovable as a mountain.” Well, that’s exciting! Like a MOUNTAIN! Even a team of OXEN could not move her. All while they kept tugging and shoving and oxen-ing, she kept proselytizing about God and virginity and almsgiving. She was TALKY, you guys. I LOVE HER. Then they stabbed her in the neck, and – get this, are you ready? – SHE KEPT TALKING. Stabbed in the NECK and she kept talking.

Then they gouged her eyes out with a fork. Hence the painting above and her being the patron saint of blindness. I’m pretty blind without my glasses, Lucy! Thanks for keeping an eye out! Pun most definitely intended!

On St. Lucy’s Day in Sicily (today!), they celebrate with candles (as it’s commonly thought of as the shortest, and therefore darkest, day of the year) and a traditional dessert of “wheat in a bowl of hot chocolate milk.” That sounds DELICIOUS. Is it like hot cereal in chocolate milk? THAT IS GENIUS ITALY. Do you see why I want to live in Italy? Well, other than Italians, and the gorgeousness of it all? Those people KNOW THEIR DELICIOUS FOODSTUFFS.

In Scandinavian countries on St. Lucy’s Day, young girls wear a crown of candles in church. Well, that I’m not as down with, mostly because HAIR IS TOTALLY FLAMMABLE YOU GUYS. That is a stop, drop and roll waiting to happen. Those poor adorable Scandinavian children. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.

So, to recap. St. Lucy was Italian (love it), mouthy (love it), would not be moved (love it), patron saint of people with eye issues (love it), died bloodily (love it), and was obsessed with keeping her virginity (um…sorry, Lucy. You lost me there.)

THIS IS MY DAY, PEOPLE!

So, in honor of St. Lucy’s Day, I’m going to be mouthy and obstinate, and also eat some chocolate and wear my glasses. Oh. Wait. Looking back, I pretty much live every day as if it’s St. Lucy’s Day. Go, me.

Except for the weird virginity fetish, of course.


We mustn’t dwell… no, not today. We CAN’T. Not on Rex Manning day!

I kind of feel ick today. I have an inkling what’s wrong which is kind of a total TMI so I’m not talking about it. But it involves antibiotics, I think. Now you think I have something gross, like maybe an abcess. I AM NOT TELLING YOU. Also, never put your symptoms into the internet. Because I could have anything from poor circulation to ennui to end-stage renal failure, THANKS GOOGLE YOU’RE A TOTAL PEACH. 

Anyway, I REFUSE to let this get me down, because it is NEW STEPHEN KING BOOK DAY. Well, no. Not really. It was new Stephen King book day a few weeks ago. But for POOR people, new Stephen King book day is whenever your request number comes up at the library. And it’s ME! And it’s TODAY! 

I still have to finish Chuck Palahniuk’s Damned, of course, because leaving one book unfinished before moving onto another book is like a cardinal sin of reading to me. I don’t like unfinished tasks. It seems messy. Also, it seems unfair to the book you’re working on. It’s like you’re cheating on the first book before you are finished with it, or have even broken up with it. And that’s just completely rude. That book deserves a full chance! So I have to finish one before the other. I WILL NOT CHEAT ON YOU, BOOK.

Even for Stephen King, I will not cheat on you. Even though I’m kind of WANTING to cheat on you. Damned! You are a VERY GOOD BOOK. And you are fulfilling ALL MY NEEDS. And Palahniuk! I love you to BITS. Also, SIDE  NOTE! One time? I found out about this thing, where if you wrote a paper letter on real paper to Chuck Palahniuk, he would respond to you? And so I did it. Because listen, that’s awesome, and I love him? And he DID. But also, he sent me a CARE PACKAGE. With PRESENTS in it. Like Silly Putty! And a necklace that is pretty, and along the back it says my name and his name, as if we are in love! Because I’m pretty sure we kind of are, both being super-famous fancy people and all! But Damned, but Palahniuk, it’s King! We have HISTORY, Damned! So I’m sorry. Please prep yourself for the breakup. I have 150 pages left in you and then you’re gone. Didn’t mean to break your heart. Gypsy soul to blame; I was born for leavin’. 

SO! In honor of it being NEW STEPHEN KING BOOK DAY, and also because I feel like the ick and this might make me feel better, let’s have an Amy’s Top Five Favorite Stephen King Books of All Time Countdown. If you don’t care, well, you’re wrong, but come back tomorrow, or Friday, because I have EXCITINGNESS planned. Even though I just got a call that I am the lucky recipient of work hours on Friday. Which is good – extra money! And also bad, in that it totally cuts into my loafing time I had planned! But I’ll deal. I’m bendy.

Also, probably doesn’t need to be said, but I’m a King groupie. Which you know, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time. Like, there’s King, then everyone else I read. Seriously. It’s almost a sickness. I adore him. 

5.        Carrie – 1974 

            “Red,” Momma murmured. “I might have known it would be red”. 

I probably like this for all the wrong reasons. I should probably say that riiiiight up front. Because listen – is it completely 100% normal that when Carrie unleashed the wrath at Prom, I was all, “YOU GO CARRIE!!!” Probably not. Probably that was not the reaction that normal readers had, right? But reading this IN high school, as someone who was the Carrie OF her high school (no, my mom wasn’t a looney, and no, I didn’t get tampons pelted at me in the locker room, but I have stories, whoo, do I have stories), I was at the perfect age and the perfect time in my life that the novel completely resonated with me. Reading it now, I suppose I have a little more sympathy for some of the characters. Not all, though. Some of those bastards deserve to die. Bloodily. And in a lot of pain. And listen, this is his first real published novel.  His first! You can do this? Right out of the gate? That is INSANE. Can you even imagine having that kind of talent right off the bat? Cuckoo-bananas, you guys. 

There are some seriously creepy-ass moments in this. Carrie’s insane mom? The news stories about things that happened around Carrie’s house when she was a baby? Carrie’s house with the crazy Jesus crap all around? And the movie was pretty good, too, and has held up well, although Sissy Spacek was too pretty. 

This was also published the year I was born. So I like to think that it was a GIFT. For baby AMY. 

4.      The Shining (1977) 

“The manager,” Grady said. “The hotel, sir. Surely you realize who hired you, sir.” 

There is nothing scarier than a haunted house. Except when it’s a haunted hotel. An entire HOTEL of rooms, each with ghosts. A hotel with a mind of its own. And a family that’s snowed in, with a son with a gift of seeing beyond. YOW. This was such a claustrophobic, terrifying book that I almost died while reading it. No, literally. LIT-ra-lly, to quote Chris Treager from Parks and Rec. My babysitter gave me her old copy to read, and we were driving her home (me with my nose buried in the book, oblivious to the outside world) when an old woman broadsided our car. Everyone on the right side of the car was fine. I wasn’t on the right side of the car. So, thanks, lady, for splitting my face open! I wasn’t at all sad when you died a few years later of being extremely old! (Calm down, people who think I’m a scary Frankenstein. I had an amazing ER doc and I was a young kiddo with all that healthy glowy young-person skin. Healed up beautifully. You can barely, barely see the scar, unless you’re all up in my face. And if you’re all up in my face, what the hell? Back off, bucko.) ANYWAY, after the bleeding and the stitches and my mom’s broken bones and whatnot, and my dad rushing to the ER, the minute we got home, I said, “Where’s the car?” and my dad said, “Towed to the junkyard, it’s totaled,” and I was SO UPSET and started WEEPING and my dad was all, HOLY HELL AMY IS BROKEN WHAT IS HAPPENING until I explained “My…book…is…in…the…car.” So my dad, who – listen, I will totally punch you in the face twice if you disagree with me on this – is the best dad in the history of dads took his PTSD’d kid to the junkyard to get her copy of The Shining from the demolished car where he almost lost his entire family. He pulled it out of the backseat and it was all covered in blood and he was like, “Um, Amy, let’s get you another copy of this at the bookstore tomorrow, because, gross,” and I was all, “No, don’t worry, I was halfway done anyway, and only the first half is gore-covered and it’s kind of appropriate, given the subject matter.” So. Yeah. I kind of have a soft spot for The Shining

Also, “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” And the ghostly parties. And the ghostly barroom. And the writer’s block. And the slow madness that starts seeping in. Just utterly, utterly masterful, all the way around. I’m sure I didn’t get it when I read it as a kid, but don’t you worry. I’ve read it numerous times since. 

And I know King wasn’t in love with the movie adaptation, but I’m sorry, Steve, I am. Nicholson RULED that role. I know you thought he looked crazy going into it, but see, young Nicholson looks almost exactly like my beloved uncle? So I didn’t think that he started crazy. I think he started CHARISMATIC and AWESOME, like my uncle, and then that turned into madness. I love the movie. Also, those twins? UGH. LOVE. 

3.      The Stand (1978) 

“Man may have been made in the image of God, but human society was made in the image of His opposite number, and is always trying to get back home.” 

This is one sprawling, amazing, fantastic, heartbreaking series. I read it first in high school, then again in college, then a few more times since, and I discover more things every time I pick it up. I am, and remain, head-over-heels for Nick Andros. He is one of my long-term literary boyfriends. I’m going to spoil you here – because listen, you’ve read this, or you’ve watched the mini-series, and if you haven’t, well, what the hell’s wrong with you? And do it, already! – but when Nick died? The first time I read the book? I put it down. I put it down and I walked AWAY from it. I was so upset because it was like a FAMILY MEMBER had died. I didn’t pick it back up for days because I didn’t want to see the aftermath of that, and if I stayed in the dark, I didn’t have to. A BOOK. A BOOK did that. Can you imagine that kind of power? When people tell me that King’s a hack and they don’t read “that KIND” of books, I just laugh, because what KIND, exactly, are you talking about? The kind that make a person so upset they don’t want to pick it up because the emotions it causes are so painful they don’t want to have to experience them? Yeah, I can see why you wouldn’t want to read that KIND of book, too. Good. More for me. 

Nick. Flagg – ugh, seriously, the scariest. Larry and his guitar. Effing Nadine and her hair turning white. Poor Harold, who I hated so much the first time around, then, on the re-read, I had a lot of sympathy for, because he was so SAD and so PATHETIC and just so goddamn LONELY that it turned him bitter and twisted. Tom Cullen and his M-O-O-N. The Trashcan Man, and his “all for you!” Sweet Stu and Frannie. Nick, my wonderful and selfless and beautiful sacrificial lamb. Goddamn, but I love this book. 

2.     The Dark Tower Series (1982-2004) 

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. 

I know. This is kind of cheating. But you can’t name just ONE Dark Tower novel. That’s like naming one chapter out of a novel as your favorite. It wouldn’t make sense without looking at it as a whole. This is one hell of a series. Are there some weird missteps? And some things I would have done differently? Sure. But overall? It’s just about one of the most successful series of novels I’ve ever read. 

I love westerns. I love sweeping sagas. I love recurring characters. I loved how things would randomly fit into the Dark Tower-verse from other King novels here and there, and you felt like you were in the know if you caught them. I equally loved and hated that King inserted himself into the series – equal parts awesome and hubris-filled. But did it make me cry? Yes. Absolutely. Who WOULDN’T want the chance to play with their most beloved characters? 

And Jesus, but Oy. (I have one friend who’s just now reading the last book. @nikkisticks! STOP READING THIS NOW!) OK, I knew people were not going to come to a good end in this book. I steeled myself for deaths. Jake’s death – ouch. Then Eddie’s – oh, man, that was not an easy one. But I did it. I kept on keeping on. Then King KILLED me. He killed off my favorite character in the series. Oy. You don’t kill an animal in a bloody, horrendous, self-sacrificing way and not expect me to react. I was reading the end of the book in my car on my lunch break and when I read that I SCREAMED. Then I sobbed. For about ten minutes. I know. I might be a little unhinged. I totally own that. 

I don’t hate the end of this book as much as some people. I don’t love it – I think it was about 20% copout and 80% inspired – but I don’t hate it as  much as some people who just went banana-cuckoo over it, screaming all “we’ve been CHEATED what the FUUUUCK” when it was published. I trust King. He can lead me into the dark anytime. 

1.       It (1986) 

“…we all float down here…” 

I have never, and will probably never, in my whole life, be as scared by anything as I was reading this book. Freshman year of high school (I didn’t discover King until later in life, so I was a little late reading it.) Under the covers in my room. Reading with huge eyes. Sure every shadow was that effing sharp-toothed clown. Oh my God just the WORST. I had to leave the lights on when I was reading. ALL the lights. I was PETRIFIED. But GOOD petrified, you know? Like, scared, but AWESOME scared. Not, I’m in a haunted house and some goth kid with mint-flavored fake blood’s going to pop out at me that little bastard scared, but THIS IS SO AMAZING I CAN’T LOOK AWAY scared. 

I loved the Loser’s Club. (Ironic I’m at the Loser’s Table now, no? Oh, actually, no.) I loved each and every one of them. Especially my sarcastic, redheaded Richie. (You know me and gingers. Add “funny” to the ginger and I am GONE.) I read that book like it was my JOB. I’ve re-read it, too. I’ve actually read through two paperback copies. Like, read them to tatters, had to replace them, re-read them. My brother, who isn’t a reader, loves this book, even. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Frightening and heartbreaking and funny and warm and disturbing. Absolute tour-de-force. 

I don’t know what to expect from 11/22/63, which is now in my grubby little hands getting inappropriately fondled and MAN is it huge, and listen, contrary to popular belief? Size matters, kiddoes. I have purposely been staying away from reviews, because I like to go in knowing as little as possible. It’s about the Kennedy assassination. And time travel gone wrong. So if I go missing over the next week or so, I think you know where I’ll be. Couch, afghan, book, utterly lost. Thanks, Steve, in advance.

(Much love to my honey badger Cara – title’s in honor of you, babe!)


They made Hulk angry, and they didn’t like Hulk when he was angry.

Happy November! The gateway to winter, is what this is. ARE YOU READY FOR SOME WINTER? I yelled that like they do on the football programs. Don’t even tell me that the name of my blog is misleading. I HAVE SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE.

For fun, guess how many trick-or-treaters I got last night? No, guess. GUESS. If you guessed anything but ZERO you are WRONG. None! No trick-or-treaters. I didn’t even see any walking around outside. Did I get the day wrong or something? So now, guess who has three whole bags of mini-candy at her disposal? If you want some mini-candy, I’m your woman. I’m kidding, of course. You totally can’t have my candy. HANDS OFF I SAID.

I need to think of a name for these increasingly-more-common posts where I just blather on about a number of topics because listen, do you even KNOW how much awesome is in my brain? You can’t even imagine. MY BRAIN IS A PINATA OF AWESOME. …and now I think we have the name for these posts.

CARA HAS STOLEN MY ABILITY TO SLEEP

So yesterday, I wrote about how ten years ago I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a shadowy man with sparkly eyes standing over my bed and I was frozen. BOO! Ha. You weren’t expecting that because Halloween is OVER, right? GOTCHA SUCKERS. Anyway, so after she read it, Cara, my honey badger of a friend, said “You were visited by a shadow person.” So of course, as you do, I thought, hmm, what is a shadow person?

THANK YOU SO MUCH CARA NOW I’M NEVER SLEEPING AGAIN.

Shadow people are a THING. A THING THAT PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT. And I read THREE SEPARATE WEBSITES that VERIFIED THIS. But there were more. MORE! Than THREE!

Shadow people are sometimes seen out of the corner of your eye, when you’re just going about your day all la la la, and sometimes standing over you when you are sleeping. Oh, wait, you totally want a picture HERE IS A HORRIFYING ARTIST’S RENDITION.

What's with the steam rising from the Shadow People? Are they hot? THEY'RE ALSO HOT? This is INSANITY.

And HERE are some things I learned from a TOTALLY LEGIT WEBSITE THAT WAS TRYING TO SELL ME GHOST HUNTING EQUIPMENT. I’m totally picking up a Melmeter. They’re named after the creator, you know. His name is Mel.

“…the movement of shadow people is said to be quick and jerky, sometimes with stops, starts, and changes of direction, not at all like the smooth floating motion often associated with ghost sighting. “

“…some people report being able to discern that the shadow people are wearing a fedora style hat like a 1930’s-era gangster or a cloak.”

“…there are very few reports of positive interactions with shadow people.”

“Unlike the friendly ghost sightings that are fairly common, encounters with shadow folk are almost always frightening or shocking.   In fact, even the experts that view shadow men as a subset of ghosts, usually concede that shadow men are a malignant beings.”

“One of the many ideas is that shadow people represent a Thought-form, ghost or demon that was created by extraordinary pain, suffering, and trauma in a dying persons life.  Others suggest that shadow folk have been purposefully summoned from another realm through black magic or other occult practices.”

THESE ARE JUST UTTERLY NIGHTMARE-INDUCING FACTOIDS.

The worst is the FEDORA. Why is the shadow person dressed like a gangsta? Is he coming to make me an offer I can’t refuse, seeeee? Am I going to sleep with the fishes? I AM TOTALLY SO MUCH MORE SCARED NOW.

Mandy at Borkadventures had a similar situation happen to her, only hers was a girl, and Mandy said she didn’t seem malevolent. I’m going to assume Mandy’s Shadow Person was not wearing a fedora. MANDY. Was your girl wearing a FEDORA? I think this is something we should figure out. Probably it’s important since I’m going to become a ghost hunter now that I found that orb and I’m getting a Melmeter and all.

Also, it’s sad there are no positive interactions with shadow people. Now that I think about it, I blame the fedoras. It’s hard to be jolly when you’re wearing a fedora. Because fedoras make you want to be all serious, like you’re a grandpa. Or one of the Mad Men. Someone really needs to talk to the shadow people and tell them, listen! Cheer up! And maybe tell them to wear something more cheerful. I suggest a cap like those kids in Newsies wore. They were dancing ALL OVER. And I didn’t see it but wasn’t it set in the Depression, or something? If Newsies caps can make you dance even though businessmen are jumping out of skyscrapers, Shadow Men, WEAR ONE.

I’M SAD NO ONE COLLECTED THOSE LITTLE SPOONS WITH STATE CAPITALS ON THE HANDLES

So this article was in the paper this weekend and I cut it out because it just tickled me so much I wanted to read it AGAIN. I think this is a totally interesting window into my psyche you should note, by the way. Me reading the paper every Sunday: I read the inserts and such first. I throw the sports section to the wolverines. (I don’t KNOW what wolverines. THE wolverines. It’s a SAYING. It’s NOT a saying? Well, I just SAID it, doesn’t that MAKE it a saying? Good grief.) I work from the inside out and finally read the news part, which is usually pretty boring but it’s like taking your medication: you have to, really, don’t you? And then sometimes you find things like this and it makes it WORTH YOUR TIME.

FINE, I’ll give a synopsis in case you don’t want to click. Do we need to have a talk about your energy levels again, Clyde?

It is an article about some international autocrats and the memorabilia they collected when their houses were raided and/or just that we know about because we haven’t killed them yet. That was kind of harsh. Sorry. Probably we’re not planning on killing ALL the international badguy leaders, right? I don’t know anything about politics.

The things that stood out, quoted from the article:

“In one of Saddam’s mansions, U.S. forces uncovered what’s been described as a ‘1960s-style love nest, a mirrored bedroom, lamps shaped like women, and fantasy-art paintings featuring scantily-clad, bodacious women and buff warriors.’

The Guardian’s art critic…said the “artwork” was “dredged from some red-lit back alley of the brain.”

“A group of Western journalists in 1952 received a tour of the Cairo residence of King Farouk I, Egypt’s last king…Time’s correspondent reported ‘… a bedroom filled with a weird mixture of pornography, childishness and sentimentality — mild glamour shots like those advertising Chicago burlesque bars; Kodachrome nudes complete with pocket viewers; trick photographs that could be squeezed to make a fan dancer bump and grind.'”

And…my absolute WTFFFFF favorite…

“(Moammar) Gadhafi also had a well-documented obsession with U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, who he called ‘my darling black African woman.’ Rebel forces found an album of photos of Rice in his residence in Tripoli, a discovery the U.S. State Department called ‘deeply bizarre and deeply creepy.'”

Um. I know. I KNOW. You guys, I totally know. These are baddies. I get it. But come ON. Saddam Hussein liked things like this:

(I know that’s probably not what he liked but this makes me laugh. What’s going on here? I don’t know. VOODOO FANGS! Someone’s RIDING A ZEBRA! Also I think maybe the woman’s saving the man, which, +1!)

Lamps shaped like women and “bodacious” fantasy-art paintings. TOTALLY FUN SADDAM.

(The Guardian’s art critic was SO UP IN ARMS, right? OH MY STARS AND GARTERS!!!!)

I also like King Farouk’s wacky photos that you can squeeze to make a dancer bump and grind. Pretty sneaky, sis. I like to think of this old-timey king all squeezin’ his photos and makin’ ’em do nudie dances and laughing and laughing and FINE probably also getting all hot, because he’s totally a weirdo perv.

BTW, this is King Farouk I. Um, he’s totally the kind of person who’s squeezin’ the Charmin, right? WHOA. Stylin’ mustache, chap. And a FEZ! You don’t often see a fez pulled off this serial-killery. This guy totally has a van with no windows he trolls public parks with. YOU GO KING FAROUK I.

And then, there’s Moammar, who TOTALLY HAD A TEEN-BEAT-ESQUE STALKER BINDER DEDICATED TO CONDOLEEZA RICE. And a little NICKNAME for her. I can’t EVEN. What is happening. And I just have to wonder, what exactly went through Condoleeza’s head when she found out about this? Are you outwardly disgusted but inwardly flattered? Are you all-the-way-through disgusted? Do you laugh? Do you cry? WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN THIS PERSON WANTS TO LICK YOU LIKE A LOLLIPOP.

Doesn't he totally kind of look like a disgruntled bullfighter here? "Damn you, El Toro. You have bested me again. Touche, El Toro. Touche."

I TOTALLY WORK WITH THIS PERSON

I don’t know if anyone remembers this:

M. PIEDLOURDE!

(Oh, I can hear you NOW, you HEATHENS. M. WHAT? M. WHO? That’s Mr. Heavyfoot, for those of you who are not TOTALLY BILINGUAL IN FRENCH like I am. OK, FINE, I’m like 1/8 bilingual. I can say, very clearly in French, “Please speak more slowly. I only speak a little French.” THIS IS HELPFUL WHEN TALKING TO FRENCH PEOPLE. Because listen, they totally talk the FASTEST. Yeah, yeah, scoff it up, I can ALSO say “grapefruit,” “stop,” “why,” “fire,” and “library” – and string them all together in an awesomely perplexing sentence, “Stop! Why is a grapefruit on fire in the library?” – and when I was in Paris, I only got laughed at about 7/8 of the time I tried to speak French to the locals, which is where I got the 1/8 bilingual statistic from. I AM SO PROUD OF THIS ACCOMPLISHMENT. How, you ask, did I become this awesome? The answer is 6 years of French in high school and 2 in college. BAM I’M LIKE THE FRENCH MASTER BABY. It is totally the language of LOVE. And there, you see, is why I am SO SUCCESSFUL ROMANTICALLY.)

I work with Mlle. Piedlourde. SHE HAS THE LOUDEST FEET EVER ZOMG. And she walks past me 80 KABILLION times a DAY. Back and FORTH and back and FORTH and CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP LOUD LOUD SHOES I WANT TO HIT YOU WITH A CAST IRON FRYING PAAAAAAAANNNNNNNN

Sorry. Sorry. So, to entertain myself, and so I don’t brain her with a frying pan (I mean, I don’t even HAVE a frying pan at work, WHO HAS A FRYING PAN AT WORK HA HA HA) I pretend I’m listening to that jazzy little M. Piedlourde music as she walks by. Doo doo doo doodle oo-doo…

HULK MAD! HULK SMASH!

OK, disclaimer going in, here. I KNOW DEAD PEOPLE ARE UNFUNNY. I’m sorry, dead person. I am totally sorry you are dead. I am not laughing about the fact that you died. I am laughing at the events that led up to your death. I wish you had NOT died, if only because it would be interesting to find out WHAT THE HOLY HELL.

So yesterday I started seeing news stories titled “Man Dies in Struggle with Police at Latham Gym.” And hey, I used to live in Latham. It’s really close. So I’m totally morbid and wanted to know more! I like crazies.

Um.

Here’s the dealio, friends and neighbors and also pervs here for the scantily clad chick on the zebra. Yesterday, a guy at Gold’s Gym (and SIDEBAR, but does Gold’s Gym scare anyone else? It’s right next to Kmart here, and when I used to go to Kmart, I’d be afraid to walk to my car because the testosterone level in the parking lot was SO EFFING HIGH) “fell off his elliptical machine” and then “went over to the machine where another man was working out, increased the speed of the machine and punched the man in the face.”

Was that enough? No. No, that was not enough for Roid Rage Ricardo*. (*Not his real name.)

Roid Rage Ricardo, “who police described as 6-feet-1-inch tall, about 230 pounds and very muscular, then pushed over several universal weight machines, each weighing over 600 pounds…then went into an office where he ripped computers from the wall and toppled office furniture.” (Which I totally daydream about doing here at the office EVERY SINGLE DAY, just so you know.)

The police arrived. They tased him. (TASE HIM BRO. Please. He’s totally being a nuisance.) The taser brought him down. A cop was standing over? on? his back cuffing him, when he “stood up with the officer on his back.” Like they were playing that chicken game in the water that they play on old-timey movies!!! Totally fun. Only with TASERS. And HANDCUFFS. Also, are you imagining him growling? I am.

He then grabbed the taser from the cops, may or may not have tased himself, and had a heart attack and died not long after. He’d been tased 4-5 times total.

OK. LET ME REITERATE. I’m sorry he’s dead. It is sad. I don’t THINK anyone who knows him is reading this? But you never know. If you are friends or family with this person, my condolences. I am sorry for your loss. He might have been the kind of person who rescued puppies on his free time while also reading to blind war orphans, who knows. The NYS cops have recently been accused of overusing their tasers; whether or not that happened in this case, I can’t say. It does sound like they weren’t able to restrain him without one. Eyewitnesses say he was out of control and they were afraid. Three or four cops were injured bringing him down.

BUT WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON AT THE GOLD’S GYM.

Fell off his machine? Randomly went over to another guy’s machine, made him run fast fast fast like it was torture, then PUNCHED HIM IN THE FACE? Then TOTALLY Hulk-handsed the weight machines and the office!

Steroids, right? Steroids. One of my co-workers who is a killer of joy and also always insinuates himself into the conversation unneccessarily said that it was probably a brain tumor but what kind of brain tumor makes you all muscley and go to Gold’s Gym to work out and then Hulk out all over the gym equipment, I ask you? That’s an unlikely explanation, Joykiller. I mean, I guess it could also be angel dust. Didn’t that make Helen Hunt think she could fly on an ABC Afterschool Special or something? Maybe STEROIDS LACED WITH ANGEL DUST. And then maybe some PCP and the marijuana cigarettes. THIS IS HOW MY GRANDMOTHER TALKS ABOUT SMOKING THE DRUGS BTW.

THIS IS WHY I REFUSE TO WORK OUT I AM TOTALLY JUSTIFIED NOW.


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