*********

But not really because I had too much caffeine and can’t stop writing.  So instead I’ll share a bunch of shit I wrote that wasn’t funny enough to publish alone, in hopes that it gets funnier algebraically.

**********

True story:  I get these emails from Amazon recommending local stuff they think I’d be into.  In the last week I’ve been offered special deals on Beekeeping Classes, Handgun Practice, Permanent Makeup and Reflexology/Zip Line…which just sounds dangerous. I can’t tell if they really know me, or if they really don’t know me at all.

**********

Yesterday this thing happened to me that so blew my mind that I freaked out and called everyone I knew to tell them about it but then it turns out that I can’t write about because (swear to God) it might endanger the well-being of The Doctor and myself.  I have never in my entire life wanted to write about anything so much and it’s killing me inside.  I don’t have anything funny to add here but just pretend that I just proved without a shadow of a doubt that a possible real-life Time Lord and I spent some quality time together talking about testicles and I have pictures to prove it that I can never show.  And this is exactly why being a companion must be so bloody hard.

**********

My friend Edwin sent me this tweet:

Hmmm.

And I thought it was weird that he would send me something so rude that twitter would actually hide the image from me, but I went ahead and changed my settings to let even the most horrific images come through and then I clicked it again.

Oh. Awesome.

Thanks, twitter.

I’m too sad to write about him right now so instead I’m posting a video we once made together for some orphans in Africa.  It’s sort of a long story.  Much like Posey’s life.

Please go and hug your little friends a little tighter for me.

Victor:  What are all these?

me:  I liked my Beyonce/Copernicus ornament so much that I decided to make ornaments with Hailey on them so we could give them out as presents.  Because I’m brilliant and think ahead.

Victor:  Huh.  Why do they all say “2010″ on them?

me:  Because…wait.  What year is this?

Victor:  You bought half a dozen ornaments with the wrong year on them?  

me:  Motherfucker.

Victor:  Wow.  That is…so classic you.

me:  You know what? It’s fine because if her grandparents/great-grandparents notice it’s the wrong year then I can just say that this was all just an elaborate test to make sure that they don’t need to be put into a nursing home.  And they passed.  MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE.  Honestly, it’s almost like I planned this.

Victor:  Or like you ordered a whole bunch of fucked-up ornaments because you don’t know what year it is.

me:  I’d like to think it’s a little of both.

Ferris Mewler: "Rowr."

Ferris  Mewler:  ”I am trying to seduce you. Is it working?”

me:  ”No. It’s not working. Because I’m married.  And you’re a *cat*.”

Ferris Mewler: “You’ll come around eventually.  I’m like a damn Adonis.”

me: “Please stop this.  You’re making us all uncomfortable.”

Ferris Mewler: “I am the Eric Northman of Cats.  Worship me.”

me: “You’re not allowed to watch True Blood anymore.”

"What the FUCK, lady?"

UPDATED:  Several of you are not big vampire fans and are confusing True Blood’s Eric Northman with South Park’s Eric Cartman.  Which is ridiculous, because why would my cat pretend to be a cartoon character?  That’s fucking ludicrous, y’all.

It's sort of uncanny. Plus, Ferris' fangs are real. AND he has six nipples. And one time he got into my rainy-day crafts drawer and was covered in glitter for *weeks*. My cat is totally the next sexy vampire.

Someone get my cat an agent.

Hi.  I’m about to overstep my boundaries.  You might want to back away slowly because I don’t usually do this and I might get blood on you.

Okay, I’m pissed.  Legitimately, ridiculously, slightly irrationally pissed.

A few minutes ago I got a pitch from a company who wanted me to write a review for their cereal on my blog.  And they would pay me.  In cereal. Two boxes of cereal, specifically.  Except that the cereal wouldn’t actually go to me.  It would be used as a giveaway.  To promote their cereal.  On my blog.  Because as a blogger I’m so desperate for material that I will happily regurgitate any commercial bullshit that anyone puts in front of me.  Apparently.

I’m really struggling with writing this because I fully believe that people should be able to write whatever they want but if you as a blogger are accepting a box of cereal as payment for helping to grow a commercial ad campaign then you are undervaluing us all.  Companies have advertising budgets and some of those companies spend that money on bloggers.  And those companies should be applauded for helping to grow our community and for giving bloggers the same respect that you would give to any other profession.  Other companies give their advertising budgets to PR firms who are paid quite well to get bloggers and other outlets to advertise the product in exchange for cereal.  I can almost guarantee you that none of the PR people who contact you are working for cereal.  In fact, let’s explore that scenario…

Cereal company:  Hi!  We need a large, professional PR campaign so we’d like you to contact everyone on your mailing list with a pitch about our product, where you can buy it, and also convince them to write all about it on their personal blogs.  For cereal.  And we’ll pay you!  In cereal.

PR Company:  What the fuck..?

Cereal company:  But you can’t eat the cereal.  You have to give it away to someone else.

PR company:  Right. Is this a joke?

Cereal company:  No!  It’s real!  You get two boxes of cereal!

PR Company:  Um…we don’t work for cereal.  We all have mortgages.  And…desk payments.

Cereal company:  The cereal is worth FIVE DOLLARS!

PR company:  Is there something wrong with you?  Because we’d like to tell you to fuck off but we’re afraid to because we think you might be mentally unbalanced.

Cereal company:  YOU CAN BUY THIS CEREAL AT SAFEWAY!!!

PR Company:  Never contact us again.

*end scene*

Look, I’m not saying that there aren’t good PR companies out there or that if you review products you’re a bad blogger or that writing about a product that you honestly love is bad.  It’s great, in fact.  Write about what you love.  Write about who you are.  Write things that are worthy of you and of your audience.  Because your voice is worth more than a goddamn box of cereal.

And don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.

UPDATED: To answer your questions, yes, this was a totally serious proposal. And no, it wasn’t even for Cap’n Crunch. It was for some obscure, made-from-applesauce, marshmallow-less crap WITH NO PRIZES IN IT.

I might have actually considered doing it for Cap’n Crunch. But not because I eat cereal. Because I support our Navy.

Comment of the day: I got one of these the other day. They want to send me two bags of candy which I would then in turn send to other people. Which just seems like a huge waste of postage.  I am letting them send me the candy. And then I’m going to eat it. ~ Abi

Comment of the day: I know exactly what you mean, because I got a package today too. Except mine was full of candy, not beloved cremated pet. If i was a unicorn, I would use my magical powers to turn Barnaby Jones’ remains into candy. I don’t know if you’d want to eat it though… ~ Jamie the Very Worst Missionary

Alternate comment of the day that is technically more of a “noise” than a “comment” but one that I want to remember for next time I have to send someone a sympathy card: [sad trombone] ~ Nanette

Sad trombone, indeed.

Updated:

Worst. Linkage. Ever.

Updated comment of the day: I couldn’t agree more about the inappropriate linkage. If cremating your dog isn’t going to work, then nothing will. ~ kyknoord

Bonus comment of the day because this post is very short and I need to pad it: This is what I like to do (besides black tar heroin) — Halloween time I buy one of those fake UPS or FedEx costumes and when either guy brings me a package I open the door in a rush and go “thanks I’ll take it from here!” and slam the door.  Will also get you a free pizza if you stock up on pizza company costumes. ~ Chris Illuminati

Emails from my sister:

Lisa: Barnaby Jones Pickles dies and I have to find out through facebook?!?! What has this world come to??

Me: It is kind of ridiculous that you found out that my dog is dead through facebook.  If you’d been following me on twitter you’d have known days ago.  You are a terrible sister.

Lisa: I think that the foxes in your neighborhood were really drug dealers and got him hooked on heroin and then they gave him some bad stuff. All so they can get closer to the house and rob you blind.  I mean seriously, did you ever teach him “hugs not drugs”?  I bet not.  Better teach the cat how to bark. Now at least I won’t feel so bad when Granny kicks the bucket and I tell you over Facebook.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous.  You know I never read your facebook updates.

Lisa: Next time instead of a dog, get a pet pig.  That way when he overdoses you can have pork chops instead of having to dig a hole in the backyard. The hallucinations from all the heroin he shot up will just be like a bonus.  WAIT A MINUTE! You actually buried him yourself and aren’t injured?  No missing toes from a not-so-well aimed shovel?  No rattlesnake bites?  I’m not buying it.  Barnaby Jones isn’t even dead, is he? This is all a ploy so you can convince Victor to get you a pig isn’t it?  Well played. May I suggest the name ‘Dr. Reverse Kevorkian’, then he can “magically” bring BJP back from the grave.  You can call him RV, because within a year he will be the size of a mobile home.

Me: I broke two nails pulling up rocks to make a deep enough grave but the ground is 95% rock and I guess I didn’t dig deep enough because THOSE FUCKING CRACK FOXES DUG HIM UP.  Then I spent an hour crying and running around my yard with a machete trying to murder vultures.  This is how I spent my Saturday. I called mom and dad to ask what to do and daddy said to dig him back up myself (um…no) and mom said to just let the vultures eat him like some kinda fucked-up circle-of-life Tibetan Air Burial.  WTF? Mom is the worst Atheist ever.

Lisa: Now I can’t get The Lion King’s “Circle of Life” out of my head. Thanks for that.  You have a freezer you know, just push the Toaster Pastries to the side and toss him in there.  The next time Mom and Daddy come down they can take him home with them and Daddy can stuff him.  I think he would look super cute in a tiny leather jacket, riding a motorcycle.  Oh, or Zombie Barnaby Jones!  So there’s my vote.  Oh, and now, I totally need some Toaster Pastries.

Me: I just looked up “how to dispose of a corpse” on the internet so now I’m totally fucked if Victor turns up murdered.  Hey, did you know that quicklime doesn’t actually destroy a body?  Because I do.  Now.

I’ve called 10 animal removal/cremation places and none of them work over the weekend.  This is like when you can’t find a plumber on a Sunday, except worse because my dog is dead.

Lisa: Evidently you aren’t supposed to off your pet on the weekends.  Did you try taking him down to Frank’s Bait and Tacos?  I’m sure they would know what to do with him.  I’m only 1/2 way joking here.

Me: Oh! And the cat knocked over Hailey’s frog tank and killed them all.  So I’ve managed to kill 3 out of 5 pets in 24 hours.  That’s like the worst record ever.

Lisa: So did the fish die because the cat knocked over the tank and ate them, or did they just reverse drown?  They always say that deaths come in 3′s, so you should be good.

Me: I think they reverse drowned.  The cat’s not hungry, just…sort of evil.  I found one of the frogs my bathroom and it was desiccated but intact.  God knows where the other one is.  I’m sure the cat is probably saving it to put on Hailey’s pillow because this week just hasn’t been shitty enough.

PS.  Now I’ll never eat toaster pasteries again.  Awesome.

Lisa: More Toaster Pastries for meeeeeeeeeeee! Also, without the ‘Pickles’ at the end, his initials were BJ, and I just now figured that out.

me: This is all getting blogged.

Lisa: Cool. It’ll be kind of like an obituary, but with more frozen goodness.  (For the record, I’m referring to the Toaster Pastries, not Barnaby Jones.)

Me: Noted.

Yesterday Barnaby Jones died.  I left him outside on his dog run when I went to pick up Hailey from daycare and when I came back he was dead.  His face was swollen and it looked like he’d had a seizure but there were no puncture wounds so we suspect he had an allergic reaction from a bee or wasp sting.  I hope he died quickly and painlessly and I’ll never forgive myself for not being here.  Victor is out of town so I put a movie on for Hailey so she wouldn’t notice and then I carried him down to the valley on our property and I buried him and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.  Victor said I should have waited until he was back home so he could do it but I just needed it to be over.  We debated on the phone about what to tell Hailey and finally decided to tell her the truth.  We cried and slept together on the couch and every few hours she’d wake me up to ask me if it was just a bad dream.  Then she cried and asked if we could go buy another pug and call him Barnaby Jones and just pretend he never died.  I told her that maybe one day we could get another dog but the truth is that I can’t handle this again.  I will never own another dog.

This morning we went for a walk and I reminded Hailey that Barnaby was still with us in our hearts and was probably running around in dog heaven.  Then she looked up at the clouds and said quite seriously that whenever it rained it would probably be Barnaby Jones peeing.  Then she yelled “MOMMY!  I FELT A DROP!  I THINK BARNABY JONES JUST PEED ON ME!” and she smiled for the first time since it happened.  And I smiled too.  And it was good.

I'll miss your rabbity face.

PS.  If you have a pet, please go hug them extra tight today.

me:  Have you swum to the end of the pool yet?

Lisa: “Swum?” What are you, some kinda hillbilly?

me:  You can totally say “swum”.  Swum is a word.  Swim, swam, swum.

Lisa:  Like bring, brang, brung?

me:  No. Like…climb, climbed…clumb?  Fuck.

mom:  Like ding, dang, dung.

me:  Stop helping.

Lisa:  I think mom just called you “dung”.

Mom: I’m not getting involved in this.

me:  Whatever.  Swum is totally a real word.  Who’s the writer in this damn family?

Then they both just looked at me with their eyebrows raised because apparently real writers don’t have fights about whether “swum” is a word but then as soon as we got back to the house I googled it and swum totally came up as a real word in the dictionary and I was just about to yell “HA!  I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO!” but then I stopped myself because I’m a gracious winner.  And also because the dictionary is a tremendous asshole:

I've just been insulted by the dictionary. Awesome.

Comment of the day: All of them.  For real.  You need to read them all.  As usual, my commenters are way funnier than me.  The bastards.

PS.  Oh.  Wait.  Turns out Netflix thinks I need Jesus because Hailey keeps watching these vaguely Christian Veggie-Tale movies.  Awesome. Netflix is sending The Passion of the Christ to my 5-year-old.

PPS.  Okay, true story?  Netflix was just like “Hey, you know what you should watch?  Grey Gardens. Here it is.  I got it for you” and I was all “OH MY GOD, I LOVE GREY GARDENS” and then Victor was all “Grey what?  It’s 2:00 in the afternoon.  Why are you still in bed?”

Netflix officially understands me more than my husband.

I mean, technically they were very nice but I had to explain the problem like three times before they finally seemed to understand the situation and then they assured me that eyelash glue was non-toxic and that I’d be fine but they kept asking me why I’d done it and every time I’d explain they’d say that they didn’t understand and I assumed they were making a tape of all of this to play to their friends later or possibly  they honestly just couldn’t understand what I was saying since I wasn’t using my lips so that they wouldn’t get glued to my teeth.  I tried to explain that to them but there was a lot of silence on their end so I finally just hung up.  It’s bad enough I just ate a bunch of glue, poison control.  I don’t need your damn judgement.

PS.  I just woke Victor up to tell him what happened so that he could check to make sure I’m still breathing every few hours and Victor rolled over and said something about how I brought this on myself because “who the fuck confuses glue with toothpaste?”  Well, obviously *I* do, Victor.  Way to blame the victim, asshole.

PPS.  For real y’all.  They look EXACTLY ALIKE.  ANYONE COULD MAKE THIS MISTAKE.

PPPS.  This post is probably full of typos and run-on sentences and I’m sorry about that but I JUST GOT FUCKING POISONED, Y’ALL.  It’s kind of heroic that I’m even able to write this post at all, you guys.  If anything, I deserve a goddam medal.

Obviously Japan is trying to kill me. Probably. This is exactly like Pearl Harbor, but worse because I got vaguely poisoned AND I'm out of eyelash glue. So it's like a double tragedy. Plus, I don't even know where the fake eyelashes this glue goes to are but when I do find then they'll be totally useless. Worst. Day. Ever.

Comment of the day: You’re right. Medical professionals are often nosy and judgmental. I almost cut my hand off with a skilsaw one time (severed 3 tendons), and after the surgeon assessed the damage, he was like, “and what’s with this?” as he motioned toward his own eye. I was like, “With what? What the fuck is this?” motioning toward my own eye. “The black eye,” he says. I forgot that I had gotten a black eye a couple days earlier when my dog headbutted me while we were wrestling. I explained and he gave me that look that says, “I know your game, you goddamn shiftless tweaker. You’ll do anything to get on disability, won’t you? Well, you’re not gonna get away with it this time, buddy boy.”   But I totally did. ~ beta dad

me:  Ugh. I hate it when they don’t give you enough spaces to write the answers.

Victor:  What?  Why the hell are you doing the puzzle on the kid’s menu?

me:  Because you’re too busy playing with your phone to talk to me and also because puzzles help stave off early dementia.

Victor:  But you’re not even doing them correctly.  You don’t draw in extra lines in fill-in-the-blank.

me:  I realize that, but it doesn’t fit otherwise.

Victor:  Are you fucking kidding me?

me:  I know, right? I thought it was inappropriate too.  I mean, this is supposed to be for children, for God’s sake.

Victor:  I’m reasonably sure the answer is *not* “Hiding the sausage”.

me:  I tried “Bury the bacon” but that didn’t fit either.  ”Grasp the links?”

Victor:  I don’t know what’s more tragic.  The fact that you’re doing the child’s puzzle, or the fact that you can’t figure out the child’s puzzle.

me:  You now, you could help me instead of making fun of me.

Victor (going back to his phone):  If I help you you’ll never learn.

*long silence*

me:  OHMYGOD! SEIZE THE WEENY!

Then Victor made me leave because I was “causing a scene” but I think it’s more likely he was just embarrassed that he couldn’t figure out the answer either and now I’m worried that we both have early-onset dementia.  This has been haunting me for weeks, y’all.

PS. Okay I just googled “take the breakfast meat” to see if that gave me a non-smutty answer and this was the most relevant thing that popped up:

Yeah. It's a link to an extremely raunchy video about...um..."playing hiding the sausage".

Awesome. I rest my case.

UPDATED: After many impressive guesses (Ham and Go Seek, Grand Ham Theft, Swipe the Tripe, Pound the Sausage, Pilfer the Pork, Hide the Salami) several people finally insisted there was an actual game called “Steal the Bacon“, which I’ve never heard of and doesn’t even involve real bacon.  It’s basically a variation of “Capture the Flag” but instead of a flag it’s bacon.  Except the bacon is actually an eraser or a mitten or something.  Why?  No one knows. So it’s basically the shittiest game ever.  Thanks for wasting everyone’s time, IHOP.

Comment of the day:  Steal the Bacon? Really? Huh. Never heard of it. Probably because I was raised Jewish, and the only thing we hide is matzo. Oh, and Anne Frank. ~alonewithcats

PS.  Victor totally owes me because he would have gone to jail automatically because he was only wearing a half-shirt and if you aren’t wearing a whole shirt when the police come you go to jail.  That’s how jail works.

PPS.  It’s a half-shirt in that it’s sleeveless.  Not that it ends under his nipples.  Victor can’t really pull that sort of look off. I don’t know if you go to jail for that kind of shirt.  I’m going to go lie down because I don’t think I’m making sense.

PPPS.  How do you know if your pupils are dilated?  What are they supposed to look like normally?  Why is Web MD so complicated?  Why can’t I stop reading about cancer when I’m trying to look up concussions?  Great. Now I have cancer.  Thanks a lot, Barnaby Jones.

UPDATED: Went to the ER this morning.  Explained the situation.  They wrote “Stabbed by chicken” on my chart.  Then they asked if I had any “psych issues” and I thought they said “psychic issues” and I was all “Like, can I read your thoughts?”  Then they put me in a private room.  Lesson here?  If you fake mental illness you’ll get better service.  The good news is that my finger is not broken but the bad news is that it’s still pretty fucked up so I have to wear a splint until it heals and I have to keep it elevated.  Me, driving myself home:

Stop honking at me. I'm *disabled*, you bastards.

Awesome.  The people in my neighborhood are lucky to have me.

Also, several of you indicated that Barnaby Jones was probably  just acting in self-defense because you’re not supposed to give dogs chicken bones but these are filleted, boneless chicken breasts.  Meanwhile, I’m eating ramen noodles and his sweater cost more than my entire outfit.  Way to blame the victim, people.  I may never play the ukulele again.

No one's falling for it, Barnaby Jones.

UPDATED AGAIN: Okay, so apparently people are finding this post when searching for real concussion advice.  I’d like to apologize to those people. But here’s a comment that my friend left me that might help you: “Here is what dilated pupils look like. Well on a cat. Well on 2 cats. Well on 2 cats that I drew in MS Paint. Whatever. ~ MODG“

See?  Totally helpful.

Huh.  Do I want you to remind me of my dead aunt’s death again next year?  Well, of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want you to bring up this painful event with an annual “Hey-your-aunt-is-still-dead” reminder?  Who would turn that down?  Nobody, I bet.

Also, my Aunt Ollene was awesomely funny and every Christmas she would give my sister and I enormous granny-panties and a roll of nickels.  Every year.  For like 20 years.  And the underpants were so big that Lisa and I used to pull them up to our armpits and pretend they were strapless leotards.  Also, I’m fairly sure that the nickels were given to us ironically because it’s not like this was back in the olden days when people really liked nickels.  I don’t actually remember a time when people wanted nickels.  I’m not actually that old.  Also, this post is rambling and makes no sense.  Probably because I’m grieving.  Stop judging me.

PS.  Hang on.  I bet that reminder thing is probably for when someone you don’t actually like dies.  Then you can have a happy reminder once a year that whoever you never liked is still dead.  Unless he was really just in a deep coma and comes out of it during the funeral and he’s pissed off that you didn’t pick out a nice enough casket for him and he storms out and disowns you and now you have to pay for a funeral that no one actually enjoyed.  Then it’s just a painful reminder for everyone involved.

Comment of the day: At my great aunt’s funeral (right her in San Angelo at Johnson’s Funeral Home on Beauregard Ave, no less) I sent a flower arrangement with the words “Aunt Fay” on a banner on it. During the funeral, I noticed that the banner read “a nut Fay” instead of aunt. By the end of the funeral the entire 2 front rows of family members where silently trying not to laugh. I wonder if we used the same florist, because I’m thinking this is a florist with a warped sense of humor. I guess that’s not always a bad qualily in a florist.  ~ Missy

Um...what?

And yes, Google, I realize that this is less of a judgement that you’re making about me and more of a result of the hordes of dumb people using you but maybe you could wait until I finish the question before you jump to some horrific conclusion about what I’m asking.  Or not.

Not. Helpful.

Honestly, at this point I was a little offended.  But I kept going, thinking that this would eventually have to stop.

Are you fucking kidding me?

And now I’m just baffled.  Where on earth are there so many ostriches that we need to google it? I honestly don’t know.  But what I do know is that after reading that all I can think of is that it would suck to live there and I couldn’t concentrate because I couldn’t stop wondering why this was even a suggested question and so then I had to google “why are there so many ostriches” just to see what would happen.  And then *BAM* I just became part of the problem. WTF, me? And you know what I learned?  Nothing.  It took me to this web page about ostriches where I learned that ostriches have been clocked going really fast.  Direct quote:

“It had probably just huffed a cheetah kitten (sends you through a psychedelic wonderland at like a kajillion mph and ur not even halfway there. Despite this ability to run like the wind, the ostrich cannot lay claim to performing what any fast running bird-like creature ought to be able to do – take-off.  They have fat asses and abnormally small brains but they are kinda smart. This inability to pass from the running stage to the take-off mode is considered to be a design fault that may lead to the eventual extinction of this oversized dodo. They are kinda smart, but DO NOT, DO NOT, let an ostrich kick you, it will completely FUCK YOU UP.   IT WILL SHATTER ALL THE BONES IN YOUR BODY AND MAKE YOU BE PITYED BY MR. T, THUS INCREASING THE INJURY. DO NOT GET KICKED BY AN OSTRICH. I AM TELLING YOU, IT WILL FUCK YOU UP.”

So yeah.  There’s that.

PS.  I still don’t know why there are 12 days of Christmas.  I don’t even care any more.  I’m going to lie down and cry now.  Someone fix Google.

Comment of the day: I started to Google ‘I like’ and the following came up:  “I like to think of Jesus as a mischievous badger”.  Preaching to the choir, my friend. Preaching to the choir. ~ moooooog35