Today I’m at the Gaithersburg Book Festival and you need to come see me.  Please?  But until I get back, a rerun from many years ago after I found a miracle lawn boobie.  It’s all pretty self-explanatory:

So this morning I went out to to check on the miraculous boobie mushroom and it was fucking gone.

And I was a little upset because I’m pretty sure my neighbor stole it to sell on ebay but I just said a little prayer (in the form of me flipping off my neighbor’s house) thanking God for letting me see the miracle boobie if only for a short time.  It’s like it was a sign that life is fragile, or that I’m watering the lawn too much.  Then the really weird shit happened.

Yesterday several of my readers pointed out that the miracle boobie was probably a sign from St. Agatha, who is best know for being the patron saint of breast cancer after she dedicated her life to God and then had her boobs cut off by some jerks for not whoring around and then God healed her.  But then she died anyway.  It’s complicated.

I do have *some* standards, y'all.

But then, like a foot away from where the miracle boobie had been, was this:

One's bigger than the other, just like in real life.

A double boobie mushroom.

I mean, technically it doesn’t have much of a nipple and the areola is kinda brown and not really breast-like at all, but still.  The point is that the miracle boobie was cut down in it’s prime but then grew back, exactly like when those guys cut off the boobs of St. Agnes and they miraculously grew back.  But I suspect they didn’t grow back very well because why else would she always be depicted carrying her old boobies on display in a cake dish?  Probably because the new ones looked like these:

Technically I've seen worse.

Even miracles have limitations, y’all.  Plus, St. Peter was the dude who actually came down and re-made her boobies and I’m pretty sure Saints don’t have sex so he probably didn’t even know what they were supposed to look like.  He was probably all “BANG! Pretty hot, right?” and Agatha was all “Um..huh.  You know what?  They’re fine.  I’m not going to use them anyway.”

PS. I went just back and read the whole story and it turns out that God gave St. Agatha a miracle to make her boobs grow back but then left her in prison to die by being rolled over hot coals naked and shit. The hell? I mean, I don’t want to question miracles but maybe letting the guard forget to lock the door would have been a better one.  Or maybe turning the hot coals turn into pudding.  But no, God’s all “They cut off your boobs?!  That shit is totally not kosher.  I GRANT YOU NEW BOOBIES!” and she was probably all “Um…Thanks? But maybe I could also get out of prison?”  Except probably she didn’t even say that because when God gives you a miracle you have to just smile like you love it even if it’s totally not what you wanted.  And probably even when she was dying she was all “Okay, I’m gonna use the present face so I don’t hurt God’s feelings but seriously? My boobs are getting destroyed here in these hot coals too.  What the hell, dude?” but probably she didn’t say it out loud because she’s a martyr and that’s what martyrs do.  Except I’d totally say it out loud because “Ow.”  And then maybe God would be all “OH! Crap, I’m so sorry! Brain fart.  What would the point of me giving you new boobs and then letting you get tortured?  What is wrong with me today?” and I’d be all “Dude. Don’t even worry about it. I’m totally having one of those days too.  Also, thanks for the new boobs.  Even though they kind of look like mushrooms” and he’d be all “What?”  and I’d be like “Nothing.  It’s nothing.  I’ll let myself out.”  Because God has more important things to worry about than my boobs.  Like famine.  And…locusts.  And that’s why I think that maybe these mushrooms really are a sign from God.  Or that they’re just mushrooms.  The point is that I learned more about St. Whats-her-name and her boobs so either way, I’m spreading God’s word.  They’re probably going to name a whole building for me in Heaven.

Comment of the day: Maybe God told Peter to give her saline implants. It would put out the fire, be deemed a miracle. Win/win.  St. Peter.  He’s always fucking things up. ~ Dingo

{ 58 comments }

This isn’t a real post.  It’s just pictures from the road as I continue leg 2 of the tour (Maryland tomorrow and the next day).

Someone bad-ass made me a superhero cape…Beyonce on one side and a silver depression ribbon on the reverse:

Waiter…there’s a mouse in my cake.

Why yes, actually, I am wearing a NASCAR shirt at the NASCAR museum. Because one cancels out the other.

Bloggess cupcakes.  Bonus points if you get all the references.

An enormous thank you to everyone who has made this tour so absolutely fabulous so far.  Friendships have been made.  Cupcakes have been shared.  Xanax has been imbibed.  Double Unicorn Success Club status has been conferred on all.

Thank you.  Thank you to everyone who has supported and continues to support this bizarre and wonderful journey.  Thank you for understanding when I need to hide under a table.  Thank you for caring.  Thank you for being the very best kind of misfit.  Thank you for teaching me I’m maybe not so much of a misfit after all.  Thank you for helping me find my tribe.

{ 148 comments }

Once again, I’m on tour so and today I’m in North Carolina.  Please come see me?  Pretty please?

And while I’m gone I am completely phoning it in by reliving some of my favorite old posts.  In other words…reruns.  But good reruns.  So for today a little something from 5 years ago:

Phone conversation with my husband while he was out of town:

Victor: Hello?

Me: The snow cone machine is broken.

Victor: How the hell did you break the snow cone machine?  I just left this morning.

Me: I didn’t break it.  It just stopped working.  I’m getting on twitter and calling for a boycott on snow cone machines.

Victor: How is that going to help? Most people don’t even have snow cone machines.

Me: I’m just so pissed off right now.  There should be a diagnostic thing on the snow cone machine like Onstar, so it can tell me when it’s about to break.

Victor: That’s not how Onstar works.

Me: It’d be all “I’m your snow cone machine.  I’m gonna break tomorrow because I suck.  Don’t get your mouth all ready for a snow cone or anything because I’m unreliable.”

Victor: Please stop breaking things in our house.

Me: I DIDN’T BREAK IT.  I’ve spent the last hour trying to fix it.  I thought maybe an ice cube was stuck in it so I stuck a knife in the gears to feel around and then the knife got stuck and then I was afraid the knife would break off in there and then when it finally turned on a knife-blade would shoot out and kill one of us but then I got the knife to come out eventually so no worries on that.  Problem solved. Except that the snow cone machine still won’t work and now two of our knives are bent.

Victor: Why are two knives bent?

Me: I had to use one as a lever to pull out the other one.  I’m like McGuyver, with knives.

Victor: Are you doing this to me on purpose so I don’t leave you alone anymore?

Me: Don’t be ridiculous.  If I was doing this on purpose I’d break something I don’t actually need.  Like the oven.

4 hours later:

Victor: Hello?

Me: Good news! The snow cone machine works.

Victor: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah.  Turns out all the outlets in the kitchen stopped working.

Victor: Huh.  That’s…not really good news.

Me: I know, right?  I have to take the snow cone machine into the bedroom to make snow cones.  It’s like we’re living in the fucking wilderness.

Victor: No, dumb-ass.  I mean, it’s not good news that none of the outlets in the kitchen work.  Is the refrigerator running?

Me: I’m not falling for that.

Victor: It’s not a fucking joke. The fridge is in the kitchen with the outlets that don’t work, right?  Is it still working?

Me: Oh.  Yeah.  That’s where I’m getting the ice for the snow cones.  But none of the other plugs work.   But you know,actually? It’s kind of nice having a snow cone machine in the bedroom.  We should probably get two.  One for the kitchen and one for the bedroom.  We’ll be like rap stars.  Except instead of stripper poles we have snow cone machines.

Victor: Don’t call me anymore.

Epilogue: Turns out the GFCI outlets were overloaded and Victor had to reset them when he got home and he acted like he was all amazing for being able to fix them but turns out all you had to do was just push a button. I could have pushed a button if you’d just told me to push a button but no, I had to live with a snow cone machine and a blender in the bedroom for three days because Victor wanted to be a hero.  Whatever. The point is that we have a snow cone machine.  In the bedroom.  That’s how you know we’re successful.

Disclaimer: To be completely honest, the only reason we even have a snow cone machine is because I wanted one of those refrigerators that has an ice-maker in the door but we couldn’t afford it and so Victor bought a snow cone machine to distract me.  It’s totally kick-ass.  And it comes with its own foot-pedal in case you get tired of pushing a button for your snow cones.  Because it’s exhausting making snow cones, apparently.  So yeah.  I can make snow cones just by leaning.  I’m kind of a bad-ass.

Comment of the day: I had this Snoopy snow cone machine as a kid…you stuck ice cubes in the roof and then pushed on Snoopy’s ass to hold the ice cubes in while turning this hand crank on the side of the dog house to shred the ice cube.  It took fifty ice cubes to get like, one cup of “flakes” and by the time you even GOT to that point, the first ice cube flakes melted. So you just kept cranking the damn handle until you had blisters and a cup of water. I think my mom bought it to make me crazy. I hated that stupid Snoopy snow cone maker. More like a glorified water fountain. ~ Jessica

{ 147 comments }

Once again, I’m on tour so and today I’m in Atlanta.  Please come see me?  Pretty please?

And while I’m gone I am completely phoning it in by reliving some of my favorite old posts.  In other words…reruns.  But good reruns.  So for today a little something from 5 years ago:

You know what I did last night when I couldn’t sleep?  I came up with 28 ideas for sequels to The Little Engine that Could and this morning I’m looking at them thinking, “How high was I?” and the answer is “Pretty high” because I don’t even remember writing some of these.  I should probably delete them all but I’m going to leave them as an example of why I shouldn’t really be allowed to speak to anyone, ever.

Alternate versions of The Little Engine that Could:

The little engine that should have.

The little engine that couldn’t care less.

The little engine that did and then found out it was overrated and then got disillusioned with life and stopped showering.

The little engine that did it with a prostitute and got syphilis.

The little engine that tried to do it but couldn’t and then later he found out that when he was born they weren’t sure if he was a train or a tractor so the doctor just made him into a train because that was easier but turns out?  Totally a tractor.

The little engine that needs to stop being such a douche canoe.

The little engine that tried but failed because sometimes life isn’t fair.

The little engine that died from overexertion and later his parents were all “WHY? Why didn’t he just wait for a bigger train?”  And no one had an answer.

The little engine that resented being called that because he thought it was racially insensitive and he started a big protest group then someone explained to that it was “engine” and not “Injun” and then he was all “Oh. I’ve wasted my life“.

The little engine that refused to unload his cargo because he was a hoarder.

The little engine that we all made fun of in school and later he got cancer and now we all feel bad.

The little engine that could do better.

The little engine that isn’t even applying herself.

The little engine that is just asking for a smack in the mouth if engines had mouths.

The little engine that refused to let men into his caboose because his father made him homophobic.

The little engine that could if he wanted to but he “just doesn’t feel like it right now”.

The little engine that accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior but then found out that engines don’t have souls and he hoped there was at least an engine purgatory, but no.  There wasn’t.

The little engine that would have if he knew it was even an option.

The little engine that didn’t care for Asians.

The little engine that pretended he did it so much that he actually started to believe he actually had done it even though he never had.

The little engine that bullied you in third grade.

The little engine that’s way too concerned about Obama’s birth certificate.

The little engine that doesn’t have time to talk to you right now.

The little engine that can’t take a hint.

The little engine named Luka that lived on the second floor.

The little engine that was offended that he kept being referred to as “that” and would prefer “The little engine *who*would appreciate it if you’d use less hurtful words”

The little engine that could, but didn’t.  So maybe he couldn’t.  I mean, we don’t really know if he could unless he tried and succeeded.  Never mind.  The little engine who might’ve if he wasn’t such a damn baby.

The little mermaid who wanted to be an engine because she got sick of being a human but didn’t want to crawl home to her father after her divorce because he’d be all “I told you so“.

The little engine and the half-blood prince.

The little engine that ate my sandwich.  You. mother. fucker.

{ 166 comments }