Category Archives: no one thinks this is funny but me

I think we all knew the world would end like this anyway.

and thats how the world ended

Original image

UPDATED:  I posted this and then Facebook immediately crashed.  The implosion has begun, people.

I blame Steve Jobs for this.

A series of texts I sent to my friend Maile after the rotten wood on our deck was replaced:

To her credit, Maile was unflappable and assumed that my deck, dock and cock were all equally well-crafted.

PS.  After you fuck up two texts your phone should just automatically shut off to save you from yourself.  Just a suggestion, Apple.

 *******************

And in less slightly-confusing news, it’s time for this week’s wrap-up:

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

This week’s wrap-up is sponsored by my friend Marie, creator of Misanthropista.  She’s sort of a bad-ass and most of her emails end with “Oh, bite me” or “What the fuck are you looking at?” but deep down she has a heart of gold and will teach you all about sexting.  You should check her out. Bring donuts.

It’s probably not racist. Or possibly it’s racist to assume it might be racist. I’m sort of fucked either way.

Last week I wrote that I had something to share that I thought was funny, but that I wasn’t certain if I could write about it because I wasn’t sure if it was racist or not, and so I asked a black friend and she said it was fine, but then I thought I needed to ask some more black friends but two of them didn’t respond to me and then I got bored.  Then my original friend who was all “It’s not racist.  White people are allowed to like Snoop Dogg too” saw that I’d totally wimped out of writing the post in the first place and so she just left the comment: “Chicken“.  And she was right.  So instead I wrote into “Yo, Is This Racist?” to ask that guy his opinon since he’s an expert but he’s not responding to me.  Probably because he’s racist.  That was a joke.  More likely it’s in his spam folder.  Maybe both.  Regardless, I felt very stupid and somewhat cowardly about not publishing the post, and so I thought I’d post it now because technically it’s like I’m encouraging the necessary and on-going conversation about race-issues.  Also, this lead-up is way too long and makes this whole post a bit anti-climatic.  I apologize for that and also for possibly being accidentally racist.  I assure you that my next post will be back to non-offensive topics like dog rape and making fun of ugly babies.  Turn away now if you are only here for ugly babies.

Someone sent me a link to gizoogle, which is much like if my friend Snoop Dogg was reinterpreting the internet.  Also, can you call someone your “friend” if you once spent a lot of time hanging out with his wax sculpture?  I say “yes”.  This is my wiki-page reinterpreted by gizoogle.  It is awesome.

“Right back up in your motherfucking ass” is my new auto-signature.

Hold me closer, Tony Danza

This weekend I spoke at the Texas Book Festival and it was very weird, but awesome.  Also, Tony Danza opened for me.  Or possibly Tony Danza headlined and I just randomly followed him.  Either way, it makes for a good conversation starter.  Also, when Tony Danza was walking backstage I gave him one of those knowing waves that you give to people that says “Oh, hello again, person-that-I-totally-know-very-well” so he had to stop and say hi just in case he really knew me, and then I sort of freaked him out unintentionally.

me to Tony Danza:  I once almost had this dead pony and I was going to name it Pony Danza so I could sing “Hold Me Closer, Pony Danza” to it.

Tony Danza:  Oh.

me:  But then I got outbid on the dead pony.

Tony Danza:  Ah.

me:  It had been dead for like a hundred years.  I didn’t ask them to kill a live pony.  I would never do that.

Tony:  I would never think that about you.

me:  Well, you don’t know me very well.

Then after Tony Danza left I realized that I never told him that the dead pony was taxidermied and wasn’t just an abandoned pony corpse.  So now Tony Danza probably thinks I have emotional issues and that I collect dead ponies.  And that is a sentence I never thought I’d write.

Hold me closer, Tony Danza.

PS.  A few hours later I ran into Tony Danza again and we rode around on golf carts together so I’m pretty sure we’re cool.  Or that Tony Danza really just likes riding around on golf carts with emotionally unstable women.  Hard to tell with golf carts.

PPS.  My new t-shirt.

 

Just to answer your question in advance, I have a lot of small wigs because I thought they’d fit the dead weasels but then it turned out they were slightly too large and I hate returning things.

Victor:  Why did you put a wig on the cat?

me:  Better question:  Why do you always assume it’s me?  I’m not the only one who lives here, you know.

Victor:  Hailey?

Hailey:  Yeah?

Victor:  Did you put a wig on the cat?

Hailey:  Why would I put a wig on a cat?

me:  This proves nothing.

Victor:  You don’t have to get all defensive.  I just don’t understand why you do shit like this, crazy cat lady.

me:  I have a lot of very small wigs.  I have a lot of very small cats.  This math does itself.

The cat has a face for wigs. It's a gift that you can't just ignore, Victor.

UPDATED: The man deserves a damn medal

UPDATED:  SEE BELOW…

Today is mine and Victor’s 16th anniversary, which is sort of insane. You might remember last year, when I declared 15 year anniversaries should be marked with unexpected giant metal chickens at the door.

This year I had to outdo Beyonce (the giant metal chicken, not the singer. I try not to compete with her) so I’ve been searching for something similarly unexpected to come knocking at the door.  I considered buying a giant metal egg because then when people asked “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” I could definitively say “The chicken” but it just didn’t seem BIG enough.  Then, after weeks of searching, I finally found the perfect thing.

Victor pretty much begged me to not get him anything because I think he was still trying to forgive me for last year, but then I finally convinced him that it was something awesome and so when the doorbell finally rang I screamed “OMG SHE’S HERE” and Victor was all “‘She?’ You got me a stripper?” and I glared at him because that’s the first place his head went, and then I went to answer the door and get his anniversary present.

"YOUR EYES DO NOT DECEIVE YOU. I GOT YOU A PET MOTHERFUCKING SLOTH."

 

Victor was speechless.

Probably because there was an unexpected sloth in the house.  People are hardly ever prepared for unexpected sloths in the house.

I tried to get Victor to hug the sloth and Victor said “no” and then he said some other things I can’t write here, and then he said I was going to get pee all over me, and I explained that A) these are the risks you take when you own a pet sloth and B) we were in luck because the delivery guy said he peed yesterday and they only pee once a week.  

BEST. PET. EVER.

Victor disagreed.  Vehemently.

Then I explained that getting a sloth hug could cure the most vicious of heartaches and then that sloth snuggled into my heart and made me feel awesome for the first time all day (because I was still sad that we had to put our ancient cat to sleep this week, not because I was sad it was our anniversary) and I may have gotten a bit teary, and that’s when Victor started to panic because he already knew that I had a Posey-shaped-hole in my life and that I was more than unbalanced enough to fill it with an unexpected sloth.

They should change "bear hug" to "sloth hug" because sloths give the very BEST animal hugs and you don't end up mutilated at the end of them.

Then Victor started to look a little sick and I admitted that the sloth was not his present because obviously I couldn’t be expected to keep up with a pet even lazier than me, because that’s like giving an alcoholic a bottle of bourbon for a pet.  Nothing good could come of this.  Victor was very relieved and even shakily petted Jilly-the-awesome-sloth until I told him that his real present was still outside.

Knock knock, motherfucker.

“I GOT YOU A BABY KANGAROO!” I may have screamed.  But I screamed it quietly and winsomely because I didn’t want to scare the sloth in my arms.

hop, hop, hop

 

Then the baby kangaroo jumped all over the house and Victor went into shock when it jumped into the house and ran right to the living room rug, and I was all “You know?  For boxing?”  And Victor was all “WTF?” and I explained that he’d mentioned wanted getting back into martial arts again and that I thought a kangaroo would make great sparring partner.  Then Victor just stared at me and I was all “You’ll have to teach him kung fu though” and then Victor just put his head in his hands because apparently he doesn’t have as much faith in his teaching skills as I do.

Then I finally broke down and explained that it wasn’t a real kangaroo and was only a wallaby, so it’ll stay that little forever and would probably be able to bring us drinks when we were thirsty, but only if we didn’t mind having the drinks splashed all over the house.

“We’ll have to invest in lids,” I explained.

Then Victor mumbled something about not feeling safe in his own house and I finally admitted that the un-kangaroo, Jilly-the-sloth, and the hedgehog hidden in my pocket were just on loan from the amazingly knowledgeable folks at Zoomagination, who were bad-ass enough to help me carry off this entire prank, and who taught me more about sloth pee than I ever would have expected.

Then we called Hailey over and she freaked out in the best possible way and screamed, “THERE IS A KANGAROO IN OUR LIVING ROOM ” and Victor and I both laughed at her glee and it was awesome.


And it was everything a 16th wedding anniversary should be.

At least in this house.

UPDATED:  It’ll probably get changed any second but this is a screenshot from wikipedia showing traditional 15th and 16th wedding gifts:

Awesome.

PETA is Fine, But Sometimes I Question Their Priorities

Below is an actual email conversation between me and PETA.  (FYI:  This happened over a year ago and I was going to put it in my book as an addendum to my pets-eaten-by-hobos chapter but it was too long, so if you bought my book just consider this a bonus chapter.  Also, if you haven’t read my book yet you probably should because this is going to have a mild spoiler alert.  You can buy it here.)  

From: David (from PETA.org)

Date: April 12, 2011

Good morning.

I wanted to share some information that I hope you will want to pass on to your readers as Easter approaches. Each year, PETA receives scores of calls of concern about the use of live animals—mainly rabbits, but sometimes ducklings and chicks—as props in Easter photo sessions. Unsuspecting parents and kids might not realize it, but the animals used in these photo sessions are generally terrified and miserable.

It’s a sad fact that many of the rabbits purchased on a whim during Easter time die within months—victims of unintentional neglect and cruelty. Others are abandoned, relegated to tiny outdoor hutches and subjected to weather extremes, dumped at overburdened shelters, or abandoned outdoors, where they are unable to fend for themselves and starve or are killed by predators… …Would you please share this information with your readers? Please let me know if you have any questions.

Best regards,

David

****

From: Jenny Lawson

Date: April 12, 2011

When I was little I got a duck from the carnival and he was awesome.  His name was Daffodil and he lived in an inflatable raft in the backyard with the cats.  He was very happy.  But then my mom decided he’d be happier with other ducks because he started to think he was a cat, so we let him go at the lake and then a month later all the ducks were eaten by homeless people who lived under the bridge.  This is all true.  I think the real problem here is the homeless problem.  And by “homeless problem” I mean the problem I have with homeless people eating my pets.

Hugs,

Jenny

Enclosed: A girl and her duck enjoying the sunset on their back porch.  Those were golden days, David.

Me and Daffodil. Or as the homeless probably refer to him...Dinner for Six.

****

From: David  from peta.org

Date: April 12, 2011

That’s quite a remarkable story, Jenny!  A few years ago, while with a group helping to hand out food to homeless people outside of a shelter, I found a number of them to be quite kind to a pigeon who showed up with an injured wing.  They were also impressed that I had the little guy (gal?) on my shoulder for a bit while I tried to figure out the next step.

****

 From: Jenny Lawson

Date: April 12, 2011

You’re lucky you didn’t lose an arm because based on *my* experience with Daffodil the “next step” would be the helpful homeless people making a big pigeon cake.  Or pigeon sandwich.  I don’t actually know how you cook pigeon, David.  But what I do know is that homeless people are very sweet until they see your pet duck and then they’re like a bunch of damn zombies.  (I assume.)  My mother says this is an unfair generalization and she encouraged me to go volunteer at a homeless shelter when I lived in Houston, and the people there were all very nice (except for one schizophrenic guy who had some sort of aversion to wearing pants) but that doesn’t mean I would trust any of them with my wounded pigeon.

PS.  I wanted to ask how your pigeon fared but since you didn’t mention naming him I’m assuming that he must’ve been eaten.  I once had a live chicken hang out on my shoulder for an entire afternoon so I totally relate to your pigeon story.  Her name was Schmalzie Nugget and she was a total bad-ass.  Also, she was super heavy so when she finally decided to jump off my shoulder I looked like I had scoliosis.  Whenever anyone else would get near us she would peck at their face violently.  Her owner tried to apologize and said it was because she was mostly blind and probably thought their earrings were bugs to eat, but I didn’t judge her because any pet chicken who fights off being eaten by homeless people long enough to go blind is a goddam hero.  She was like the Chuck Norris of chickens.

PPS.  Here’s a picture of me with Schmalzie:

It’s a camera phone picture.  We’re not normally that fuzzy in real life.

****

From: David from peta.org

Date: April 12, 2011

Apparently, our homeless guests were satisfied enough with the vegan food that we had bestowed upon them!  There was at least one other time when I was out when I came upon a bird in need.  Very strange.  (And several other cases when I rescued some, including a seagull who was in the median at the top of a fairly busy bridge near our headquarters.  I chased that one across the oncoming-traffic lane below the top, wondering if I wouldn’t get hit in five seconds.  I did capture the poor thing and we went to a wildlife rehabber’s place.)  That other time, someone discovered a baby at the bottom of the building that we were in front of. We figured there was a nest up above outside of one of the windows.  Who knows!

I took those all to wildlife rehabbers or some such people.

****

From: Jenny Lawson

Date: April 12, 2011

I tried eating all vegan once and I literally thought I was going to die by the 5th day.  That’s the one where you can’t eat anything but air and boiled cabbage, except on Friday when you can have a banana, right?  That is a harrowing diet.  Those homeless people were probably just too weak from hunger to go after even a wounded bird.  Weak and gassy.  That’s a terrible combination.

But ignoring all that, did you say that someone discovered *a baby* at the bottom of the building you were in front of?  Because that is insane and you should lead with that story.  Were you in front of a convent in the 1960’s?  Because if so, that sounds like an awesome made-for-tv-movie that should star Valerie Bertinelli and I want to hear more.

PS.  My husband just informed me that I’ve mistaken the apparently-totally-healthy vegan diet with the rather-dangerous-and-somewhat-stupid cabbage soup diet.  I should probably just erase that whole first paragraph but I’m leaving it just in case you’ve been considering going on the cabbage soup diet.  Avoid the cabbage soup, David.  You will never stop farting.

****

From: David  from peta.org

Date: April 12, 2011

Ooh–by “baby,” I was still writing in the context of the aviary world!

I’ve not done much exploration with cabbage.  It sounds like I should keep from doing so.  I actually just had a dinner of nachos–much tastier than air! 

~David

At this point I decided to make David my new best friend for being so awesome and asked him if he’d be okay with all of this appearing in my book.  He never responded again.  Probably because he was eaten by homeless people.  It happens way more than you think.  Also, I donate (non-duck) supplies to the homeless and am a card-carrying member of PETA so please don’t yell at me.  Except technically instead of sending me a card they always send me magazines, but no one understands you when you say you’re a “magazine-carrying member of PETA.”  That sounds fucking ridiculous.  

In short, I support homeless people, ducks and their right to eat each other.  I understand the circle of life.  Just not when it involves my Daffodil.

Daffodil Duckling in happier times. He owned the only pool on our block and you can totally see it in his smile.

And then I used the phrase “Lady Garden” on CNN.

I was on CNN today for some reason to talk about politics and parenting (which is sort of weird since I’m more of a bizarre humorist at best) but I still managed to mention the zombie apocalypse, the possible robot revolution, and the threat of the internet becoming self-aware.

Here’s the clip:

PS.  If you’re new here and want to leave angry comments about me you can, but keep in mind that you’re choosing to fight with a woman who has no real political convictions and has a full zombie apocalypse platform, so basically you’re wasting both of our time and should probably go focus on yelling about something less ridiculous than me.

PPS.  Thank you, CNN.  I appreciate your good humor.  And your not suing me.

PPPS.  As requested.  Perfect for baby showers.

UPDATED: Victor doesn’t understand me or the allure of dead rodents.

Conversation between me and Victor:

me:  Hey, just FYI? I just bought myself a celebration mouse instead of steak.

Victor:  I already regret asking for clarification.

me: Well, I got a good review in Oprah’s magazine so I thought I deserved a steak dinner to celebrate, but I don’t really like steak so instead I thought to myself “Well what do you like?” and I realized that I like ethically taxidermied Victorian mice dressed in people clothes.

Victor: You just realized that?

me:  Well “remembered” is probably more accurate.  But here’s the deal, they were CRAZY CHEAP.

Victor: “They”?

me: I may have bought five.

Victor: Motherfucker.  THIS IS WHY YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED ON THE INTERNET.

me:  Yes, but they were practically buy one, get four free because they were only $150 for the whole set.  That’s like $8 bucks each.

Victor:  Using what kind of fucked up Algebra?

me:  8 bucks a leg.

Victor:  That’s not how math works.

me:  It does with mice, plus they’re fancy mice.

Victor:  Why?  Because they’re white?

me:  No, racist.

Victor:  Dude.  At the pet store all the “fancy mice” are white.  Don’t blame me.

me:  Fine, Victor.  I’ll just blame the system.  But no, they’re fancy because they’re all in black tie.  AND THEY’RE IN AN ORCHESTRA.

I'm making an evening gown for the one on the right because right now it's too much of a sausage party and no one wants mouse sausage.

Victor: Hang on.  These mice are 150 pounds.

me:  No fucking way.  They’re MICE.  They’re like 3 pounds COMBINED.

Victor:  No, I mean the price is in British pounds.  AND THIS IS WHY YOU AREN’T ALLOWED TO BUY CELEBRATION MICE ON THE INTERNET WITHOUT SUPERVISION.

me:  You know what?  You are ruining the whimsical celebration of these dead mice.  Plus, I don’t understand the pound conversion.  Is it 150 pounds of American cash?  Because if I pay in wheelbarrows of pennies those Brits are screwed.

Victor:  Please stop buying dead animals without asking me first.

me:  You should have put that in our wedding vows.

Victor: You should stop buying dead mice playing instruments.

me:  You should start making tiny coats and tails for these dead mice.  Also, I need  150 pounds of money.  I’m raiding your change drawer.

Victor: I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

 ***********************

In related news, I want to celebrate with you too since you’ve been with me these last ten years of writing this book.  The book comes out a week from tomorrow (!) so I’m giving away an autographed copy of the audio book on CD (read by me) which has extra outtakes and a bonus chapter.

All you have to do is submit a name for one of the mice (or the whole group) in the comments and I’ll choose someone at random to win. And again, thank you.  I couldn’t have done this without your support.  Seriously.

UPDATED:  You people are get greatest dead animal namers in the history of ever and you should bookmark this page for the next time you have a hamster with no name.  I’ll randomly pick a winner for the CD tomorrow but until then I just wanted to share a few of my favorites that you’ve shared:

“Mice-tro Wallace Hartley II and the Von Trapps”

“Mouse-zart”

“Yo-Yo Mouse”

“Hobo Thunderbun”

“Ludwig Van Squeekhoven”

“Neil Patrick Harris”

“Henry Mousini”

“Nigel Higgenbottom”

“Alsonso Mousekovitz”

“Bippen Schnitzelpuss”

“Viktor Aqualung Cumberbatch”

“Mathilda St. Whiskers”

“Lady Persephone Cheddarton”

“Puddles”

Please, never stop…

Normal squirrels don’t sit like that. Just saying.

My friend April from Regretsy practically threatened to stab me in the face when she thought I’d outbid her on this insane taxidermied squirrel who is flashing his little squirrel nut-sack at the world.  (Click the link.  You need to see this shit.)  I assured April that she was very off-base, as we were BOTH being outbid on it.  I considered telling her we should pool our resources and just share the squirrel like recently divorced parents, but then I saw this little treasure:

Well, hello there.

And yes, at first I saw what you’re probably seeing….a strangely posed, non-nutsacked, extremely dead squirrel in a very unnatural position.  And then I looked  a little closer and realized that my current cell phone cover is cracked and that this would make a fucking fantastic replacement.  Not just because it would be fuzzyy and ergonomic if I need to hold it against my shoulder, but also because it would hardly ever get lost in my purse, and no one would accidentally pick up my phone thinking it was theirs.  Plus, when I put my phone on the table at restaurants it would just look like a squirrel was hanging out with me, and squirrels only hang out with cool people.  And if I put my phone on vibrate the squirrel would buzz across the table like he was alive and growling.

It’s like the best accessory ever.

me, on my squirrel phone

PS.  I probably should have waited until the bidding was over before I posted about this.  Damn it, Jenny.

PPS.  If you only check my blog once a day you may have missed it yesterday when I promised Simon Pegg that I’d leave Nathan Fillion alone and then my good karma was reward by Wil Wheaton and Jeri Ryan and the whole world sending me pictures of their spatulas.

Just your typical Monday, really.