Category Archives: Snark

People say, “You must have been the class clown.” And I say, “No, I wasn’t. But I sat next to the class clown, and I studied him.”

Once, a friend was taking a Humor Writing course, and I attended one with her because I had nothing better to do at the time.

I don’t remember much, other than the class was SO EFFING BORING YOU GUYS SERIOUSLY.

Like, the teacher was this old guy with the “Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?” voice, and nothing he was talking about was funny. At all. Except making fun of it afterwards. That was funny. Because my friend and I were HYSTERICAL. But that’s really neither here nor there.

The only two things I remember him saying were things you ABSOLUTELY HAD TO DO TO MAKE SOMETHING YOU ARE WRITING FUNNY was to make up nonsense words, and to use a lot of alliteration.

So, using his rules (I’m sure there were more, but I was drawing unflattering but super-accurate and awesome caricatures of him on notepaper I stole from my friend through most of the class so I don’t remember anything else) the sentence “I was beaten by a group of thugs outside the drugstore last Tuesday” is NOT funny, but “I was roughed-up by ruffians, rather raucously, rowrgh!” IS HYSTERICAL.

So of course after the class my friend and I tried to think of the worst situations we could, then make them funny by applying the RULES OF COMEDY to them. Like cancer, and stabbings. OH! Also, I remember him saying the word “Cheetos” was never NOT funny. So I guess you were also always supposed to say the word Cheetos in everything you wrote.

Now, there’s always a lot of debate whether writing humor can be taught, or it’s something that you just either have, or you don’t. Here’s the thing. I think almost anything can be taught. But I think, with humor writing, you also have to know what’s funny before you start. Like, you can take a shit-ton of creative writing classes if you want to write fiction, but if you don’t have an ear for dialogue or any idea how to come up with plot points without them having holes so big you could pilot the Titanic through them or maybe you just TOTALLY SUCK AT WRITING, probably no amount of classes you take, and no amount of good books that you read, is going to fix that. I think there’s more than a little innate talent in every good writer, whether they’re writing the next Great Gatsby or the next Me Talk Pretty One Day.

But this does not stop the internet in trying to tell you how to be funny. No, no no. The internet wants you to know how you can write things that are funny, and that you DON’T NEED ANY INNATE TALENT. And who am I to argue with the internet? No one. No one at all.

Now, people tell me I am funny. And I’m inclined to agree, only because a., I crack myself up daily, b., my dad is hysterical, and I sound more like him every day, and c., people keep reading my blog, so probably it doesn’t totally suck a bag of dicks. So here, I’d like to help you be funny, too. Because I can’t even tell you how many people are all “AMY! I wish I could be as FUNNY as you! Isn’t Amy HYSTERICAL!” And I’m totally helpful. If it helps, I wish you were all as funny as me, too. Funny people are my favorites. If you were all funny, I would love you MORE. It’s lonely up here on top of Candy Mountain, Charlieeeeee.

Plus, although I’m already totally the most hysterical? Maybe I can be FUNNIER. So we’re learning TOGETHER, my little hamhocks!

So, you already know that you have to use a lot of alliteration (repetition of a consonant sound in the first syllables of words in a phrase), say “Cheetos” a lot, and make up nonsense words. Awesome. You’re totally already on your way.

Next, we get advice from here, where the writer tells us the following:

Write a comedy piece, then re-read it and edit it at least fifteen times. Um. That seems…excessive? Fifteen times? If I re-read something I write twice, it’s a good day with a lot of free time, seriously. FIFTEEN TIMES? I can assure you that nothing I say would be funny if I had to read it fifteen times. I’d probably want to stab myself in the eye.

“Humor is based on truth, literalness, humility, objectivity and possibility” (she goes on to say that these are all traits we have as children) So…we should write humor as if we are children? Hmm. Well, I do have to say that The Nephew is just about the funniest, without even trying to be. Also, he totally cracks himself up regularly. Which is awesome, and apparently hereditary. So ok, point taken, I will write more children’s humor. Here’s one that cracked The Nephew up over the holidays: “I made you this Lego dog! Want to see me smash it? Aw! Now I am sad, I have smashed my Lego dog! Boo hoo hoo hoo!” Good one, right? I know. The Nephew certainly thought so. It made him laugh so hard he tipped over and kicked up his little heels and say “Again! Again!” I win aunting.

In order to understand how to write humor, you have to understand why people laugh when they are physically tickled (she goes on to say that you laugh when you are tickled because it is a physical assault and you’re not allowed to physically retaliate, so laughing is the only defense you’re able to put up) How does this analogy work, exactly, then? Humor writing, like tickling, is a physical assault, and you’re not allowed to attack the writer, so you laugh like a moron instead? I don’t think your analogy means what you think it means. Also, who says you can’t physically attack someone for tickling you? I can tell you right now the last time someone will tickle you is the first time you kick them in the nuts.

Exaggeration is funny. Yes. It IS funny. It’s funnier than a gazillion twenty-gallon hats overflowing with sour cream, it’s so effing funny. 

Some things are funny in themselves, like anti-aging cream or the traits you share with your dog You know what would be hysterical? A dog covered in anti-aging cream. Mostly because that shit is expensive, yo, and also useless? So I’d like to use it all on a dog, then see the person who spent like a week’s pay on useless garbage be all “MY ANTI-AGING CREEEEEAAAAAMMMM!” Heh. Also, wouldn’t the dog just be so confused?

This seems like it wasn’t all that helpful. My apologies. In my defense, this woman’s name was Rochelle, so I thought it had to be a joke.

OK, let’s move on. This comes from a blog by the guy who draws Dilbert. I’m already a little worried. I know a lot of people think Dilbert comic strips are funny but I don’t get it. I think because I work in an office, they’re not funny, they’re just my daily life, and there’s nothing funny about that. Other than death. THE SWEET SWEET RELEASE OF DEATH.

So Scott Adams tells us that in order to be funny like him, we need to pick two of these six topics, or else it’s not funny: Clever, Cute, Bizarre, Cruel, Naughty, or Recognizable.

So a story about a sexy librarian with three heads would be SO EFFING HYSTERICAL because it’s bizarrely naughty. Point taken, Scott Adams, and I will be sure to blog about that later. Unless one of you guys wants that one. I’ll let you have it, I’m not grabby-hands about dirty three-headed librarians at all. I’m a sharer.


Use simple sentences, as if you were writing an email to a friend. Um…my emails to my friends sound like my blog. Nothing about me is simple. Just ask my friends. Sorry, friends. Wait, does this mean I have to use LOL and TTYL and ZOMG and shit? And use 2 instead of to? I AM HORRIBLE AT THAT. I don’t even do that when I’m texting. Would that make things FUNNIER? Shit shit SHIT. I feel like I’ve let you all down. I AM SO SORRY.

Be smart, but not academic. So you’re ok to talk about the periodic table of the elements, but not to mention beryllium. CHECK AND MATE SCOTT ADAMS.

Humor is about people. Period. I don’t know. My cat’s pretty effing hysterical. He fell off the bookcase yesterday and knocked over a lamp.

Leave room for the imagination. Or what? OR WHAT? This totally sounds threatening, like “if you don’t leave room for the imagination…the imagination will break in, under the cover of darkness…and stab you to death with a knife made up of pure conjecture.”

Use funny words such as “vagina” or “shish kebob” whenever possible. I’m sorry, but the preceding sentence has me in hysterics. I’m going to use those two words on my blog more often. Probably in combination with one another. Seriously, you should all try to work these two words into conversation, like, immediately. Maybe even in the same sentence. Here, I’ll give you an example: “Maureen, is that a shish kebob, or are you just having problems with your vagina? CHEETOS.” (I threw in the Cheetos because you have to, in order to make things funnier. It’s totally a rule.)

Refer to animals and pop culture a lot. I already DO this. But not to be funny. Because I know a lot about them. Who knew it was also funny? WINNING.

Exaggeration is never not funny. Wow, Rochelle and Scott Adams agree on this one! A kajillion times, they agree!

Then Scott Adams finishes his post with this: “Humor is like any other human capacity; some people are born with more of it than others. No amount of advice will help if you don’t have the humor gene.”

Oh, ok, since Scott Adams agrees with my theory that you kind of have to be funny to write funny and you can take all the classes and still not be funny when you’re done, disregard all the snarking I did on him up there. He’s obviously brilliant.

OK, one more. We can’t stop at two. I think three is funnier than two, right?

This is an eHow on how to write humor, so you know it will be good and smart.

Be observant. Oh! Good. I WILL THANK YOU. Because there’s nothing funny about walking around with your eyes shut. Well, I guess if you trip over something and fall, that’s funny, in itself, though. I AM TORN.

Humor is pain. The author says that people tend to find a lot of humor in the suffering of others. OK, if you mean like America’s Funniest Home Videos-style suffering, which I personally don’t find at all funny but some people do, fine, but I don’t especially howl at genocide, guy who wrote this eHow.

Accentuate the negative. The author says, “like celebrity roasts!” LISTEN THESE AREN’T FUNNY. Do people really find these funny? I totally find these cringe-worthy. I won’t even turn them on. It’s like they’re making fun of someone for money and the person being “roasted” has to sit there and grin. It’s like HIGH SCHOOL all OVER AGAIN. No, thank you, I had enough of that in the eighties and nineties, thanks.

Surprise people. BOO! Are you totally laughing? Oh, wait, sorry, I’m supposed to be talking in text-speak, aren’t I, are you ROTFLYMFAO? I know. You’re welcome.

Exaggerate. Ok, that’s the trifecta. I’m going to exaggerate more from now on. What’s that? I couldn’t exaggerate more if I TRIED? I’m like the QUEEN of exaggeration? Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you. But there’s always room for improvement, Heckle McGee.

Confuse people. I’m ZIGGING! I’m ZAGGING! Are you laughing yet? This guy says an example of this is “standing in line at the DMV behind a Viking.” ZOMG people like this are the ones who write those Capital One credit card commercials with the Vikings, which leads to someone thinking a Geico Caveman series is a good idea! I HAVE YOU FIGURED OUT EHOW GUY. Also, I have to disagree with this. The only laughter you get if you confuse people is CONFUSED laughter. Which, if you’re a connoisseur of laughter, is the same as polite laughter. And no one likes polite laughter. It’s like when a man takes his pants off for the first time when he’s with his lady-friend (or man-friend, don’t mean to exclude anyone) and the man- or lady-friend says “Oh! Well! Isn’t that just the cutest thing!” NO ONE LIKES THAT.

Be specific. I specifically think these rules can bite me until I’m dead a million times over, is that specific enough for you?

Use funny words and sounds. Listen, douchecanoe, you can go straight to Ronkonkoma for all I care. (See what I did there? Total brilliance. Also: VAGINA SHISH KEBOB CHEETOS.) This guy says to use the word “rhubarb.” I don’t think rhubarb is all that funny, because whenever I hear it, I think that it’s one of those words bad community theaters (NOT MINE) use onstage to pretend they’re talking, all “peas and carrots peas and carrots rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb” and that’s not funny to me, that’s just sad. If this reference confuses you, hie you immediately to Netflix or your library or the video store, if your town hasn’t turned them all into Dunkin’ Donuts, and get a little movie called Waiting for Guffman, also known as THE BEST MOVIE ABOUT COMMUNITY THEATER EVER MADE. No, no need to thank me now. You can thank me after you’ve watched it and your stomach’s stopped hurting from laughing so hard. “If there’s an empty space, just fill it with a line, that’s what I like to do. Even if it’s from another show.”  LOVE LOVE LOVE.

OK! Well, there are three very good* (*not really very good at all) lists of ways to be funny. The main ones that keep coming up over and over seem to be:

Use funny words and sounds

So now you KNOW how to be funny!

I expect you to use these tips ALL THE TIME NOW. Go around and be all nonsensical and say vagina and Weehawken and shish kebob and Cheetos ELEVENTY GAZILLION TIMES. Now you are the funniest! Don’t you feel awesome? I know you do. I’m glad I could help. Probably you’ll want to name your firstborn after me; I’m cool with that. I suggest naming him or her Vagina Cheetos, though, because Amy is totally overused, and also, can you even IMAGINE how FUNNY that child would be, with a name like that? I mean, the LAUGHTER that would result JUST FROM GETTING HIS OR HER NAME CALLED IN CLASS. You can’t NOT do it now. I mean, seriously.

(Title is a quote from Waiting for Guffman. If you haven’t seen it, seriously, GO GO GO. I mean it, my little macaroons! It’ll make your YEAR.)

Oh, Randy! You came! And you gave! Without taking!

Hi! Hi. How are things? Good? Your Monday going great? What? Mine? Yeah, it’s fantabulous. As Mondays are, you know. I mean, what isn’t exciting about a Monday, what with the working and the deadlines and the rushy-rushy nonsense? Nothing, is what. Mondays are JUST THE BEST.

Anyway! So let’s talk about blogs, okay? I know, I know, we talked about blogs YESTERDAY. And we’re doing it again! Today! Suck on it, haters, I got some THINGS that need SAYING, you feel me? Why am I talking like I’m from the street? I don’t know. I think I might have accidentally left the television on Law and Order: SVU last night while I was puttering around the living room or something.

So I do this blog thing. And listen, I just dig it the most, baby. It makes me irrationally happy. Like, I’d probably rather blog than do almost anything. Which is good, because otherwise, it’s a little confusing why I’m here at all. And I’m super-happy with this blog, and the work I do over at The Loser’s Table (which I have to do more of, speaking of – SORRY SORRY LOSERS I AM COMING RIGHT OVER SOON I PROMISE) and Insatiable Booksluts (again, I promise, new Death Match as soon as I can! Damn you holiday season full of busy-ness!) Do I know what I’m doing? Eh, I don’t know. Sort of? People read what I write. People seem to like it. I like the people who seem to like it an awful damn lot.

Here’s the question I get a lot. Is this me? I mean, is this how I really talk in real, real life?

Yes. And no.

If I love you and I send you an email from real live me, does it sound like this blog? Yes. Sometimes. I use my all-caps. I like parenthetical asides. I make words up all willy-nilly if the English language doesn’t have a word that quite suits what I want to say. Sure. Sure I do that. Because listen, if I’d created a completely different persona to write my blog with, I think it would have gotten old quickly, and I would have probably dropped it like I’ve done with the millions of other things in my life I’ve gotten bored with and moved on from. Like quilting, and beading, and sleeping 8 hours a night.

The people who know me best have said that reading this blog is like having a conversation with me daily. So yes. Yes, how I write here is very much how I write (and talk) in real life.

But also, I’m not always this hyper. Sometimes I’m a calm kitty. I know! Total shocker, yes? It’s called exaggeration. I do it for effect. It makes things over in these parts more EXCITING. But sometimes I write nice, calm posts. Like the John Lennon post last week. I’m totally bendy. I can do it ALL, baby.

Anyway, this is going off-topic so far that we’ve gotten to the bad part of town and we need to lock all the car doors in case someone tries to get in the car while distracting us by squeegeeing our windows with a dirty squeegee.

I don’t have any advice on HOW to write a blog. I just WRITE a blog. Is it good? Subjective. Maybe. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just a hell of a lot of fun for me, and if you get that, cool, you can hop on my trolley, and if you don’t, great, another trolley’s coming right up, maybe you’ll like that conductor better, I don’t know.

So this weekend, a friend re-posted one of my posts (the one about “it is what it is”) on Facebook, and tagged a couple of his friends who he thought would enjoy it.

That resulted in this: the single most enjoyable blog critique I have ever received in my LIFE.

“I got to the second paragraph and realized I’d need to drink heavily before reading the rest. Where does one sentence stop and another begin? How do you justify entire and completely different thoughts parenthesized within a single, 6-line sentence? WHY DO THINGS NEED TO BE CAPITALIZED? I haven’t finished reading it yet, but I guess it is what it is”.

Now, before you, my loyal and loving minions, get all up-in-arms and “what the hell” and “what a douche” – please know I am not in the least bit offended by this. This has brought me more joy than you can even imagine. It is SO PERPLEXED. And it is SO INDIGNANT. Also, everything is spelled correctly (“parenthesized” made me shiver with delight) – and it’s a commenter on Facebook, where spelling and grammar are, as I’m sure you’re all aware, apparently optional. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with this person right now. AND, you KNOW he’s in love with me. Because, if we’ve learned anything from third grade, it’s that the boys that insult you the MOST also LOVE you the most, right? Yes yes yes.

I’m going to ignore the fact that later on in the conversation he told me that my usage of caps lock was “trite and over-done” because our burgeoning love is JUST THAT TRUE and JUST THAT RIGHT. Also, I hate conflict. I was telling @lahikmajoe about this this weekend. One time, when I worked at the video store, my big old mouth almost got me in a fight. Because there was this chick that worked there. And I was pretty sure she was an out lesbian. So someone said, in conversation, “you know, that girl who’s so mean to everyone” and I said, “Yeah, I know, the lesbian?” NOT DEROGATORILY I LIKE LESBIANS VERY MUCH. It was like saying, “the one with brown hair” or “the one with the nose ring.” I don’t give a shit what gender gets you off, for the love of Pete. Anyway, someone passing by heard that and told her “Amy called you a dyke” (I would NEVER EVER SAY DYKE) and so she showed up at the store one night when I wasn’t working and told my BFF to call me and get me there so she could kick my ass in the parking lot for calling her a dyke. (A., why’d you come on a night I wasn’t scheduled? B., I was like 23 at the time, that’s a little old for a parking-lot rumble, no?) So he called me and told me “Under no circumstances come here because she is scary. Also probably a lesbian so I’m not sure why she’s so mad.” And I kind of wanted to come there? Because I’ve never been in a fight, and maybe you should experience everything once. But he was all “NO NO AMY STAY HOME NO ONE LIKES FIGHTS” so I did. Then a year later she came into my new place of employment with a woman and they were holding hands and also kissing so I’m a little perplexed as to why she wanted to kick my ass for something that was true, but I guess that’s neither here nor there. I really didn’t say dyke. Who says dyke? Assholes, that’s who.

Dear Facebook Friend of a Friend Whose Name I Will Not Use Because I Think You Might Sue Me So I Will Call You Randy (aka Randy):

First, thank you. Thank you for one of the most enjoyable blog critiques I’ve ever had. No! I’m completely serious. I know it sounds like I’m being sarcastic? But I’m not. There was a skit once, on Kids in the Hall, where Dave Foley was sad because everything he said came out sarcastic, and he was so lonely because no one wanted to befriend the sarcastic man. I am the lonely sarcastic man in this scenario, Randy. I mean no sarcasm in this remark.

Let’s break this down, shall we?

First, thank you for reading a whole paragraph and part of a second. That’s further than a lot of people get! You’re the best. Are we in love? I think we might be. I like the direction this is going, Randy. I like it very much.

Second, as I told you on Facebook, yes. I always recommend that any of my readers drink heavily. Unless you’re in AA. Then probably don’t. I’d hate to hinder your recovery. That would be a total douche move on my part. And don’t tell me if you are in AA. The second A prohibits you telling me, I’m pretty sure. Listen, if you drink, I recommend Saturdays. We have Wine Saturdays on Twitter. Do you have a Twitter account, Randy? If you do, you should follow me. I’m a hoot over there. And as we’re totally in love now, I think you’d probably want to follow me. We could talk about cute stuff in our Twitter feed and people would know we were in love, and it would just be the best. In order for this long-distance relationship we’re in now to work, you really have to put some effort in.

As for where one sentence stops and the other begins, the rule of thumb is: follow the period. See? I just used one there. And another! Sometimes I end sentences with question marks; sometimes with exclamation points. Once in a while, I totally utilize an interrobang!? But you get the idea, Randy. End stop; new sentence, starting with a capital letter. Or sometimes with a new paragraph, I suppose. See how helpful I am? Just what you want in a mate, right? Thought so.

Justification of my parenthetical asides? Well, Randy, sad to say, I have none. Wait, no. That’s not wholly true. I have undiagnosed ADD, and sometimes I think of something SO EXCITING I can’t wait to share it. So I pop it in, parenthetically. I’m sorry if you think it didn’t flow. It probably didn’t. We’re still totally in love though, right? I’m a little worried you might not want me to meet your family now, and I’m pretty sure I’d rock at family-meeting.

Now, let’s discuss caps lock. That’s a dealbreaker, my adorable new sweetpea. I love my capslock. And my capslock loves me! I’m sure you totally spent your whole weekend reading all of my archives, and also my FAQ, where I explain my capslock usage, but in case you need a refresher: I actually KNOW that italicizing is classier and the way you’re SUPPOSED to do things. I don’t like doing things the way people tell me to, Randy. (Probably you’ll get that once we move in together. When’s that happening, by the way? Soon, right? I think you’ll like what I bring to the table. I have a red toaster. A RED TOASTER RANDY. I bet you have just a boring white toaster or something! Think of the joy you’ll get when making toast in my – I mean OUR – red toaster! The most joy, Randy. THE MOST JOY. Oh, wait, did I lose my train of thought? HOW UNLIKE ME RANDY.) So to answer your question: why? Why do things “need” to be capitalized? Well, they don’t NEED to be. But how boring would life be if we just did the bare minimum? You don’t seem like much of a go-getter, Randy, to tell you the truth. Like, I bet you don’t even like socks with wacky things on them. I would totally buy you wacky socks, Randy. AND WRITE YOU LOVE LETTERS ALL IN CAPS RANDY. Let’s do this.

Here’s what I like most about your comment, Randy. It ends on a note of hope. “I haven’t finished reading it YET.” (Capslock most definitely mine.) Yet? YET, Randy? So you’re going to, then. Don’t even tell me we’re not totally the most head-over-heels in love you’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure this is that meet-cute they’re always talking about in romantic comedies, isn’t it. WON’T WE LAUGH AT OUR WEDDING RANDY. Whoo. Listen, though, I wrote a whole post about wedding rules, so you’re going to want to read that to brush up on my dos and don’ts. Like, if you face-cake-smush, we’re going to throw down.

Also, just to briefly address your comment of “trite” and “over-done” from last night: I’ll try harder, baby. I’ll work my way up to “hackneyed.” And – do I dare say it? – I’m going to strive for “jejune.” I’ll do that. I’ll do that for YOU. I’m totally into making this work. I’d do anything for love, Randy. NO I WON’T DO THAT RANDY.

So, in conclusion, Randy, I’m so glad we’re in love. And just so you know, I discussed it with my Twitter feed and when you propose (I’m really into platinum rings, just BTW, no, no, babe, nothing gaudy, I’m totally low-maintenance) I have to clear my acceptance with my minions, because if they’re not happy, NO ONE’S HAPPY RANDY. Don’t worry though, darling. I’m pretty sure they’ll love you. I mean, your impeccable grammar usage alone already has me all fluttery.

I eagerly await our lifetime of love together, Randy. I’m readying my capslock now.

LOVE, AMY. (SIDE NOTE: I don’t really have a side note. I just know you love them. IT’S ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN.)

One of the top songs of 1938: “Whistle While You Work” by the Seven Dwarves. This says a lot about 1938.

OK, before we get started, let’s tell a story about THE WORST 8 HOURS OF MY LIFE. Ready?

So I went to work yesterday, and that sucked, but whatever, I need the money, as I am a very poor person and all, and so I got to the parking lot at work. And I had some time to kill because I thought, ZOMG I have to leave the house on BLACK FRIDAY DUN DUN DUNNNNNN so I left hella early (like that? I’m totally hep, yo) and then there wasn’t any traffic so I got to work half an hour early. So, when I have half an hour to kill, I inundate the people I love with tweets and emails and texts. I mean, as you do. THAT’S HOW THEY KNOW YOU LOVE THEM IT’S NOT AT ALL ANNOYING. But! When I pulled my phone out of my bag! NO Gs. Usually, I have three Gs! No. No Gs! So usually that’s fixable by turning the phone on and off and also glaring at it because I’m totally the scariest but THAT DIDN’T WORK YOU GUYS. AT ALL. All DAY. And there’s no internet at my second job.

Just take a minute and let this soak in. I WENT 8 HOURS WITHOUT INTERNET OR TEXTING CAPABILITIES.

Somehow, at lunch, two tweets snuck through the Iron Curtain of evil and I could SEE THEM, as TEXTS, but I could not RESPOND to them, and I could see that they were AWESOME, and I WANTED to respond, but COULD NOT. The dingoes totally ate my baby.

So as the day progressed I got scratchy and started seeing bugs climbing out of the walls, you know, like the addicts in the filmstrips they used to show us in health class, and then on the drive home the Gs returned. WHERE WERE YOU Gs. I don’t UNDERSTAND.

My father assures me that this was not some sort of conspiracy perpetrated by my employers to keep me from checking my phone by employing G-blocking technology even though they were TOTALLY digging a big hole by the building for no apparent reason the other day that I think probably could house some sort of cloaking device. And my dad is all about the conspiracy theories so if my DAD tells me I’m being cuckoo-bananas, then probably he’s right.

ANYWAY. I totally survived the DAY WITHOUT PHONE SERVICE. I’m pretty sure I deserve a medal. And NO, people who thought I hated them all day because I wasn’t responding to you, I don’t. Well, MOST of you, anyway. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

OK. Moving on! So, my wonderful friend @melme found this article yesterday on Alligator Sunglasses called 1938 Dating Guide for Single Women. It is full of very, very helpful advice. And photos! Of women being BAD DATES! And men SCOWLING AT THEM! I’d gank all the photos but that seems rude. I don’t want to get eaten by some alligator wearing sunglasses. So click. It will make your WEEK.

I’m totally ganking the advice, though. I’m not THAT scared of an alligator in sunglasses.

“Don’t sit in awkward positions, and never look bored, even if you are. Be alert, and if you must chew gum (not advised), do it silently, mouth closed.”

Um…what’s awkward? THIS IS UNHELPFUL. I win the gum thing, though. I have TMJ. If I chew gum, my jaw locks shut like a trap. IT IS HOT.

“Careless women never appeal to gentlemen.”


“Don’t use the car mirror to fix your make-up. Man needs it in driving, and it annoys him very much to have to turn around to see what’s behind him.”

This bugs the shit out of me. What kind of woman is all pulling the rearview mirror around to fix her lipstick while someone is DRIVING? I get pissed if someone ADJUSTS THE PASSENGER SEAT in my car. I’d probably lop their hand off with my ice scraper if they decided to rearrange my rearview mirror. That’s set just so. STOP TOUCHING IT.

“If you need a brassiere, wear one.”

Helpful! Thanks.

“Don’t be familiar with your escort by caressing him in public.”

I’m pretty sure they don’t mind unless you’re all “snuggy wuggly cuddly cuddlums” or something annoying like that. It means you want to fuck them later. They like that, because it’s not always obvious to them that you want that unless you flat-out say “hey, I want to fuck you later.”

“Don’t be sentimental…men don’t like tears, especially in public places.”

I’m very weird about crying about sad things in front of people. I will seriously run a Chariots-of-Fire like SPRINT rather than let people see me have an actual sad emotion. However, that being said, Jesus, men in 1938 and I would NOT have gotten along. I have totally overactive tear ducts. I cry over EVERYTHING funny. Especially horrible things like people falling. Men in 1938 would NOT have wanted to see my brassiere at ALL.

“Don’t be familiar with the headwaiter, talking about the fun you had with someone else another time. Men deserve, desire your entire attention.”

Hee! Headwaiter! If someone brought me to a place with a headwaiter, I’d be more excited about the fancy salt and pepper shakers than chatting up the headwaiter, let me tell you. Also, “deserve, desire” my entire attention? They might desire it – and well they should, I’m amazing as shit, and when I’m into you, you feel like a million bucks – but they DESERVE nothing. Screw you, 1938.

“Please and flatter your date by talking about the things he wants to talk about.”

Oh, good. Can we talk about cars, please. And also maybe sports. And to top it off let’s talk about really cool things your friends said when you were hanging out the other night. HEADWAITER GET OVER HERE.

“Don’t drink too much, as a man expects you to keep your dignity all evening. Drinking may make some girls seem clever, but most get silly. The last straw is to pass out from too much liquor. Chances are your date will never call you again!”

If I went somewhere I was “expected” to keep my dignity, I’d be flat-on-my-ass drunk before the appetizer course was served. I’m really bad at living up to expectations. AND I AM TOTALLY ALWAYS CLEVER. “The last straw.” Hee! Well! Isn’t THAT knicker-twisty. Just think, this boring sap MIGHT NEVER CALL YOU AGAIN. OH THE HUMANITY.

I want to go back to 1938 and give this chick the following set of rules:

  1. This dude’s probably going to get drafted in 3 years. Don’t waste your good brassiere.
  2. Look bored now, so he can get used to it. Imagine the letdown when you start looking bored AFTER the wedding. Best to get it out there early on.
  3. Careless women totally appeal to gentlemen. Don’t be fooled. That’s why the words “shameless hussy” were strung together originally. Men LURVE a shameless hussy.
  4. If he won’t let you use his car mirrors to touch up your makeup (which, what the hell, you should know better, Grabby-Hands McGillicutty), either get your own goddamn car and drive YOURSELF to the date, pop a little compact mirror in your purse, OR DON’T WEAR SUCH HIGH-MAINTENANCE MAKEUP. I solved it.
  5. Wear a brassiere, don’t, I don’t give a shit. Those brassieres in the 30’s looked like total torture chambers anyway.
  6. If your guy doesn’t want to be caressed in public, even a little, maybe introduce him to your nice friend Steve the hairdresser. Then you’d have totally fabulous friends and be invited to the best parties.
  7. Why are you even CRYING in public? Go to the damn BATHROOM. Unless you’re crying because you’re laughing so hard because someone fell down and/or ripped the ass out of their pants. OBVIOUSLY that’s ok.
  8. If you need to slut it up with the headwaiter, be polite and go back at the end of his shift. That being said, NO ONE DESERVES YOUR ENTIRE ANYTHING.
  9. If you want to talk about the things your date wants to talk about, more power to you. If your eyes are glazing over from boredom, TELL HIM TO SHUT HIS EFFING CAKEHOLE AND IT’S TIME TO TALK ABOUT MUTUALLY PLEASING THINGS NOW. Ugh.
  10. And you know what? Yep. Drinking too much does make an asshat out of you. I’d like to go back and tell little college Amy this as she falls asleep on the bathroom floor because it’s closer to the toilet, you know, for the all-night vomiting. Mostly, though, it’s for your own damn protection, little 1938 lady. Hard to fight someone off when you can’t even stand on your own two feet without being all “the world! So SPINNY!”

Do we even HAVE dating rules now? There’s the milk and the cow thing that my mom still says (don’t get me started, I KNOW) and, like, the three-date rule or something (I was never very good at that, sorry, propriety) and probably don’t go on a date with someone who asks you if you’re cool with being stabbed to death HA HA JUST KIDDING GET IN MY WINDOWLESS VAN NOW. I need MODERN DATING RULES. I’m going to research this for tomorrow. Or how about you all comment or tweet me some, because that’s a hell of a lot easier than researching? DO MY BIDDING MINIONS.

Obie, did you think I was going to hang myself for littering?

I don’t believe in Thanksgiving. 

No, not “giving thanks.” Sure, I believe in THAT. I’m totally thankful. I don’t believe in the HOLIDAY. 

I know, right? I LOVE food. Love it. LOVE IT! So you’d think an entire holiday built around food would just totally be tailored to me. 

Nope. I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving in probably nine or ten years. 

No, I don’t really object to Thanksgiving, per se. I’m exaggerating. (I know. What? Me? NEVER.) But isn’t Christmas just Thanksgiving with presents? There’s the same food, and the same people, but also presents. So why do it twice? That seems wasteful. Also, it’s a four-hour drive to get to where the food is. A four-hour drive that I’m doing AGAIN in a month’s time. And, AND, I have to work on Saturdays, and so I’d have to turn around on Friday and drive back! Annoying. And a total waste of gas. 

I’m a really shitty road-tripper. Alone in a car, I get very, very bored. And I start to zone out. And I get sleepy, even when I’ve had like a gajillion hours of sleep the night before. So about an hour into a trip, no matter how long it is, I start to get heavy eyelids. Which sucks, because there’s not much way to fix that. I mean, if you’re really sleepy, you could pull over and nap, or something. But when it’s imaginary mental sleepiness with no real cause other than OMG SO BOOOOORED, what are you supposed to do? So I crank up showtunes and I sing really, really loudly and off-key, which helps, somewhat. Or I have long, animated conversations with myself. Because I am the most fun, so I enjoy talking to myself. I learn such interesting factoids! Oh, the fun myself and I have! 

Now, I rock as a PASSENGER on a road trip. Or even as a driver when you’re on a road trip WITH me. Seriously. I am the most fun. I bring TOYS and BOOKS (seriously! Mad Libs! And Choose Your Own Adventures! I KNOW, RIGHT?) and PROPS and SNACKS and it is like an entire community theater PRODUCTION to go on a trip with me, I am telling you. I AM VERY ENTERTAINING. I know you totally want to go on a trip with me. YOU CAN. Just come here, and bring your car, because we’re sure as hell not putting mileage on mine, and also a lot of money, because I don’t have any, and then we’ll go on a trip. Where? Shit, I don’t know, you really didn’t put a lot of thought into this, did you? FINE. Michigan. We’re going to Michigan. Why? I don’t know, I came up with it all freewheeling-like. I need a REASON to go to Michigan? Um…we’re going to the American Museum of Magic. The photos on this website don’t make it at ALL look like someone there’s going to kill us and put our souls into ventriloquist’s dummies. 

Oh. Oh, we were talking about Thanksgiving. Yeah. Anyway. 

SO! So every year, Thanksgiving rolls around. And I always put in for overtime at my other job, and sometimes they take me up on it (because, TIME AND A HALF BABY!) but they didn’t this year. So that means two full days of complete and utter laziness. I don’t have to travel like the rest of you yahoos. I don’t have to deal with family drama, pies that don’t bake correctly, undercooked turkey, sports on television, or doing a mountain of dishes. This is a total win for me. 

But try – just TRY – to tell people you’re not spending Thanksgiving with your family. Seriously. Try. Here are some actual things you will get, in response, to the following exchange: “So, Amy, when are you leaving to go home for Thanksgiving?” “Oh, I’m not. I don’t go home for Thanksgiving.” 

“OH! Oh. Did you have a fight with your family?”

“Oh, honey. Did you need somewhere to go? I think we have enough food. We’d loooove to set you a place at ouuuur table.”

“I think the food pantry has a meal for people with nowhere to go.”

“That’s so sad. Can’t you afford to go home?”

“Oh. Ohhhh. Awwwww.”

“Don’t you have any family who will take you in?”

“Are you an orphan?”

“This is why I’m so glad I’m married. I can’t IMAGINE being SINGLE on a MAJOR HOLIDAY.”

“This is why there are so many suicides around the holidays.” 


I didn’t murder a puppy in front of a toddler while stealing the child’s ice cream cone, for the love of Pete. I’m CHOOSING to not go HOME for THANKSGIVING. I’m not a 90-year-old woman who lives in the attic of a decrepit house and gets Meals-on-Wheels. I COULD go home, if I so choose. Why so judgey? 

NO, I didn’t have a fight with my family. They’d gladly accept me at their table. They accept that I don’t want to travel 8 hours, round-trip, two months in a row. They ALSO accept I’m an antisocial weirdo who loves abstaining from major holidays. 

NO, I don’t want to share Thanksgiving with your family. Can you even imagine how awkward that would be? I don’t want to be your PITY GUEST. GROSS. I’m far from having to rely on the kindness of strangers, Tennessee Williams. 

YES, the food pantry DOES have a meal for people with nowhere to go. They have nowhere to go because they’re HOMELESS. I have a home. With food in it. I think I’ll stay there. Thanks, though. 

YES, I can afford to go home. Rude of you to ask, though. Unless you’re offering me free money. Are you? I mean, I don’t like to take handouts, but if you were to leave me a $20 on my desk, I can’t say that I wouldn’t stick it in my wallet. 

STOP with those fake-ass sympathy noises. They fool NO ONE. And they make me want to vomit. 

YES, again, I DO have family that will take me in. GLADLY. There’s a turkey! And everything! We don’t even fry it in the backyard, we roast it in the oven like fancy people! 

NO, I’m not an orphan! I have a whole family of people! Thank you for assuming I’m a Cabbage Patch Kid, though! 

YES, it IS the worst thing imaginable, being single. I think of that every time I hear you fighting with your husband or your horrible children on speakerphone really loudly as I walk past your office door. 

YES, suicide is horrible. So’s murder. Which I’m contemplating. Right now. 

Listen, yahoos. My Thanksgiving is going to rock. I’m going to sleep in, watch as much of the Macy’s Parade as I can, listen to wee baby 60s Arlo Guthrie sing me “Alice’s Restaurant” (my one and only Thanksgiving Day tradition, it’s not Thanksgiving without Arlo telling me about the 27 8×10 color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one is), watch a shitload of television, write, read, eat, screw around online, try and kill as many of the three bottles of wine I just bought as I can, do my laundry, and generally have a wild rumpus. AND IT’S ALL FOR ME. I know some of you are probably thinking that this is just the saddest, but honestly, I am so looking forward to it, I can’t even tell you. It’s so quiet! I’m totally a hermit so this is one of the things I look forward to most every year. Christmas is all sparkle and rush-rush and glitter and presents and exhaustion and time with The Nephew (not going to lie, I’m just about Tigger-bouncing with excitement about seeing him next month) but Thanksgiving is quiet and me-time. And listen, isn’t Thanksgiving about being THANKFUL? There’s nothing that makes me more thankful than two days off from work alone. NOTHING. Also, you’ll get BLOG POSTS. On THANKSGIVING. Which will make YOU thankful. Right? RIGHT. This is a total win. 

So put away your sadface, people that I tell I’m not spending the holidays with family. Save it for kids without coats or turkeys or roofs over their heads. I’m good. I’m actually GREAT. And when you’re fighting with your mom over your lifestyle choices or your sister over her scumbag boyfriend stealing a ten from your purse, where’s your sadface now, hmm? That’s what I thought. Enjoy your turkey.

Run, Joey run, Joey run, Joey run, Joey run, Joey run, Joey ruuuuuunn!

Listen, I have nada today. It has been the LAZIEST DAY ON RECORD. Oh, I’m not saying I didn’t DO anything. No! Not at all. Here is a list of things I did today. Bulleted! A bulleted list! Seriously, if I got any fancier with the design aspect you would probably just DIE.

  • Woke up, realized I hadn’t set back the clocks, and it was actually 8am, which was awesome and I’d had a full eight hours of sleep
  • Read the entire newspaper* (*let’s be frank, that means the sections that appeal, and threw away the garbage, no one likes the sports section, and by no one, I of course mean me)
  • Read a play a friend wrote, first, trepidaciously, because sometimes that goes very, very, wrong (once, a friend asked me to read something he’d written and wanted feedback and listen, I totally wanted to bone him, and it was AWFUL, but I REALLY wanted to bone him, so WHAT DO YOU DO. Do you lie, hoping that will be the straw that makes the camel have dirty, dirty sex with you? Are you honest because you can’t look yourself in the mirror if you’re not? Do you pretend you moved to another state and never return his calls and hope you don’t see him at the grocery store? WHAT DO YOU DOOOOO) but listen! IT WAS FANTASTIC. So apparently I’ve had a friend who’s like the next Terrence McNally and didn’t even know. How exciting is that? And even better, I got to write him an email gushing over how amazing it was and MEAN EVERY WORD OF IT. I mean, sincerely, you guys. That’s a check in the win column, right there.
  • Watched this week’s The Office, Revenge, and Grimm, all of which I missed due to either being out, general malaise with life, watching other programs, or a combination of the above. Also, and spoiler alert beep beep beeeeep for Revenge watchers, but again with the super-dark scenes, but did we find out my adorable Revenge boyfriend Nolan is bi this week and hooking up with that waste of space con-man character? REVENGE! I AM DISAPPOINT. Nolan can do better. Also, Grimm was even better this week. Loving Grimm. Very dark and eerie. Stamp of approval.
  • Started setup on my newest venture, which isn’t off the ground yet, but will be soon. I’ll talk more about it when it’s up and running, but any day now, you’re going to start seeing me shamelessly self-promoting something three of the coolest chicks on the world wide interwebs and I have concocted. It is AWESOME, you guys. AWESOME. Oh, ok, FINE. Here’s a teaser. More to come when it’s baked to ooey-gooey perfection.

  • Dealt with a very unsavory task I’ve been putting off for almost 24 hours in probably not the best way, but in the only way I could and still get to sleep at night. Sorry. That was a very Facebook-status-worthy bullet, right? Like those people that put up “Some people! I just want to CRY!” As their status and wait for the “Aw, honey, I’m so sorry, anything I can dooooo” in response. Stop it, you passive-aggressive twit. I know. Sorry. Just in case I’m totally the most popular girl in the wooorrllldd, that’s all I can say. Unsavory. Annoyance. Furious. Flames. On the side of my face. Heaving. Heaving breasts.

Things I have NOT done today: clean the bathroom (listen, I always put that shit off, because it is the ick) and anything mega-productive. So first, we blog. Then we daaaaaaance. Oh, wait, no, no we don’t. We don’t dance. We don’t do that, not at all.

The week ahead: auditions! Seeing a play! House managing for another play! Totally filled with excitement!

But listen, so this isn’t a total washout and you’re all, UGH, I do not CARE what the hell was done chez Lucy’s Football today, where’s the super-intelligent CONTENT, well, first I say to you, are you sure you’re reading the right blog? Because I don’t know about super-intelligent content. But, more on topic, let’s talk about something near and dear to my heart, hmm?


No, no, not REAL cheaters. Although there were! There totally were lots! But the SHOW Cheaters. I was thinking about this the other day, because I’ve been watching this season of The Amazing Race, and it’s just about the most boring thing you can ever imagine in the history of the world this season. And I don’t know if it’s just run its course, or I don’t have the attention span, or what the hell, but I don’t care about it. And I was thinking, what could make this better? What could liven this up? And I thought, hey, I KNOW. If Phil was stabbed like the Cheaters host, that would make this SO EXCITING. (Sorry, Phil. Love you, Phil.)

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

What, the classy among you ask, is Cheaters? (The non-classy among you, and we know you by the Cheetos stains on your fingertips, are nodding and smiling, because YOU KNOW. You know ALL ABOUT CHEATERS.)

Cheaters is a show that’s been on since 2000. The setup is thus: a “client” comes on for an interview. The client is usually…um…not from the higher echelon of society. Like, there are a lot of weaves, and sparkles, and tops that look flammable and aren’t leaving much to the imagination, and what look like homemade prison tattoos, and clothes with inexplicable stains on them. And the “client” tells a story like “My boyfriend! He don’t come home at night no more! He always be lying about where he be! And I found lipstick on his penis! Help me Cheaters! Do you think he be cheating?” OK, this isn’t really what’s said but it’s kind of what’s said if you look deeper into what’s said.

Then the host and some of his cameramen skulk in the bushes around the Ruby Tuesday’s and videotape the cheater cheating, and then when he brings his new skankho home, and they’re having all the sex, the host busts into the room and is all YOU ARE SO BUSTED HERE IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND. And the girlfriend comes in and there are a lot of things thrown like cellphones and shoes and the skankho and the girlfriend pull each other’s wigs off and the host stands to one side grinning like a moronic Cheshire Cat. It is SO AWESOME AND TRASHY.

When I first moved to town, my roommate and I used to make sure that, no matter where we were or what we were doing, we’d be home by 1am on Sunday morning so we could watch Cheaters. It was our weekend ritual. Because it made us laugh like nothing else in the world. You’d go out, do some drinking or whatever, then come home and watch the host pop out of a dumpster or from under a car all BUSTED YOU DIRTY CHEATER and your life seemed ok for a while.

Usually, things go like this (caution, lots of barely-bleeped cussing):


The first host was Tommy Grand. He looked like a down-on-his luck gangsta:

He was replaced a couple of years into it. I don’t know why. I assume it’s because his real name was Tommy Habeeb and it was post-9/11.

The current host (I honestly had no idea this was still on, I haven’t seen it in years, but need to track it down and watch it again) is Joey Greco. He’s totally a sleazeball who is trying to be serious but is failing. Here’s a photo:

In this photo, he is, I assume, popping in on a CHEATER. BAM.

In 2003, there was an episode where Joey Greco confronted a cheater on a boat. And…well, ok, just watch. (Caution – there’s cussing. Some bleeped, some not. And a LOT of bad acting. And a boat.) Because this is what more reality shows need to liven up their programming so I don’t zone out and start throwing things at the cats to make them entertain me.

The best things about this video:

  • The skankho kind of looks like a receptionist, and she just stands there, kind of confused
  • Joey Greco’s pained face of pain as he’s taken away and his life blood was ebbing…ebbing…
  • The girlfriend shouting “you’re not coming HOME now! You’re not coming HOME now!”
  • How’d that guy get a boat? I can’t afford a boat.
  • Someone fell off the boat into the water. HA. That’s never not going to be funny.
  • “He’s bleeding. HE’S BLEEEEEEDING!”

I know you’re worried. JOEY GRECO PULLED THROUGH. Nothing to see here. He’s OK, people.

Now, listen. Apparently, there are a lot of allegations this was staged and never happened at all. And that a lot of the episodes were staged. And that makes me sad. If we can’t believe Cheaters, WHO CAN WE TRUST, AMERICA. I mean, COME ON. If this isn’t true THE TERRORISTS WIN.

So, if you’re ever not able to sleep and you can’t find an old episode of To Catch a Predator and your DVR is empty? Look for Cheaters. It is AWESOME and FULL OF SKANKINESS. Highly recommended when you’re in the mood for feeling superior to others.

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