It's like his face was MADE for pins, y'all.

PS.  Also in honor of Social Media Day I will continue to fall yet another day behind on posting the comment(s)-of-the-day but I do promise to feel really, really bad about it all day.

PPS.  I’ve been drinking.

PPPS.  I just looked up “Social Media Day” to prove that it exists and it kind of looks like Mashable just made that shit up.  Which is fine, but if they’re calling tomorrow Social Media Day then I’m calling Thursday “I’m-ignoring-your-friend-request-because-YOU-ARE A TREMENDOUS-ASSHOLE Day“.  It’s going to be awesome.

This is a really, really long post and I should probably break it into two parts but I suck so I’m going to tell you when part two is and you can walk away and come back tomorrow if reading more than 10 paragraphs bothers you.  Except I just made this longer by adding this prelude.  Awesome.  Also, if you’ve never read me before, don’t start now because this will confuse the shit out of you.

You know what’s awesome?  When you write a bunch of posts about something but never fully explain it and so your 4th post in you kind of have to start from the beginning and answer all the questions that you should have answered the first time except you realize it really doesn’t matter because your readers all have ADD too so they’ve forgotten what you posted before anyway.  That’s what’s awesome.

So…the whole Navy trip.  Many of you have asked how I got to go fly out and land on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean and the answer is that I gave Guy Kawasaki a hand job.  Kidding.  I don’t like Asian men.  Kidding again.  Ha ha.  I just pissed off my husband, Guy Kawasaki, and also 2 percent of my blog readers in one paragraph.  So “yay” me, because this is an improvement.  Technically I’m not sure how I got invited.  All I know is that the Navy brings out people all the time to see what it’s like at sea because according to them “It’s your Navy because you as a taxpayer pay for it” and I’m all “Hell yeah, I do” and then I remembered that I don’t pay taxes.  Kidding again, IRS.  Please don’t audit me.

So I was with a bunch of other bloggers who are all professional and awesome and some were ex-military and all were very smart and well-respected, and then there was me.  And I was even worse than normal because I am so terrified of water that I was on a ton of xanax the whole time I was there but I also had a lot of caffiene so it evened out like when you take speed and heroin together.  I assume.

We went all over that damn ship from stem to stern even though I don’t know where the stem of the boat is because you never hear people say they’re there.  We met Charlie Brown the first day and I know I said that he was like the head of the ship but turns out that I was wrong and he’s all “I’m totally not the head dude and you’re going to get me fired” except he said it in Naval-ese so it sounded more professional.  Also I showed him a bunch of sex toys I’d brought along and mentioned the inflatable sheep and he visibly paled.  It was adorable.  Also, I was really relieve to hear that Charlie Brown was not our Admiral because although I absolutely adore him he does not have a name that instills trust  but then we actually got to meet the Admiral whose name is “Fozzie”.  Like the bear.  I am totally not kidding.  Also we met the Captain whose name is “Nasty”.  Like, that’s embroidered on his Captain’s chair.  Nasty.  

Then I mentally cursed Victor for convincing me that the Navy was uptight because Fozzie and Nasty and Charlie Brown were all kick-ass and so was everyone else on the ship except for the one enlisted guy who looked anxiously at our group when we came in like he was looking for someone famous and it turns out he thought Hannah Montana was with us and was very disappointed.  True story.  But after that I made sure to stand next to this guy because he looks exactly like Clint Eastwood and I thought I could pretend to be in his entourage and it would be less disappointing for the military people.  On the second day on the ship I confessed to him that I was standing next to him all the time because he looked exactly like Clint Eastwood and if we got attacked he would probably be the only one who survived and he kind of grunted just like Clint Eastwood would do and then someone else was all “Seriously, you do look EXACTLY like Clint Eastwood” and he admitted that he’s Clint’s body double and stuntman.  Also I think he’s like the Mayor of Malibu and he has a Grammy.  Or an Emmy. Something cool.  I was a little high.  

And then I said that I also planned on sticking next to Lex too because he used to be a fighter pilot himself but admitted to him that my hopes were really pinned on Not-Clint-Eastwood because Lex just looked too nice to survive if we were attacked by Russians but I assured him that in my head he’d die heroically trying to save me and  I could tell that he was cool with that or that he’d just stopped listening.

Then we had a briefing with the Captain and a “shooter” whose name was “Freakshow”.  This is the part where I just nodded because everyone else was asking important questions about fuel consumption and political ideologies and I’m all “How many Cylons do you think are on this ship?”, “How many mermaids and/or UFOs have you spotted?” and “What’s the biggest secret that you’re not supposed to tell us?” but the answers were something like “What’s a Cylon?”, “None.” and “Nuclear blah blah blah” I can’t really remember because I lost interest.  BUT THEN!  Freakshow (so named because he used to work in the circus – I shit you not) took us out onto the aircraft carrier to watch jets take off just feet in front of us.  We had to wear earplugs and headphones also since it was so loud so Freakshow told us to pay attention to his hand signals or we would get blown off the ship by a jet and that when he got down on one knee we needed to do the same because we were ducking from the exhaust of the jet engine and if we stood up we’d burst into flames or something.  So we went out and I. was. floored.  Honestly, it was amazing.  Even with the headphones on it was so loud it felt like it could stop your heart.  I was utterly in awe and that’s why I didn’t notice Freakshow take a knee until I felt the heat and then I quickly took a knee except I’m naturally clumsy and the hot blast coming off the back of the jet blew me completely over and so I just sat on my ass while Freakshow laughed at me and the others looked like they were proposing to him.

This is the end of part one for people with short attention spans or who can’t read books or who actually have work to do.

Then we met the XO (who is like the Spock of the ship, I think?) and I told him that I’d heard that our Governor recently said that Texas might consider seceding from the rest of America and did they have the accuracy to bomb just his house or did I need to just move out of Texas altogether and he assured me that they could hit a single house with accuracy so I told him to get on that and he kind of has to because they just said that it was *my* Navy so if they don’t bomb our Governor it’s like peeing on the constitution.  Or something.  Then I begged Public Affairs to let me go to the brig and they were all “Uh.  That’s not really part of the tour” and I’m all “So what do I need to do to get thrown into the brig?  Because I have an inflatable sheep and I know where the captain sleeps” and they kind of looked at me and I’m all “It makes real sheep sounds too!” and they’re like “We’ll see what we can do” and next thing you know, I was behind bars and for the first time ever it was not for prostitution.  Kidding again.  I’m not a prostitute.  Although while I was there I totally pitched my idea for my Navy Hooker Business Proposal (Remember?  I was gonna call it “Captain Hookers”?) and all the Navy people looked a little stunned and told me that it was illegal and that “pirate law” was something that I’d apparently just made up but I think they just said that because they realized it’s an awesome business model and wanted to do it themselves.

Then, toward midnight they took us to Vulture’s Row where we watched the jets land and take off in the darkness.  We were outside and even from the balcony the noise was extraordinary and I could feel the engines in every part of my body, almost cutting off my breathe with the sheer vibrations and power.  We all wore our earplugs and noise-canceling headphones on top of the earplugs so we were essentially deaf as we each listened to our own pulse in our ears, watched the smokey haze settle over the tarmac and took in the smell of the jet fuel.  The blackness of the ocean stretched into a dark sky as we were forced to watch in silence while we all experienced our own unique moment, untainted by others.  And in the stillness I realized that I could fart as loudly as I wanted and no one would ever know.  And it was very freeing.

We went over ever inch of that ship, and when we finally got to bed at 1am (3am Texas time) I was exhausted.  Then a few hours later they woke us up and told us we had 20 minutes to get ready.  Then I considered calling in a bomb threat but I couldn’t find a phone and also since the whole ship is covered with bombs I didn’t think they’d be distracted enough by it to let us sleep in.  After more exploring we got ready to leave the ship and were told that the take-off would make us shit ourselves.  Or that it would be “dynamic”.  I think they mean the same thing.  Basically you can’t get up enough speed to take off before plunging into the ocean so they catapult the plane over the edge of the ship and then it flies off.  This is when I started taking xanax.  Then I took another one.  Then they said “dynamic” again and I went to the bathroom because I was going to pee myself with fear because honestly, I am terrified of the water.  I’ve always had a feeling that I will die drowning and when I was in the bathroom with the other chicks I apologized to them in advance because if we ended up hitting the water it would probably be because I was onboard.  They were very understanding and supportive and assured me that we would be fine so I sucked it up and took another xanax got mentally prepared.  Then the Captain came in and opened up a certificate.  We would each get one back on land but by chance this one was mine and he read it out loud:

And I sat there, kind of beaming stupidly, because I realized that “TailHooker” was even better that “Captain Hookers” but also because for the first time in a long time I was really proud of myself, for pushing past what I thought my boundaries were, and for (with a little medication) taking hold of my anxiety disorder and gaining a little more control of my life.  After the plane catapulted off (which felt a little like God grabbed you by the neck and threw you into another State) and when we finally landed I felt like I could breathe again and I suddenly realized that in facing my fears I’d loosened some constraints I didn’t even realize were holding me so tightly until they were gone.  And it was beautiful.

PS.  There isn’t a joke there.  Sometimes there just isn’t one.  I’d suggest going back and reading the fart joke again if you really need it.

Comment of the day: The real reason you could fart as loudly as you wanted is because when on board a naval ship such as yours, when you fart, it magically sounds like “Highway To The Dangerzone” by Kenny Loggins. ~HA Guy

Updated: Related unflattering video from my second day on the ship with no shower or make-up.

I  got on a plane with Guy Kawasaki, Dennis Hall,  Charlene Li, Beth Blecherman, Jen Leo,  Pamela Slim, Andrew Nystrom, Jennifer Van Grove, Jennifer Jones,  Bill Reichert, Jefferson Wagner, Robert Scoble, Andy Sernovitz and Neptunus Lex and we  landed quite violently on the USS Nimitz aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean but I was kind of too high to remember most of it except that we were in some sort of mail plane I think, and it looked like the inside of Han Solo’s ship except with less wookies:

Then I commandeered a gun and then they tried to take it back and I explained that I’d feel safer holding on to it just in case Tommy Lee Jones comes on board and I can’t find the chef…

…and they gave me a weird look because I guess not everyone in the Navy has seen Under Siege, which seemed suspect to me and I joked that they were probably all actually Russian Communists but then they gave me an even weirder look which just confirmed my suspicions but then later when I was in the brig I realized that I was accidentally combining Under Siege and The Hunt for Red October into one movie, which actually would probably be a kick-ass movie.  I’d call it The Hunt for the Siege of Red October, part II:  Sharkey’s Revenge.  That way people would think it must be awesome because why else would they make a sequel?

I had a lot of time to think about it.

PS.  Real post about all of this coming.

PPS.  I adored the people on that ship so much it shocked me and can never thank them enough for letting come join their family for the weekend.  Also, if whichever one of those Koreas is being a bastard hurts them in any way I will lose. my. shit.  Seriously, Korea.  Stop being an asshole.

PPPS.  I just posted probably my best advice ever on my advice column.  Long story short in case you think you’re too good to read the whole thing:  Stop fucking bears.

Comment of the day: Why is Goose written on your hand? Is that because you’re hoping Tom Cruise will come and save you from the brig? Don’t you know that Goose dies in the end? I’m just saying. ~ Becky Mochaface

Part 2:

Part 3:

PS.  Victor says that distracting you with animal tails and mouse skull necklaces will not make me color-coding our books any less neurotic but I think he’s wrong, and also I pointed out that by showing you the beaver tail in a bottle you were all distracted from how fat I look. Then Victor made me go take my medication.

Please someone tell me I don’t look fat.

PS.  I had to reshoot this twice because my boob fell out.  True story.  If I could figure out how to edit that out I would release that version because it was way better and I’d put a DVD commentary over it telling you what I was really thinking about while I was filming.

PPS.  I was thinking about cheese.

Comment of the day:  Ohmygod you sound like kelly from the office. Like if they did one of those digital voice comparison things like they do in spy movies, yours would like up 100 percent. ~Janet

1.  Paraphrased conversation between me and my rheumatologist yesterday:

Me:  My feet are ouchie.

Him:  That’s because you have a degenerative disease, dumb-ass.

Me:  Yes, but I thought I’d be better by now.

Him:  I think you don’t know what “degenerative” means.  Let’s up the chemo drug that makes your hair fall out  to 10 pills at a time and if that still doesn’t work then next month we’ll start doing IV therapy and self injections.

Me:  Yay!

PS.  That “yay” was sarcastic.  I know it’s hard to see sarcasm on paper but probably the context should have given it away.  

PPS.  Honestly, I’m fine and can still totally function.  It just feels like when you’re wearing really uncomfortable stilettos that are two sizes too small and you can still pole dance but you know you aren’t as effective as before because you keep grimacing but you’re trying to at least grimace “sexily” except you know it’s not working because that stripper with the bullet-holes in her thigh is getting bigger tips than you.  And that’s exactly what rheumatoid arthritis feels like.

2.  For those of you that are new, Nancy W. Kappes is a paralegal from Indiana who never comments but sends me these long, fucked-up emails that are shockingly similar in tone to the emails I send to my idols who never respond to me and now I know how it feels to get an email screaming about failed abortions and Jesus-Christ trucker hats.  (It feels awesome.)  (That’s not sarcasm).  And Nancy fans keep yelling at me to share more of her letters so here are the latest two (starting with her take on Cinco de Mayo) and I swear to God she is real and not me and might even come to the Blogher People’s Party in Chicago so stop doubting me, non-believers:

CHACHACHACHAJENNNNN

Hey! A Holiday celebrating mayonnaise. I’m gonna totally protest and eat some Miracle Whip. Once for a party, I filled this huge piñata with M&Ms. Just plain ole colored M&Ms. Lots of fucking boxes of M&M’s. Like tons of M&M’s. Okay, so the kiddies are blindfolded and the grown-ups sneak off to smoke crack watch their little faces light up. Elizabeth (who would grow up and be a rugby star—all 95 lbs. of her—but she could run like her mother, and once she grabbed those tree-trunk legs of the other players, you had to saw her head off to get her to let go.) Anyway, she’s about 7 and a twee little thing, but she takes that stick and knocks the motherfucking piñata into the next county. Okay. So now we are knee deep in GODDAMNED UNWRAPPED M&M’S AND THREE DOGS AND EIGHT KIDS START GOBBLING THEM UP AS FAST AS THEY CAN. Fuck me running, no one told me the shit had to be fucking wrapped. So there’s dogs pooping up huge rainbow turds and the kids are all eating a % of 1/1,000 (one being the number of M&M’s and the other being the amount of dog hair.) Then their Guatemalan housekeeper who has wet her pants and passed out laughing gets on the phone in her room where she no doubt  was laughing her ass off to her friends in Guatemala about  the fucking-dumb-ass gringo who totally didn’t wrap the candy. Muy loco chica!!!

So the hell with it.  I’m drinking jello-shots tonight.

Gotta run. I’ve scheduled a conference call with Life, God and Jesus at 4:00pm. It ain’t gonna be pretty.

Nancy W. Kappes

Paralegal

**************************

HOLY MIGHTY FUCKING BALLS, JJJJJJJEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNN!

Come to Indiana where all the viruses, bacteria, people with an I.Q. in double digits, anything interesting, moved out long ago with all of the goddamned fun. When I would take the grrlz to school in the am [driving 145 mph--we looked like our faces had been put in one of those 90-mile an hour wind tunnels; Claire used to claim her face didn't return to normal until 3rd period] we would pass “Conner Prairie” and, yes, it is as hokey as it sounds—makes Rock City look like the Louvre. One bleak, cold, pitch dark morning in winter, there was an atypical lack of joviality and witty banter until we passed C. Prairie and Elizabeth bellowed, “You stupid shit-heads! What the hell kind of drugs were you on when you decided to stop here?” We still don’t know. People say “Oh, but it is such a great place to raise your children”. Bollocks. It’s difficult for tha grrlz to get products for their meth lab. 

Okay, so this thing that is in Chicago in July or whatever—no wigs! Roller wigs! HA! Totally like your photo! How motherfucking awesome would it be to look out over a crowd of people and they are all totally wearing roller wigs! Sweet! Actually, if I wasn’t a lazy bitch, I would make some for you to pass out, but maybe a shit load of the Jesus Christ hats where we cross out Jesus Christ with a fucking sharpie and write in“The Bloggess.”

Well now I can’t get this goddamned font off my computer. Motherfucker, I hate these things.

I can’t stand this fucking font—it’s like “Letters to God.”or some ‘Reader’s Digest’ shit. Plus, considering the content, isn’t that an oxymoron?

Nancy W. Kappes 

Paralegal

3.  Neil Gaiman direct messaged me on twitter.  Seriously, that happened.  And yes, sadly, it happened because he read my post about strange-looking guys I’d totally do if I wasn’t married but still…NEIL-fucking-GAIMAN, y’all.  I own 27 of his books.  Swear to God.  Then I told my friend Laura that Neil Gaiman had DMed me and she was all “NEIL DIAMOND DMed YOU?!?” and I’m all “No.  Neil GAIMAN.”  And she’s all “Oh.  Who?”  Then I drowned her in a fountain at the mall.  

4.  I’m going to spend the night on an aircraft carrier with a small group of internet-famous people next week, including Guy Kawasaki and some guy who was on Dancing with the Stars.  I think he also invented the internet.  I’d write about it here but all those people probably have google alerts set up for when people mention their name and I don’t want those people to find this blog before I meet them because I’m the only non-famous, weird girl going and I plan on pretending I’m someone else.  Like maybe Neil Gaiman.  So instead I’m gonna video blog about it later today or as soon as I can figure out how to work this new fucking computer that is trying to destroy me.

5.  Neil Gaiman, y’all.

Comment of the day:    Mmmmmayonaisse. Europeans don’t refirigerate it and they put it on their fries. That’s all I really know about them and also where my curiosity ends. ~MayoPie

Even more amazing is that they featured one of my stories and my byline is IN FRONT OF GUY KAWASAKI‘S.  True story.

And even more amazing is that in spite of the fact that my hooker story has to do with defrauding the navy, Guy asked me to join him on a Navy-sponsored field trip to spend the night on an air-craft carrier in the middle of the ocean, which is awesome because I’m terrified of flying, water and giant squid.  Also, my friends were all “You’re sleeping with Guy Kawasaki on some sort of cruise?” and I’m all “No.  There’s going to be other bloggers there too so if anything it’ll be like some kind of weird orgy.”  But I will be able to scope out plans for my naval hooker scenario.   Also I asked Guy if I could bring Victor and he wrote (swear to God) ”No.  I only have 14 bullets” which I don’t know what that means but I’m assuming it means Guy Kawasaki is going to murder me for being more popular than him.

PS.  I just want to remind everyone that in real life I’m a lowly junior HR analyst who does pivot tables all day.  And that I’m more popular than Guy Kawasaki.

Comment of the day: See, this is why I’m so in favor of the serial comma – people who read the profile but are unfamiliar with Jenny will think she wants to be (or has been) fisted by the President. Those are just unreasonable expectations to set for new readers. ~ Jason

Did you know that you can break the Coinstar machine if you put in a bunch of random stuff?  Also, today I’ve taken 12 prescription pills, including the chemo drug that causes the cancer that I don’t have yet and it’s actually making me feel much better but incredibly groggy so I can’t even think of something appropriate to write for you to comment on.  Hence, the comments are completely open for anything.  Deep confessions, words you don’t like, what animal you wish would go extinct next, which weird-looking celebrities you would sleep with if you had the chance…go wild, y’all.

Comment of the day:  Okay, seriously?!  I give you nothing and you give me 400 comments.  I can’t possibly choose just one comment for comment of the day so I’m going to have to create an entire post from these comments because you people are fucked up in the most beautiful way.  Comments are still open if you still want in.

So I ran some errands and when I parked in front of my house I saw Quiet Asian Guy in his yard and considering how often he’s seen me naked I was mindful to arrange my scarves and exit the car all lady-like and  I was feeling very smug about not showing my junk to the neighbor when I tripped on something and practically broke my ankle but I still kept hold of my scarves with a death-grip because I have determination but then I turned back to see what I’d tripped on and it was A GIGANTIC FUCKING SNAKE and this is where I totally lose. my. shit and run into the house with my scarves flying wildly behind me, and I’m screaming at Victor to get a gun and I run to grab a sword and then Victor gets all yelly that I’m overreacting just because I wanted to use a katana to slice up a snake in the street.  Because he loves snakes and wants me to die.  Apparently. 

So we go back outside and the snake is still there but his head is sqwooshed so Victor thinks I probably ran over him with my car when I was leaving which means it was UNDER MY CAR WHEN I GOT IN, like in those emails where the gang member is hiding under your car and he slices your achilles tendon for his gang initiation, except this is even worse because instead of a gang member it’s a snake who doesn’t have a knife so he’s going to have to chew your achilles tendon in half.  Yeah.  So now you get why I was so freaked out.   So then I realized that no one would believe this so I took a picture of the snake but I couldn’t capture how HUGE it was and I needed something for scale so I grabbed some coins to throw at the snake but I didn’t want to get too close because it could be faking death to lull me into a false sense of security.  So I’m tossing nickels at it but they’re all bouncing off and rolling away and that’s when I realized that I’m standing in the street throwing change at a dead snake like it’s some sort of performing monkey with an accordion.  So I tried a few more coins before I remembered how bad I was at “quarters” in college and then Victor noticed I’d swiped his change bucket and started yelling at me that I’d better be picking that shit back up and of course that was not going to happen so I just kicked the change into the storm drain and walked closer to take a semi-closeup of the dead animal I ran over for you, gentle reader, because I’m a blogger who cares.  Would Guy Kawasaki do that for you?  (Answer: Probably not because I’m pretty sure they don’t have snakes in California.)  And I thought about putting a little tip jar beside the dead snake just to fuck with whoever found him next but I didn’t want to get that close and also I didn’t have a tip jar.

I added the bear and the lightening bolts because the picture didn’t capture just how fucked-up the whole thing was.  And that’s why now when I get into my car I have to circle it first, looking underneath it for snakes and then when I get in I leap into it from several feet away just in case a snake is hiding in the wheel-well, except that when I did it this morning I misjudged the height because when I jumped in I  totally slammed my forehead into the roof of the car and I panicked because I could feel myself about to fall backward onto the asphalt and all I could think about was how much it would suck to get bit in the eye by the wheel-well snake and so I desperately grabbed the steering wheel and caught it although I did break two nails which sucks but is better than being bit in the eye by a snake. 

And also I lost my checkbook.  That’s not related to the snake thing but it sucks too.

Comment of the day:  See, that’s one of those Driveway Vipers. The squished head with the tire tracks is just camouflage. Its hunting method is adapted for a suburban environment. First, it sneaks into your driveway and plays dead under your car, being careful to avoid the tires. You dispose of the “dead” snake but you’re so freaked out that you start doing stuff like leaping into your car and smacking your head on the door frame. Next thing you know, you’re lying in your driveway with a concussion, at which point the snake returns to chew your Achilles tendons at its leisure.   You got off lucky. Your best defense at this point is to start wearing a helmet when leaping into your car.  We’re doomed, people. The snakes are out-evolving us. It’s only a matter of time before one starts camouflaging itself as a katana and then you’d be standing in your driveway trying to kill the squished head snake with the katana snake while the Sunday paper snake sneaks up behind you. ~ Steve

Part 2 of meeting Guy Kawasaki:

 1.  I just valeted my car for the first time in my entire life.  Valet:  Wait…ma’am, I need your keys.  Me:  How am I supposed to open my car later if you have my keys?  Valet:  Wow.  You’re retarded. 

2.  Somehow I get into the VIP room.  Very important guy I’ve never seen before warmly welcomes me and tells me he’s heard all about me.  I thank him and tell him how unsettling it is to walk into a room of strangers who know so much about my vagina.  The look on his face tells me he has obviously not heard about me at all.  He runs away leaves quickly.  He looked like Stephen Hawking except without the wheelchair and more shocked.

2a.  The VIP room has sushi and people who do not include Guy Kawasaki.  I tell everyone he’s probably off snorting coke on the back of the toilet seat.  Responsible businessmen in the room begin to look very uncomfortable.  I realize I’m the only person not wearing business-ish attire:

(photo courtesy of the wondrous Ed Schipul who is too nice to sue me for defacing his work.)

3.  Guy’s speech is about to begin.  I sit several rows back so I can sketch pictures of my cat.  Dwight does a few lines of the horrific intro speech I wrote for him.  He leaves out all the “vagina’s” but does the part about Guy murdering the drifter and even says “shit” out loud.  I am very proud of him.

4.  Guy is talking about his formula to do a pre-money evaluation to find out how much you are worth.  I like my way better.  I start with the amount of money I spend on booze annually.  Every time I’m impressed with myself I add $1,000.  If I have to pull an all-nighter I get a pony.  If I have to give someone a handjob I get a unicorn.  Blowjobs = Flying unicorn.  (And stapling chicken wings to a horse does not count.  I’m not falling for that shit again, Nathan.)

5.  “All you white people look the same to me.”  “I like to shoot glocks.”  “Things that end in vowels are bad.”  ~ Quotes that make me think Guy Kawasaki kicks ass.

6.  “Here’s a business idea:  Buy dead horses.  Sell them to dogs.”  ~ Quotes that make me wonder why Guy Kawasaki isn’t homeless.

7.  Guy K. asks if there are any V.C’s in the room and some guy is all “Right here, yo!”.  And I’m like, “Um, white dude?  There is no way you are a Viet Cong”.  Later someone tells me V.C. means “Venture Capitalist”.  I’m too busy worrying about how to get my keys back from the valet to care.

8.  Guy just said that to succeed you need to “make it rain” and I was the only person in the audience to laugh out loud.  Turns out that phrase doesn’t always mean throwing wads of dollar bills at strippers.  I pretend I was just laughing about something someone said on my bluetooth (which is totally imaginary).

9.  Guy’s advice:  “Hire infected people”.  Hey good news, Uncle Frank!   Oh wait…he’s not talking about syphilis.

10:  Guy is showing off Alltop and looks at the first sentence of our latest Good Mom/Bad Mom post and is all “Boooooring. Your first sentence sucks, loser.”  And I’m like, ”But no!  It’s all about Scientology and Grindhouse and punching teens with hammers!”  I sound like a crazy person.  From now on all my first sentences  will be fascinating crap about drinking cobra blood or waking up naked with donkeys or something.

11. Guy’s thoughts about potential customers: “I’m thinking: That’s my money in her purse.  How do I get it out of her purse and into mywallet?”  I suggest mugging her.  Wait…this is probably why he has a glock.  OhMyGod, I bet he really did kill that drifter.

That is totally hot.

.

**To be continued unless I get distracted which you know I totally will.  In case I forget, remind me to tell you about how I (seriously, no joke) almost killed Guy Kawasaki. **

And then I woke up naked with a donkey.

PS.  My next post is going to be about ninjas.  Ninjas!  See, I’m distracted already.

Comment of the day:  I was pretty impressed with the flying unicorn for a BJ.  What must butt stuff get you?! ~ Alice

Evil Dwight from the Chronicle thought I should introduce Guy at the Houston Technology Center speaking event.  I assured him that was the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with.  He insisted.  I reminded him that I can’t stop saying the word ”vagina” even especially when I’m on a microphone.  Then I wrote up a little “What I would say” speech to show him how terrifically pear-shaped this all could have gone.  He was horrified.  But entertained.  So he did read a very small, censored part of my speech when he introduced Guy.

This is the full, original speech:

My name is Jenny Lawson and I write for The Bloggess and Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle.  I was pretty shocked when they asked me to introduce Guy because most people know that I’m unable to talk for more than 15 seconds without cursing inappropriately so it’ll be a pleasant surprise for all involved if I can manage not say the c word or start talking about ”vagina’s” up here.

Guy Kawasaki first came on my radar several months ago when our pseudo-editor, Dwight Silverman of the Chronicle, emailed to tell us that our parenting blog had been picked up by Guy Kawasaki’s Alltop site and that this was “very significant”.  And actually it was very significant, both because the recognition was nice and also because it marked one of the first emails I got from Dwight that didn’t tell me to stop using the f word or posting inappropriate dildo videos on the Chronicle.  So, being a typical southern gentlewoman, I decided to email Guy and thank him, which I did.  It was an email which may have included a few curse words and ended with me telling Guy I had no idea who he was and asking if he was the guy who invented the motorcycle.  Unsurprisingly, Dwight was not pleased.  But surprisingly, Guy actually wrote me back and thus began months of email correspondence between us.  Granted, it was somewhat one-sided, with me sending long, rambling emails about lap dances and my paraplegic cat and Guy sending back short one-liners such as his most recent email to me which stated simply “Very funny dick story.  Your bizarre business proposal needs work.”  Which? He’s right on one part.

So I decided I should find out who this guy actually is and why when I tell people that he’s emailing me half of them stare at me blankly and the other half totally freak out and pee themselves in excitement.  I decided to look on Wikipedia because that shit is always accurate and here’s what I found out:

Guy Kawasaki did not invent the motorcycle.  He did, however, invent the internet.  Or maybe something to help the internet.  I’m really not sure because I got bored and stopped reading.  Then when he was 30 he killed a drifter and totally got away with it.  I’m not entirely certain that’s true but it makes for an interesting story.  And really? (*long stare at Guy*)  Prove you didn’t kill a drifter.  You can’t.  I rest my case.

But none of that really matters (except to the drifter’s parents who were probably pretty broken up about the whole affair).  What does matter though is that Guy Kawasaki kicks ass.  That Guy Kawasaki is totally famous.  That Guy Kawasaki is a genius who looks a little like Jackie Chan and could probably take you out with a roundhouse kick if he wanted to.  And, most importantly, that Guy Kawasaki is here with us tonight.

So without further ado, I give you…Guy Kawasaki.

Vagina.

When I was a kid I wrote dumb stories all the time.  When I was a teen I got all gothy and expressed myself with bad poetry and sulking.  In college I made disturbing screenprints of people cutting off their own fingers and did angry public poetry readings.  After college I moved to making bizarre, eerie dollhouses and journaled like mad.  And now?  I blog.  It’s my form of creative expression and it makes me a better person.  Sometimes it’s funny.  Sometimes it’s sad.  Sometimes it gets me hatemail.  But all the time it is me, and just because I am someone’s mom, or wife, or daughter, or friend that does not mean that I should have any less of a “voice” than I had before.  If anything I should have more of a voice, because I have a hell of a lot more to say than I did when I was 20. 

Limits are good and (surprisingly) I do have them but would I ever stop blogging just because my kid turned into a mortified teen and told me she wanted me to stop blogging?  No, because teenagers are stupid.  I should know.  I date them.  I was one.  And just as I’m going to have to soldier through the years when Hailey decides to shave her head or considers joining the Hare Krishnas, she will have to soldier through having a mother who is who she is:  Fucked-up, horrifyingly unfiltered, but basically a decent chick.  And hopefully we will both learn to appreciate those points in each other.

Except for the cult thing because I am not afraid to burn down a compound of Hare Krishnas to get my daughter back.  That’s just how I roll, Krishnas.  Fair warning.

PS.  Tonight I’m having dinner with Guy Kawasaki.  It’ll be weird seeing him without using binoculars.  And without him being in the shower.  I think I’ll pop out the lenses and use them when I talk to him at dinner just so I’ll feel more at home.  That won’t be weird at all.

Comment of the day:  I’m not cool enough to be exploited.

I love ya lady, but in a totally healthy way, it’s not like I print all of your posts out and plaster them all over the extra bedroom that no one really knows about and light my Jenny candles each night, repeating The Bloggessitudes…

“Oh in Houston a lady that lives
with a husband named Victor and a kid with kitten armpits

she talks about subjects so ribald and bold
she has nice getaway sticks and hates to smell mold”

and then i dress up in a curlers and hold a blow dryer whilst staring blankly into a mirror.

because that’s what would do if they had a problem.

*nervous laugh*

~furiousball

In a few weeks?  I’m going out to dinner.

.

.

With Guy Kawasaki.

I know, right?!  It’s gonna to be like meeting the Pope but with less genuflecting.  He’s speaking at a conference in town which sold out in a matter of hours.  I’m not sure what it’s about.  I suspect tech junk but who the hell cares because it’s Guy freaking Kawasaki, people.

This isn’t like that time when I got all jealous because all the cool bloggers got invited to shampoo camp and The Today Show and so I started that rumor that I was the original voice of the Fraggle Rock muppets.  This is actually true. Me and Guy Kawasaki.  And Laura and Erica if they can still make it to the restaurant after I slash their tires.  (Good luck, bitches.)

Anyway, I’m super excited and also a bit nervous because in real life?  Not that entertaining.  I plan on just sitting there, awkwardly video taping him while he nervously clears his throat.  It’s going to be great because most of my other video tapes of him are all shaky and grainy and end with me getting hassled by the cops for criminal trespassing.  Last time Sargent Rodriguez was all “What are ya, some kinda ‘KawaSTALKi‘?  Get it?  Because you’re stalking Kawasaki?!  Hahahaha!  I’m so funny!  By the way we’ve called your husband and he says he won’t pay the bail again.  Prepare to get jail lice.” 

And actually I’m a bit surprised that we’re still on for dinner because last week Guy sent everyone on Alltop a badge that looks like this

and I told him that I thought they weren’t edgy enough and so I sent him a few suggestions and he actually featured them all on his blog (!) except for this one

which he had to delete within the first hour because of the large number of complaints about my “horrific insensitivity”. 

Turns out though that people really liked my “Alltop: Confirmation that I kick ass” badge so Guy asked me if I had any more and I sent him a bunch, including these: 

Surprisingly none of these made the cut.  Probably not edgy enough.

PS.  Kawastalki.

You’re right, Sargent Rodriguez.  That shit is funny.

And I, of course, giggled and blushed and decreed that my coworkers begin walking 3-5 feet behind me to demonstrate their inferiority to me. 

Then I clicked on one of the tags Michael included in the definition and discovered this:

Touché, Willowtree.  

And just like that, my over-inflated ego collapsed and the world went on much the same as always. 

But I’m still going to need all of you to start referring to me with an honorific title like “your excellency”.  Or if we’ve gotten drunk together, something less formal like “The Dread Lady of Blogsylvania”. 

Also, no eye contact.

PS.  If you look up “Bloggessed” in the “real” dictionary it gives you this as the closest match:

Insulting and scarily fitting.

Comment of the day:  Back in 1974, when I was the karate champ of Flitners Corner, Wyoming (I actually moved to Flitners Corner solely for the reason that there was no karate studios in the area and the relatively low population, figured I could become the champ once I created the contest and lightly (aka light as in not) advertised). I became the subject of similar such notoriety. The only contestant I had to defeat, Lyle P. Ligonberry became the victim of the very first Scrotal Tornado. What happened (mostly by accident), was my toe got caught in his wrestling singlet (Lyle apparently thought wrestling was karate) and I fell. I flipped over snapping back into action. In the process of doing so, I had started torquing his nutsack into something resembling a flesh colored twister lollipops. Ergo, my toe and your mind have a lot in common – both famous and both excellent at twisting nutsacks. ~furiousball

Friend:  Hey, I read your post about mommybloggers.  You spelled ‘beaver’ wrong.

Me:  What are you talking about?  Where do you see “beaver”?

Friend:  You wrote it on your face.  Beever.

Me:  That says “BELIEVER“.  

Friend:  Oh.

Me:  Can I ask why you thought I would write “Beaver” across my face?  And more importantly, why the only thing weird thing to you was that I misspelled it?

Friend:  It did seem a little weird.

Me:  What the hell is wrong with you?

Friend:   I just thought you’d like to know.

Me:  Yes, actually, I would like to know if you see me posting pictures with “Beaver” written across my face because that would mean I should be committed.

Friend:  Well I’ll keep an eye out then. 

FYI:

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Kawa-effing-sakied. 

I’m there.  Way below Dane Cook and The Onion but slightly above Mattress Police and Crummy Church Signs.  

Awesomeness.

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Special shout out to my friend PreppyGirl who pointed out that the rather judgemental ad next to the post about my kitty being put to death is unintentionally hysterical in a truly horrific kind of way:

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Have you noticed that lately I’ve been blogging a lot about blogging?  Next stop…me live-blogging my blogging about blogging and recording it all to upload on youtube.  It’s like looking into a mirror with another mirror behind you (i.e. boring and headache-inducing).  Then the world implodes from all the narcissism. 

Best comment of the day:  “You spelled Brokaw wrong.”  ~Sjinky

1.   If you missed the Bloggess this week you missed a lot.  Guy Kawasaki became besotted with me,  I made his name into a verb, my cat died, and Ken Hoffman continued to ignore me. 

Then, in a matter of days, ”Kawasakied” was recognized as a (kind of) real word and it quickly went international.

It’s pretty much the best word ever invented since “pornacopia” and is worth about a billion points in Scrabble.

2. I just want to say thank you for all your kind words about my dead cat.  You guys are amazing and your comments were quite poignant and introspective, including this one from Furiousball:

This reminds me of the time I met Ryan Reynolds in the mall. I said, “Hey you’re Ryan Reynolds!” and he said “Hey buddy, how are you!” We talked for hours over Orange Juliuses and corn dogs. And he bought all of it! What a guy! Then after we tested out the massage chairs at Sharper Image, he said he was going to a party in 20 minutes and wanted to know if I would go and tell the story about getting busted by the cops for skateboarding at the municipal annex to his friends. He said that story was soooo crazy, none of his actor friends would believe it. So we went to this apartment and there was no one there. And then Ryan Reynolds said he had to go to the bathroom. He came out completely naked with a torque wrench in his hand and a huge erection. Ryan Reynolds raped me.

2.  A lot of people tell me that they like reading ”The Bloggess” but really only come here to read the hysterical comments.  Those people are called “assholes” but also they are right and that’s why I’m going to start posting the best comment of the day at the end of my posts because first of all, you deserve credit for your awesomeness and secondly, I get to use your witticisms for my own personal gain with no actual work on my part. 

3.  Speaking of personal gain, I need some cash.  Those cat urns don’t pay for themselves, people.  Also, I was about to dig out my painfully impacted wisdom teeth myself using a rusty steak knife when my dentist told me that I also need really expensive bone grafts (yay) in my jaw, which is just payback for bragging that I’ve never had a cavity in my life.  Good one, God.   You got me.  Anyway, I briefly considered adding paid reviews here to help out but it turns out that there aren’t a lot of corporate sponsorships for reviews like:

The other day I was shopping at Fadiddle when out-of-the-blue this hot guy offered to give me a blow-job.  I was all “Um, I’m a girl” and he was like “Oh.  Then cunnilingus?” It was kind of jarring but hey, that’s the kind of stuff that happens when you shop at Fadiddle.  Your junk becomes irrestistable to hot strangers.  Also, Fadiddle’s clothes make your armpits smell like lemon bars and naturally combats the germs that cause childhood polio.*

Anyway, that’s why I’m going to add a few tiny blogher ads and if it slows the site down or you hate them I’ll get rid of them and try to just get used to the constant, searing dental pain and the taste of my own blood in my mouth.  No really, it’s not a problem.

*Disclaimer:  Results may vary.  Also, “cunninlingus” is a disgusting word.  It sounds like an angry dinosaur and makes me think of rotten pumpkins.  Not like “Kawasakied” which sounds like something awesome that you’d want to have airbrushed on the side of your corvette.

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Comment of the day:   “I used to say I never had a cavity in my life until I tried to get those vampire teeth put in after seeing Underworld and Van Helsing and thinking it would give me a shot with Kate Beckinsale – stupid TNT.  The dentist told me that it wouldn’t help because my teeth weren’t the problem, my face was. After I punched him repeatedly about his face and chest region, I was sent to prison where I was raped by, you guessed it, Ryan Reynolds.”  ~Jeff Balke