Category Archives: Just sad

Motherfucker.

I just went to brush my teeth but we were out of toothpaste so I pulled out this tiny little travel tube that the stewardess gave me when I went to Japan and it’s the size of a hamster femur so I squeezed it all out onto the toothbrush and then I started to feel really sorry for the people who live in Japan because that shit is awful.  Then it got worse and worse and it started making my mouth all dry and sticky and when I tried to spit it out it was sticking to my teeth and  and I wondered if maybe toothpaste can go bad in Japan so I looked at the tube to see if it had an expiration date and that’s when I realized that I had just brushed my teeth with FUCKING EYELASH GLUE. No shit, people.  Like, the glue you use to keep fake eyelashes on.  And then I panicked because I was afraid that I was going to die or that my teeth were going to get glued together and so I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and looked on the internet for “Will eating eyelash glue kill you?” and the internet was all “Um…maybe?” so I went on twitter and asked them and everyone was like “This is twitter, dude.  Not poison control.  What the fuck is wrong with you?” and they had a point but I didn’t want to call poison control, both because I’d have to explain that I just ate eyelash glue and also because I didn’t know if I could talk on the phone without accidentally closing my mouth and then I started to worry that if I went to sleep I might wake up dead or with my teeth permanently glued together and then I’d have to pretend that I somehow caught contagious lockjaw because there’s no way in hell that I was going to confess to Victor that I’d accidentally brushed my teeth with glue.  So then I called the ASPCA because they were very helpful a few months ago when Barnaby Jones Pickles ate that bottle of homeopathic cold meds but they told me that they didn’t give medical advice to humans and I told them that that seemed vaguely racist and they insisted that I call poison control.  So I did.  And they were dicks.

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

I honestly still don’t know what the answer is. UPDATED: Wait. Yes, I do. But I think I was happier when I didn’t.

Conversation with Victor at iHop:

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

WTF, me? (UPDATED)

I can barely even type this because my hand is all swollen but I was just putting Barnaby Jones to bed when he suddenly did this flip which almost broke my flipping-off finger and then he ran in between my legs and I fell so hard that I couldn’t even move and the dog was jumping on my head and I yelled for Victor and I was laying on my stomach and he was all “What.  the fuck.  did you do?” and he started to call an ambulance and I was all “DO NOT CALL AN AMBULANCE” and he came back and was all “If you don’t move your legs I’m going to call the ambulance.  Except that I’m probably going to get arrested for domestic battery because what the hell happened?!” and I was all “The dog tried to kill me” and Victor was like “OUR DOG?  Our little dog did this to you?” and I was all “HE’S LIKE A NINJA!” and he was all “He’s a fucking pug, dude” and I was all I’M VULNERABLE, ASSHOLE” and he was like “Where is all this blood coming from?”  And that’s when I noticed I had a long, shallow gash on my hand and I was all “How the hell did that happen?” and then I realized that I was bleeding BECAUSE I’D BEEN STABBED BY CHICKEN.  And this is when I realized that no one would ever believe this and that Victor was definitely going to jail because who gets stabbed by chicken?  I do, apparently.  But it was a dried chicken breast that I was going to feed to Barnaby Jones so it was totally sharp and apparently quite stab-able with enough force but I’m still pretty sure I’m the only  person in the world to ever get stabbed with chicken.  I win.  Or lose.  And then I told Victor I got stabbed with chicken and he started to call the ambulance again because he assumed I had a concussion but then I grabbed the chicken breast in my good hand and made a stabbing motion and he stopped threatening to call the ambulance because he understood or maybe he thought I was threatening to stab him.  Then he said that he was afraid to call the ambulance anyway because there’s no way anyone would believe that a dog did this sort of damage to me and he said it in a really condescending way and I was all “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE” and Victor was all “Barnaby Jones? Our dog?” and I was all “He would have pushed me down the stairs if we had stairs!” and then I realized I was overreacting and probably in shock.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to type this right now.  I should be wrapped in a warm blanket and not be allowed to go to sleep.  Or I should be made to sleep.  One of those.  Or maybe I need a hot toddy.  I probably knew the correct procedure before the dog tried to kill me with chicken.

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.

RIP, Aunt Ollene

My sister, Lisa, just called to tell me that our great aunt Ollene just died and we decided to go in together on a flower arrangement and so I ordered it online from the florist across the street from the funeral home and it was very nice because their website basically pre-populates all the funeral home info since that’s where they do most of their business but then the end of the form left me a little baffled:

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

Dear Google: Stop trying to help. You’re making it worse.

This morning someone asked me why there are 12 days of Christmas.  And honestly, I have no fucking idea.  So I decided to google it and then I stabbed myself in the head.  Why? Because I don’t want to live in a world where so many people are asking Google ridiculous questions that Google is all “Oh, stop right there.  I already know exactly what you’re going to ask”.  And you know what, Google?  You obviously don’t know what I’m going to ask if you’re jumping to these conclusions:

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

What’s really sad is that this isn’t a joke at all and that my mom actually was subjected to all of these emails

A series of inappropriate emails I sent to my mother which she has not responded to at all.

(This is all totally true, by the way.  That’s what makes it so very awful.  FYI: Lisa is my sister.  Gabi is my niece.  My mother is a saint.)

To: Mom

Sent: 2:02pm

Weird. I can’t even get my cat to wear a condom.


~me

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

To: Mom

Sent: 2:04pm

Crap! I meant “sweater“.  I can’t even get my cat to wear a SWEATER. Why did I say “condom”? What is wrong with me?

Pretend Lisa sent this.

~me

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

To: Mom

Sent: 2:10pm

Also, I just remembered that you said your computer won’t play videos so this whole thing is pointless.  Just trust me that the video was adorable and didn’t have anything to do with cat sex at all.

~still me

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

To: Mom

Sent: 2:12pm

OR ANY TYPE OF SEX.  It’s a video of a kitty getting wrapped up in Christmas paper.  OHMYGOD! SHUT UP, ME.

~ugh

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

To: Mom

Sent: 2:15pm

Hi.  I apologize for being your daughter.  But really you brought this on yourself.

~ me Lisa

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


To: Mom, Lisa

Sent: 2:22pm

Hi mom!

You’re going to see a bunch of emails from me in your inbox but you shouldn’t read them because they’re all infected with a terrible virus.  Which I got from Lisa.  You should really just avoid her and also any emails from her.  She’s not with you right now, is she?  Because if she is you should push her down.

~me

PS.  I found Gabi’s jacket in my car but now I’ve lost it again.  I need Lisa’s address in case I find it again.  Oh hang on, I’ll just CC Lisa on this so she can tell me.  Duh.

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

To: Mom, Lisa

Sent: 2:26pm

Oh.  I have made a horrible mistake.

You both should not open the emails from me in your inbox.  They are infected with a virus.  Which I got from daddy.

I love you both very, very much.

~me

PS. Lisa ~ What’s your address?  I may or may not have something to send to you but if you don’t get anything it’s your mailman’s fault and totally not mine.  You have a terrible mailman.

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

So far?  No response.  Except for my sister who simply responded “You are an idiot“.  Hard to argue with that.

Comment of the day: I just sent my mom a picture of a house in Ohio where we spent 2,475 days growing up. She wrote me back and said, “Oh look, it’s that house in the Hamptons we spent the afternoon at.” ~ Suzy

I didn’t even know people still used America Online. Except for my grampa. He fucking loves it. He also might be one of the people yelling at me. True story.

It’s Sunday, which means it’s time for my weekly wrap-up but instead of the usual “shit-I-did-this-week-when-I-wasn’t-here” banner I’m going to share a picture of an actual sign in my neighborhood because how-did-someone-not-catch-this?:

You can't always trust spell-check, people.

    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and relatively safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche canoe):

    This week on the internets:

    • I don’t even know where to start with this.  I wrote a piece here called “Dear Dr. Pepper:  You’re a damn liar” and it somehow got picked up as a serious news story and I was flooded with confused commenters who were both very angry and inadvertently hysterical but then it kept getting picked up by more serious news channels and so I finally felt bad for all the people who were yelling at me for not understanding how Dr. Pepper works so I added an update explaining to people that the post was satirical and I thought that would clear shit up but it didn’t because turns out I can’t cure stupid people.   But it didn’t actually bother me because it’s kind of hilarious when people take me seriously because it’s sort of a practical joke on the world so I thought, “Meh. This’ll blow over by tomorrow.”  And then AOL POSTED IT AS A LEAD NEWS STORY:
    • This link leads to a story entitled "Diet Dr. Pepper Confusing Consumers" which listed me as the head of the confused-by-soda group. Awesome. This story was replaced on AOL many hours later by an equally compelling story:"Why Cat Can't Get Out of Jury Duty". None of this is a joke. For real, y'all. That happened. That's what makes it all so fucking hysterical and also a little bit sad.

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

    Comment of the day: My dad still uses AOL. Like the whole software and everything. And he wonders why his computer is slow?  Dad, it’s probably because T-Rex called and wants his chat rooms back. ~ Stephanie L

    Let’s vow to never have 2009 again.

    Tonight I’m sitting here at home reflecting on the success of my last year’s New Year’s Resolution, which was to never, ever come up with New Year’s Resolutions again.  It worked out well, if by “worked out well” you mean “failed to accomplish anything of value at all”.  Which I do.  So, yay me.

    This New Year’s Eve I’ll be home with my family, thinking about all the people who bothered to put up a Christmas tree and who will spend all day tomorrow lugging decorations back into the attic and I’ll wonder “What is wrong with those people?”  Then I’ll tuck Hailey in bed and drink enough to dull the pain of my shoulder, which I’m fairly certain I dislocated trying to do the “new cough”.  FYI…the “old cough” is the normal one that’s totally worked fine for the last thousand years.  It’s the one where you cover your mouth with your hands when you cough.  The “new cough” is the one where you cough into the crook of your elbow because apparently that spreads less germs except when I try to “new cough” into my elbow I’m not actually flexible enough to do without pulling a muscle and then even when I do make it, my elbow isn’t big enough to contain my mouth so spit flies all over everyone nearby.   I’m honestly not even sure how the rest of the world is doing the new cough unless they all have arms like flying squirrels or possibly everyone is just fucking with me and I’m the only one actually doing it.  Also, I’m getting lipstick all over my sleeve and  I guess I’m not stretching enough before because now my shoulder is all sore like I have Polio.  Also, I might actually have Polio.  That’s the kind of year this has been.  The kind where you may or may not have Polio.  I guess what I’m trying to say here is can we go back to the “old cough” in 2010?  Because my shoulder hurts like hell.  Plus, when other people do the new cough I automatically think they’re raising their arm to backhand me and so I involuntarily flinch and raise my arm to hit them back and then everyone feels awkward.  Or maybe we can compromise and the “new-new cough” can be coughing down the inside of your shirt.  Which is kind of awesome because then your shirt becomes an automatic hanky and the lipstick stains will go inside the shirt so they’ll be less visible.  Plus, all the contagious germs stay on your boobs so if you get molested while you’re sick you’ll totally be able to identify your attacker later by his cough.  Or by his dislocated arm in case he doesn’t get the word about the “new-new cough”.

    So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m pretty sure I have Polio.  And that I wish you a wonderful New Year.  Mostly the last part.

    Happy New Year, my sweet friends.  I love you and your flying-squirrel elbows.

    Comment of the day: Ok, absolutely true story of the new cough gone awry. Last night I’m at a Chinese restaurant–not that the cuisine type matters here–and this kid of about 9 or 10 does the new cough thing. Only instead he sneezed. Snot ALL over his sweater. He was at a table with his entire family, grandparents, whatever, and he was covered in snot. The entire table stopped eating and just stared at him. He looks at his mom and said, “I just did what they told us to in school!” and she said, “Yeah, ok, in the future, if you have a napkin RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, sneeze into that.” Words to live by. ~ etain

    If I wake up as a puddle of blood tomorrow he’s going to feel really bad.

    me:  I’m dying.

    Victor:  You’re not dying.  You have a cold.

    me:  I have hemorrhagic fever.

    Victor:  Did you just make that up?

    me:  No, I’m deadly serious.  First of all, I have a fever, and last night I had a nosebleed, and now my teeth are bleeding.

    Victor:  I’m pretty sure teeth can’t bleed.

    me:  My gums then.  Whatever.  The point is that I’m hemorrhaging internally.  Probably to death.

    Victor:  I think you’re confusing hemorrhagic fever with gingivitis again.

    me:  I don’t have gingivitis.

    Victor:  Well you also don’t have hemorrhagic fever.

    me:  It feels kind of like the Ebola Virus.  But like, totally worse.

    Victor:  Where are all the forks?

    me:  I think I’m bleeding out of my eyeballs.

    Victor:  Try to do it over the sink.  Seriously, why don’t we ever have any clean forks?

    me:  My nose just fell off.

    Victor:  Why are all these dirty dishes in the washer?  Why would you go to the trouble of loading the dishwasher and not just start it?

    me:  I can’t feel my legs.

    Victor:  Great. Now we have no forks.  Way to go, hon.

    me:  My heart just stopped and now I’m craving brains.

    Victor:  And of course we don’t even have plastic forks.  If you use all the damn plastic forks you need to tell me so I can buy more.

    me:  …braaaaaains…..

    Victor:  How the fuck am I supposed to eat spaghetti with a spoon?

    me:  *gurgle* * associated sounds of decomposition*

    Victor:  Motherfucker.  So I guess I’ll have to go buy the forks since you’re too sick?

    me:  …braaaaaaai-

    Victor:  Fine. I’m taking your car.  I’ll be back in a bit.

    me:  *sigh*

    Disclaimer: Only the first few sentences of this post have actually happened.  The rest is a reenactment of what I assume will happen later this afternoon when Victor realizes that we don’t have any forks and I die of spite neglect whatever made those Nazi’s explode at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.  I’m pretty sure that was hemorrhagic fever too.

    Comment of the day: Just be thankful it’s not *Hemorrhoidic* Fever.  Cleaning up exploding brains would be the LEAST of your worries. ~ moooooog35

    Baby, don’t go back.

    You know that guy who sings the “Baby Come Back” song?  She should totally not come back.  Because first the guy is all “Any kind of fool could see I was wrong” but then right after that he’s all “You can blame it all on me” like he’s being so fucking noble for letting her blame him but he just said he was wrong. OF COURSE WE’LL BLAME IT ALL IN YOU.  YOU WERE WRONG, ASSHOLE.   If he truly wanted to accept responsibility then instead of saying “You can blame it all on me” he’d sing “You and everyone you’ve ever met should blame it all on my stupidity” which totally rhymes just as well, except maybe it has too many syllables.  But technically if he really wants to make amends that’s the kind of shit you have to do.  You have to write songs with too many syllables.  So basically what I’m saying is that I’d tell the girl that  Hall & Oates was singing that song to back in the 70′s to not ever go back to him.  And also to buy stock in Microsoft when it’s invented.  And not to buy the Vanilla Ice CD when it comes out even though it’s really tempting at the time because you’re going to be totally mortified 10 years later when your boyfriend finds it in your closet.

    These are things I’d tell anyone dating Hall & Oates in the 70′s.

    PS.  Victor says Hall & Oates didn’t sing that song and that Hall & Oates is actually two guys.   And, supposedly I also got all the words wrong in that song and so now this whole post is pointless except to allow Victor to tell me how wrong I am and to be all “Really? Are you joking or are you being serious?  Because you could not have screwed this up any more.”  And then I scoured the internet to prove him wrong but the internet is broken.  And by “broken” I mean “apparently written by Victor”.  This whole thing was like an elaborate ruse to get me to admit that I’m wrong and to delete this post.  Well, guess what?  It’s not working.

    PPS.  If you came here googling “Didn’t Hall & Oates sing that Baby Come Back song?” then yes, they totally did.  The internet just said so.  In the form of me. Also, potato chips are good for you and surfing the internet cures childhood cancer.  Feel free to use that however you like.

    PPPS.  Yes, I am aware of the irony of me not accepting responsibility for being wrong in a post yelling at someone who never actually wrote a song about not accepting responsibility which apparently only existed in my mind.  Also, I’m aware that it’s a little pathetic that I’ve been carrying this anger around for the last 20 years.  I blame myself Hall & Oates Victor.

    PPPPS.  Remember in my last post how I said that if 9 of you would buy a James Garfield xmas card I could justify buying him and Victor would maybe stop rolling his eyes every time he walks by James Garfield?  Well, as of this moment James Garfield has sold a shit-ton cards.  I’d give you a number but I’m bad with math.  But a shit-ton = way more than 9.  Which is awesome.  And also totally overwhelming.  I will be signing holiday cards until 2014.  Also, Victor refuses to let me scream “I FUCKING TOLD YOU JAMES GARFIELD WAS THE 8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD” without pointing out how much of a “wonder” it is that James Garfield is making more money than I am.  And then I’m all “It’s a wonder I don’t stab everyone in the face all the time”. Then Victor stops talking to me.  I think I’m going to have to go back to therapy.

    Comment of the day (from Jules): You totally need to go watch Yacht Rocks on YouTube immediately. It will give you the WHOLE Hall and Oates story. Plus it’s just awesome. And made by college students who eventually got famous people to be in them. Here’s the first one: